Now THAT is a flag dress

Get ready for a trip down memory lane; I was having flashbacks all night.

Prelude:
Mila’s going to wow the judges this week, since they so appreciated her risk taking. Risk taking? I heard streetwalker. I heard druggie. I heard Pretty Woman before she got pretty. I didn’t hear anything about risk taking. Kenley misses Kara. So does Austin. He wishes Mila had gone home instead.

The Challenge:

They meet Angela outside the UN. Michael thinks it’s cool. Jerell: “It’s a place of extreme importance.” Austin: “a place where world leaders solve the tremendous problems weighing on the earth.” Michael: “Cool. Never been there before.” I’m willing to bet not one of them could name one thing the UN does, or any issue that’s been before the UN in the past five years. But they aren’t here for news commentary, after all. I just get tired of the fake looks of wonder.

They have to choose one of seven flags, and make something based on that flag. Now here’s another challenge that could be really artistic, like the ice cream challenge. Especially since they get a little dossier about the flag and the country. But most of them just go with the colors on the flag. And the ones who do use cultural references – looking at you, Jerell – use them as stereotypes. How disappointing.

Mondo chooses first since he won last week, and he picks Jamaica just because of the colors. See, now that makes me sad. He doesn’t want to be too literal, like raising his dress on a pole, or miss the mark. Back in the workroom he doesn’t know why he bought certain stuff, which is what he usually says.

Michael picks Greece since he’s Greek, which is a little better. Wait – he’s Greek? I thought he was Black Irish. Oh, his mother is Greek. It’s his father who’s a Costello, I guess. Jerell sneers about Michael the draper choosing Greece. Michael goes for blue satin or ribbon trim first, it’s key to his look. Someone tells him it’s very Marchesa (which is Georgina’s line) and he agrees, that’s his exact aesthetic.

Michael sings out Mila‘s name as next, and she picks Papua New Guinea which is the most bizarre combination ever. But she likes the graphic look of the flag, which, ok, I can see that. She reads the dossier about indigenous people and tribal looks, but she isn’t going to put much of that in her look, just a nod, because she wants it to look runway. She’s going super modern because nothing says Papua New Guinea like a super modern runway look. It’s important to stay true to her POV (because she can’t do anything else). Ok, let me take that back. I can be sympathetic, actually. I know this from writing. Creating is too hard, to create something you don’t really like. So there, Mila, I get it. But I still hate your clothes. She’s going to do something asymmetrical, black with some read and a tiny bit of yellow because of the bird of paradise on the flag symbolizing freedom, part restrained and part fluid.

Jerell gets India because it’s ethnic and makes him think of embellishment. Jerell thinks embellishment when he thinks about brushing his teeth or making coffee. His selection makes the most sense. At least his reasoning.

Austin takes the Seychelles because he doesn’t know much about them and he enjoys learning something new. Mila does not envy him, since the flag has so many colors and colors paralyze her. He’s a little perplexed. There’s no real national dress, but it could have a flowy beach feel, tropical paradise type of thing. He’s about elegance and harmony and he has all these primary colors to worry about. He finds a fabric that’s iridescent, two colors for the price of one. He’s talking it over with Kenley and Mila makes her usual snide remarks: “I find it confusing how people are interacting.” I find it confusing that she finds it confusing. It’s called friendship, Mila. It’s how people are with colleagues they respect. In the workroom, Austin plants his flag on his table and claims it in the name of the Seychelles. But he struggles. He works through lunch by himself. Poor Austin.

Kenley is left with Chile, which is exactly how she wants it since if she’d chosen she would’ve been upset if she decided later she didn’t like the colors or something like that. Spin that straw into gold, girl. She finds a blue and white print with little hearts; from a distance it looks like polka dots. Again, with the polka dots. Michael says he never saw a polka dot flag, but the State of Kenley has them.

Joanna walks through:

First she proclaims this to be the most talented room in the history of Project Runway. Hmmm. Not so sure about that. You get Jillian, Rami, Chris March, and Christian in a room, that’s most talented.

Mondo first: he describes his look (floor length, mitred color blocks in back); she asks how a woman would wear a bra. “You don’t,” he says. Wrong answer. Joanna is determined to get someone to let her wear a bra tonight. It’s her version of arugula.

Jerell: She says it looks like a doll in national costume. He tries to talk her out of it, but she’s not having it; she thinks the sari element is too literal. He loves the ethnic opulence, and more or less blows her off.

Michael: She notes he chose something he knows. She loves his draping, but complains again about the bra thing. Hey, Joanna, back in the 60s women burned their bras, and now you’re demanding the right to wear one? It’s confusing to me. Like, people used to go to jail or move to Canada to avoid going into the army, and now people are fighting for the right to be let in. Anyway, back to Joanna, who asks Michael if he’s being ambitious enough. Uh oh. That’s how Kara got sent home. Mila dismisses his dress as pageanty. She’s usually wrong, but this time, it’s unanimous.

Austin: She’s been to the Seychelles (of course she has) but didn’t know the flag (of course not). He’s got a layered skirt with panels in front in a sunburst effect. It’s his Grammy dress. The one that got him eliminated. Not smart, Austin. Mondo doesn’t know what draping has to do with the Seychelles but it’s sad. Austin’s explaining this beautiful slit of skin to Joanna, and she again harps on bras. He says it is bra-friendly, the slit won’t be that big, sort of “is she or isn’t she.” Do people really wonder if someone is wearing a bra? I always thought it was strange there was an entire haircolor campaign “Does she or doesn’t she” because who cares, and it made me kind of paranoid. What are people wondering about me? Joanna warns him not to have the bra peeping out; he needs to chic-ify the Seychelles.

Mila: she explains the bird of paradise meaning freedom, and her dress being half short and half long, with the red being the freedom. Austin thinks it’s a cool concept. Joanna is happy because at last here’s a dress she can wear underwear with. This becomes ironic later on.

Kenley: She’s going to add in ruffles for Spanish flair. Joanna wants to know how she’s going to convince the judges she’s going out of her comfort zone. She isn’t. Fair enough. She’s mixing polka dots and stripes. That’s her comfort zone. She’s making an asymmetrical party dress, while the others are gowns. That’s still your comfort zone, Kenley. Joanna asks if she’s convinced she can stand out in this room of talent. Mondo says Kenley doesn’t listen. No, she never has, but this season she’s at least been less nasty about it. She’s treating Joanna with a lot more respect than she ever treated Tim Gunn. Which is too bad, because Joanna would let her have it, I think. Mondo wonders why she’s still here. Because she puts together great clothes. They’re all the same, sure. And they don’t always make sense in the challenge. But they’re really striking, and perfectly made.

End Joanna. Bring in the models. Mila needs a perfect fit and finish. Mondo tells Michael his model looks like Miss Greece: “It’s not greased lightning, it’s Greece Frightening” which is pretty good. Both Kenley and Mondo worry about all the work they have to do.

Day of runway show:

Jerell wishes for a yard of elastic. Come on, no one has a yard of elastic to give him? Mondo‘s worried that he should’ve used the color palette more. Michael doesn’t like Austin’s dress (neither do I; I hate the color). Austin isn’t crazy about it either: it’s too short, and the line is thrown off, but he doesn’t have enough material to fix it. Mondo doesn’t like Michael’s dress either: “Give her a sash and she’s Miss World.” Mondo gives his model dreadlocks. I’m the only person on the planet who loves dreadlocks on white people, so that’s probably a bad move. Austin loves Jerell but the outfit is “the most vulgar, tasteless and hideous thing” he’s ever seen. Hmmm… I’m not so sure about that, I’d have a hard time choosing which of Jerell’s looks was the most vulgar, tasteless and hideous thing I’d ever seen. This one’s in the running, for sure. Mila is very impressed with herself as always.

The Runway:

Angela asks how they enjoyed their visit to the UN. Not only does she sound like a kindergarten teacher, but she was there, so it makes no sense. The guest judge is Catherine Malandrino. I wonder if Vincent ever got that restraining order she slapped on him lifted. Turns out she did the famous flag dress pictured above, and she liked it so much she made it again a few years later. Remember the good old days of the 60s when there was a big uproar about using the flag for clothing? I guess it’s ok now. Of course, she’s French, so she doesn’t care what Americans say about her. I can only understand about one word in five from her. I didn’t have any trouble last time, so I’m blaming the Lifetime sound crew. Because, let’s face it, it’s always fun to blame Lifetime for new things.

Roughly in descending order (since it seems it’s more of a top two and bottom four this week):

Mondo: Slinky black gown; the back has a stained glass effect strip in green and yellow. From the front it’s just a nice black gown. From the back, well, there’s something a little off about the colors, or maybe it’s just all those angles with such a curvy dress, but I like the idea, it’s just slightly… not. But I’m proud of him for making a gown. He talks about free spirited and relaxed, so he made a slinky sexy easy to wear simple gown. Easy to wear? It’s the kind of dress where you can see what you had for breakfast three days ago, and we already know you can’t wear underwear with it. Except for Spanx, which you’ll need in triplicate. Georgina loves it, she gets Jamaica from just the front, which makes no sense. Catherine rglrglrglrgl. Isaac likes the black matte jersey, it’s like it’s a new textile. His least favorite part is the green and yellow. When the judges have some privacy to say what they really think, Isaac still doesn’t like the back at all. Georgina can see thought and restraint. Angela thinks he played it safe. Catherine rglrgl hair was a mistake rglrgl bother me rlgrgl.

Kenley: Polka dot white dress with a pink ruffle on one side. This is the exact same dress – I mean exactly the same – she made in Season 5 for the Bright Lights Big City challenge, in green and purple. It won, so she probably figured she should do it again. Do you think we’re stupid, Kenley? I know the judges are stupid, they don’t have time to look at old episodes, but those of us who loved this show back when it was really about design remember more than you give us credit for. I don’t see Chile, or the flag, in any way, shape or form. She says the women wear color and prints and ruffles. I’m missing it completely. It’s black and white (actually navy blue, but it looks black) with a ruffle of thin red stripe that looks pink. Georgina likes the young attitude. Catherine rglrglrgl young rglrglrgl contrast with urban rglrglrlg like very much. Isaac loves the spirit. Angela imagines ponchos when she thinks of Chile (tell me she did not just say that. TELL ME SHE DID NOT JUST SAY THAT) but this is a modern, cool girl. Isaac says the problem is she’s done the same thing again and again and again and she needs to do something else next time. Well, finally, somebody noticed. In the judges’ talk, Angela finds it modern and fun and thinks it reflected the culture and colors of the flag. Technically, I suppose so, but I still say it’s black and white and pink, not blue and white and red. Catherine rglrglrglrgl paris rglrglr. Georgina doesn’t think she thought it through quite enough.

Michael: White gown with blue bow. It’s his Statue of Liberty dress. What, you think we won’t recognize it in white? He worries the back is too low. Yes, it is, and it looks just as unflattering on the model as it did the first time he made it. Georgina is on the fence; she thinks it’s acceptable, but it screams beauty pageant. Catherine, rglrglrgl a lot of volume rglrlgrlg. Angela is disturbed by the blue bow, which would look better on a Christmas present. Isaac says it looks forced, and would be better without the trim. During judges’ chat, Georgina says the proportions were off. Isaac agrees, it was off in terms of volume. Angela still hates the blue. Catherine rglrglrgl pageant dress.

Austin: Flowy blue dress. Yep, it’s his Grammy dress, right down to the poor sewing. The blue is better on the runway than it was in the workroom, and I actually like the upper back. He hopes they aren’t too picky about the draping because it really isn’t up to his standards. He’s right about that, it has that home ec look. He likens it to a beautiful breath of fresh sea air, and Jay is probably laughing his head off somewhere. Georgina says it’s pretty, but she’s worried about the colors, they aren’t the colors in the flag. Isaac finds the ruching tortured. Angela says it isn’t the worst dress she’s seen on PRAS. Now there’s a ringing endorsement. But seriously, Austin, if you’re going to plagiarise yourself, don’t use a losing look that got you kicked off last time. Privately, Georgina thinks he fell flat this week, she could feel the dress suffering and there was no clarity of thought. Isaac thought it was a miss in execution and color story. Catherine rglrglrgl prototype rglrgl.

Jerell: Black and gold party dress with a green sari over half. He loves it. It’s definitely India. Angela likes the white stripe down one arm. How can you even notice the stripe amidst all that gaud? Isaac calls it “Nike in India.” Catherine, rglrglrglrglrrglrglrlgrl disappears behind the draping rlgrlg. Georgina doesn’t like the excess of ethnic jewelry. When they say what they really think while the designers wait backstage, Angela calls it an Indian Barbie doll. Georgina agrees it’s costumey and heavy-handed, though he had a lot of good ideas. Catherine rglrglrgl thought process. Isaac calls it a little bit of a mess.

Mila: It’s half funeral dress, half caftan. She says it looks like something that would be in her collection. I think it’s awful. I’m with Austin, the concept was cool, but it really lost something in the translation. I can’t even say what’s wrong, it just looks awkward. Georgina knew it was her look right away. Isaac gives my favorite line of the night: “I got communism from this dress.” He thinks it looks Russian. I don’t know what he’s talking about. Angela likes the neckline, which I think is horrible. But something bother her, maybe that it’s long and short in two different colors. Isaac says it’s disturbing to look at, and he thinks that was her intention so in that she succeeded. Wait – why would she intend to make this disturbing to look at? In private talk, Angela wonders who can wear it, and where? Georgina wonders about the stripe. Catherine rglrlg her style and conviction rglrgl. Isaac thinks no matter what she was going to do this, and it didn’t come across as Papua New Guinea.

The decision: They warn Kenley to stretch herself next week. Mondo wins, Mila is out. I’m shocked, truly. I’m no fan of Mila, not in the slightest, and her dress is weird, but I can’t believe they kept Jerell and sent her home.

I think I’ve finally figured it out – finally, because I think everyone else figured this out weeks ago. Most of them aren’t looking at this as a competition, but as advertising. They’re showing their lines. If they can figure out a way to shoehorn in the challenge, great, but that’s not the point. It’s Mondo vs Austin, and everyone else is filler. Jerell, Kara, Mila and Kenley have just been making the clothes they make (and coming up with bullshit about the challenge) and hoping someone likes them enough to check them out and buy something. Which is why it’s a really lackluster season and nobody seems to care. They’re all cannon fodder and they know it.

The After the Runway show is back. The final five are there, plus Kara; Mila is working as a costume designer on a movie set but she sends a video that conveys she isn’t working on a movie set but she’s so fed up with Project Runway she wouldn’t have anything to do with them if they paid her, which they probably would. Pretty sour grapes. Everyone more or less agrees Jerell should’ve gone home, which Jerell takes pretty well, to his credit. He just says everyone’s entitled to their own opinion, and her dress looked like an angry box of french fries, which is not a bad description, but his was still worse. Kenley doesn’t appreciate trash talk. Which is hilarious, coming from her. They talk about friendships. Isaac asks if anyone slept together during the show but no one’s talking. They talk about bras, and someone finally points out there’s runway and there’s ready-to-wear, and this is supposed to be about runway. And when they do a real woman challenge (which it seems they won’t bother with this time, too bad), bras are more common. They talk about women designers vs men, and Isaac gets in trouble for saying most women designers design for themselves whereas men design for whatever woman they want. They review all the talking head snarks and give the prize to Michael for his State of Kenley with the polka dot flag remark. They harass Kenley about her 50s silhouette. And then everyone goes away. Not really worth watching.

Next week: glowsticks?

I’ve lost my appetite for this season. Which is too bad, because now the real cooking starts. Recap: Sarah and Lindsay continue to hate on Beverly, because having her eliminated just isn’t satisfying enough. Paul continues to be the class of the operation. Tom reveals longstanding issues with arugula. And Padma’s wardrobe continues to improve.

What, you need more than that?

Ok, guess which finalist is on the list of semifinalists for the 2012 James Beard awards? Hint: the Asian. Also, the one with a penis. And guess which eliminated chef is also on the list? Hint: the other Asian with a penis. Good year for Asians with penises. Just ask the basketball player whose name I can never remember since I’m pretty determinedly uninterested in basketball. Hugh Acheson is also on the list. (I’m guessing there’s a rule about winning more than once, so Tom and Emeril aren’t on the list). To put this in perspective: Also on the list are Anita Lo, Naomi Pomeroy, Michael Chiarello, some other TCM contestants, plus former TC contestants Kevin Gillespie, Bryan Voltaggio, Stephanie Izard, and… Jeff McInnis (?!? Miami Hairdo? Wow, he sure slipped in under the radar). FMI, Minx has it all laid out nice and neat for ya on All Top Chef – thanks, Minx. And congratulations Paul, Edward, and all the other TC/TCM alums.

Prelude: Oh, the usual. Everyone’s so happy to be there. Sarah is so happy Beverly is finally gone and is not coming back: “This is how it was supposed to be the whole time.” Yeah, I suppose that’s why your boss, not you, is on the list. I have to say I really like her hair, it’s a little longer. But throughout the episode I was distracted by Lindsay’s hair, which has that caught-in-a-lawnmower look in the back.

The chefs drive back to Vancouver. They’re playing some kind of name game in the car, but it’s not the Banana-fanna-fo-fanna song game. They don’t explain it, but they keep calling out names. Sarah is sure there’s a rapper named Q-Tip. Paul, good Texan he is, says, “Barbara Bush”. Well, if you’re going to invoke a Texas Republican, she’s probably my favorite one.

Quickfire:

They meet Padma and Emeril in Chinatown. Sarah interviews how glad she is that Beverly went home, since she would have nailed it. Notice I’m refraining from editorial. Fill in your own. Paul is nervous, because there’s this expectation he’ll win. Canada has restored Padma’s fashion sense: she’s wearing a very nice black leather zip-up vest thing. I’m not sure why she’s gone sleeveless in winter, but that’s her business.

Padma brings in three Top Chef Masters: Anita Lo, Floyd Cardoz, and Takashai Yagihashi (who I don’t remember from TCM, but I left the house without my bag yesterday and had to beg the vet to clip Lucy’s claws anyway though I couldn’t pay right away, so I’m a little dubious about my memory these days). Sarah flips over Takashi, she knows him from Chicago. They pair via knife draw with the chefs to form three teams: Lindsay and Anita, Sarah and Floyd, and Paul and Takashi. Sarah envies Paul for being teamed with Takashi; she doesn’t seem to know much about Floyd, especially not the fact that he won Top Chef Masters Season 3, because she seems rather unenthusiastic about being paired with him. I’m sure he’ll lose sleep over that. Paul is intimidated by Takashi. Have I mentioned Paul is the class of the operation?

It’s the tag team challenge. Each half of the team will cook for ten minutes, with the other teammate waiting outside, then they’ll switch, twice. The winner gets $20,000. The Masters will start, and the contestants will bat cleanup.

Takashi starts a geoduck sashimi (aka mirugai). Anita sets up for a trio of scallops from three different Asian cultures (Sarah should pay attention). Floyd knows his record on QFs is not good; Sarah hopes he doesn’t make something on a rock. No, wait, that’s “on a wok.” She may not realize Floyd is Indian. Or maybe she doesn’t realize woks aren’t used in India. To her, Asia is just one big place.

Switch. Lindsay is disoriented; she sees the scallops and figures it’s for multiple presentations; she doesn’t want to screw it up. Paul is surprised to see the clam; it’s an acquired taste and texture. But he seems to know what to do. Sarah recognizes curry, and her comfort level is zero. Of course it is, for her the eastern hemisphere doesn’t exist; she starts working on a cold crab salad to accompany the fish.

Switch. Takashi sees Paul has started dashi broth and uses it for a sauce. Anita likes the saute of Chinese sausage Lindsay has made, it’ll go great with the scallop. Floyd sees Sarah’s crab and goes with that. In the waiting room, Sarah’s glad she didn’t have to deal with the clam. I’ll just bet she is.

Final switch. Lindsay finishes the scallop shell presentation Anita has started. Paul sees the cucumbers and adds thai chili since Padma likes spice. Then he worries maybe he added too much, with all the seeds on the plate.

Padma and Emeril taste:

Sarah/Floyd: Pan seared cod with coconut curry, cold crab salad with clementine and amaranth. Emeril likes that Sarah used rice flour to dredge the fish; Floyd says she did exactly what he hoped. Padma loves the amaranth. Emeril loves the crab with the fish and sauce, but it could’ve used more acid. They win. Sarah likes Canada; she didn’t win anything in Texas and now she’s got $30,000 total.

Lindsay/Anita: Seared scallop, bok choy with chili, fried salmon roe, and sausage with water chestnuts tossed with vinaigrette. Anita envisioned a raw prep as well but it didn’t happen. Meaning, Lindsay didn’t realize it was supposed to be there. Padma likes the flavor. Emeril says the sausage is a bit overpowering.

Paul/Takashi: Mirugai sashimi with yuzu dashi. Takashi says Paul got it right. Emeril wonders about the heat; Paul says it was to bring it together, though it isn’t traditionally Japanese. Padma says she likes chili, but it’s a lot of chili. She sounds like she’s choking as she says it. Paul acknowledges it’s completely his fault. The man is made of class.

Elimination Challenge

They’re to bring the heat of Texas and the cold of Whistler together at a Fire and Ice party. Each chef has to serve one dish, with a hot and a cold element, and one cocktail, for a hundred and fifty people. The winner gets a trip to Costa Rica. They get twelve hundred dollars and five hours to cook.

Paul is hoping to make something you think is cold but when you eat it, it’s hot. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds clever. Paul finds “essential oils” to make snow. Hugh notes in his blog: “Paul is pulling the claws off live lobsters. This will make the animal rights people really happy.” I love Hugh. You know, when Tiffani Faisson chopped a lobster in half and tossed it into a screaming hot skillet in the Season 1 semi-final, the blogosphere roared with outrage. I’m guessing Paul’s crustacean dispatch will go without comment, the difference being we could actually see Tiffani’s lobster twitching in the hot pan. And we like Paul. We like Tiffani now, post All-Stars, but not then.

Lindsay thinks snow is gimmicky. She gets herself all tangled up in the different interpretations of hot and cold – temperature or spice, implication or literal. She can’t find interesting fish so goes with halibut, and kicks Beverly one more time while she has the chance by saying now that she doesn’t have to worry about Beverly ruining her fish, she feels confident. She grates her knuckles into the tomato sauce for that little pow of extra flavor. She’s dedicating the dish to the tomatoes of the world. Cooked, raw, and baked. And because she’s worried about not being literal enough, she adds a tomato ice gimmick.

Sarah thinks Lindsay is playing it safe, and she should be doing something “more unique” sending word geeks – shout out to writer and word geek Elizabeth Creith who reads my Top Chef and Project Runway posts even though she’s never seen the shows – into a tizzy (“unique” means “one of a kind” and something either is or is not one of a kind, it can’t be more or less unique. Everyone says it. They mean, unusual or distinctive. But I digress. What else is new). Like baked manicotti? She’s topping it with frozen ginger mousse that will melt and form a sauce, and that sounds pretty cool. She’s never made this before, she says over and over again, which gives me the impression she’s lying. Sarah dropped out of high school when she was a junior to go to culinary school. That’s interesting. I’ll bet Beverly finished high school.

Tom comes in for a walkthrough. Paul talks to him about Pernod. When he hears about Lindsay’s halibut, he asks if she’s trying to set the record straight. Sarah tries to argue with him about Calabria and chilis. She loses.

They get a bunch of bartenders and servers. Paul isn’t too sure about cocktails, it’s not his strong suit. He makes a thai chili foam that will look like snow. Sarah uses an anti-griddle for her mousse, which she starts calling sfumato, but it overfreezes, probably because she doesn’t know how to use an anti-griddle. That’s a guess. Maybe it’s just a super-duper anti-griddle and she’s used to regular ones. In any case, her mousse is rock hard. She plops it on top of the cannoli anyway, and tells the servers to be sure the guests are eating it right, bringing their fork down through both the sfumato and the pasta, because that’s the concept of the dish. And if the guests don’t eat correctly, they are to be punished. Good thing this isn’t Virginia, or they’d be required to get a vaginal probe.

The party starts. Enter Tom, Padma, Gail, and Emeril. Gail and Padma look adorable in their fur collars; later, we see Padma’s truly gorgeous winter white sweater dress when she takes off the coat. The difference between now and then is amazing. They make jokes about no last-last-chance kitchen for Beverly. What, is it National Kick Beverly day? Emeril thinks she’s hiding under the table, which is pretty good, I have to say.

Service and Judges’ Table:

Paul: King crab with lobster broth and snow; Pan Am cocktail with kaffir lime and thai chilis. Gail complains that she didn’t get as much snow as someone else. Tom admires the tons of lobster flavor, but is put off by the arugula; it should have a purpose, not just be a garnish. He’s not a fan of pairing alcohol and food (well, then, why did you design the challenge that way?) but it works well, and he likes the egg white. Emeril tastes the chili. Padma wants more heat. Picky broad, isn’t she? One day it’s too much, the next it isn’t enough. At JT, Tom gives him more trouble about the arugula. What, Tom, were you beaten with arugula when you were a child? Did you choke on it one day? Or did you have a cruel nanny named Arugula? Paul defends his dish, and wants to go to the final because he can’t go home to Austin without winning Top Chef Texas.

Sarah: Five greens filled pasta and ginger sfumato, agrumi cocktail with gin and mango. Gail wonders if the mousse is supposed to be so… um… rock hard frozen; she can’t get her fork through it no matter how hard she pushes. And she’s dislodged it from the pasta – oh no! Gail is eating wrong! Vaginal probe for you, Gail. Tom loves the flavors. Emeril says pasta is a classic and she’s very good at it. Gail thinks the drink would be great in Texas on a summer day, but doesn’t work with the dish. JT: Gail inquires about the fire, and complains about the mousse, though the pasta was great. Tom thought she was brave to push out of her comfort zone into a frozen brick wall. No, no, he didn’t say that. Emeril disses her cocktail. She wants to go to the finals because… something about making a memory, I think.

Lindsay: Halibut with diced celery root, encendido cocktail. Gail says, “Fiery” and Tom says, “Really?” I guess Gail got the chili. He likes the halibut, but doesn’t know why the kale is raw or why it’s there at all. Gail loves the tomato nage; she never ate a piece of ice that was so well-seasoned. That’s the line of the night. Emeril likes the cocktail in combination with the dish, but on its own, it’s flat. JT: Gail loved the soup; Tom thought the remoulade overpowered the perfectly cooked fish, but would’ve been great on its own. Emeril complains his cocktail separated. She wants to be in the finals because she has more to show.

The judges debate privately, and guess what Tom is still complaining about. They admire how Paul took the challenge to heart, though Padma thinks it lost all contrast of hot and cold. Gail loved the depth of flavor. Tom thought Sarah was creative, and argues with Gail about the frozen mousse: creative or failure? Emeril didn’t get heat from Lindsay’s dish, Tom found her cocktail uninteresting though it went with the food really well.

Sarah is declared safe. And… Lindsay is out. Padma sounds really nasty saying it. Honestly, it’s almost a sneer. Or was I imagining things? Did her acting coach lead her astray, and what she thought was empathy came out as haughty? In any event, Paul is the winner, though it’s the most understated announcement of the winner ever in Top Chef history. It’s like they’re embarrassed how many times they’re giving it to him.

And backstage, Sarah further endears herself to the world by announcing: “It makes me sad that Lindsay is going home but at the same time I knew all along it would be me and Paul. He’s a great chef.” Yes, he is, Sarah. His name is on that famous list of great chefs, and yours isn’t.

Next week: The return of the exiles. Families show up. Death by fishbone.

Watch what happens.

New Yorker illustration by Jashar Awan

Many intense and fertile partnerships, whether creative or romantic, suffer from an imbalance in the relative importance that the respective partners attach to the partnership, to its history and its very existence. There is so often a subject and an object. The object, almost by definition, tends to be the more clueless of the two. – Michael Chabon, Book Bench interview

The world is divided into two kinds of people: those who leave easily, and those who are easily left. Well, no, of course it isn’t that simple, since everyone plays both sides at some point in his life. But for those of us who have been, predominantly, the one casually left behind, this story is a heartbreaker, but perhaps less of a mystery than for those who never let the door hit them in the ass on the way out.

It’s a story of the creative team behind a popular comic book series from the 50s and 60s. And again, the world is divided into to kinds of people (though not really): those who appreciate comic books and the history behind them, and those who were raised to consider them the devil’s toilet paper. In spite of my nearly-genetic membership in the latter class, I loved this story.

It’s told from the point of view of the rabbi at an assisted living facility. She’s more of an observer, though she tries, unsuccessfully to play catalyst throughout. It’s an interesting POV, with many connotation.

“Can I make you some tea, Rabbi?” Mr. Feather said.
Naturally, I wanted to reply that he ought not to bother, that he should just sit down and rest and let me put the kettle on for him. But over the years I had seen enough of the assiduous cruelty of children and grandchildren, in suppressing old people’s vivid hunger for bother, to know better.

In his Book Bench interview, Chabon admits he has no idea where she came from, but she was suddenly there: “I think she was a good choice, because her ignorance of comics and comics history makes her a good stand-in for the reader, while her obligation to pay attention makes her a good stand-in for the writer.” I’m struck by the assignment of those values. This feels important; it feels like a smart way of analyzing the choice of narrator. It feels like the sort of thing MFAs spend $25 grand to learn.

I’m also interested in the title: the story is told from the rabbi’s point of view, to me it’s “about” one character, but it’s titled for the other. I’m still mulling that over.

The story concerns one Morton Feather, a resident of the ALF served by the rabbi, and his estranged partner-in-crime-fighting-superheroes, Artie Conn. Feather is dying, and Conn is seeking forgiveness for a deal with the devil he made forty years before, when he signed away their rights to the material they’d created in exchange for a lump sum payment. Their partnership, and their work, had suffered after that; the comics they created went down in quality, until finally, Feather was fired, while Conn stayed on and enjoyed considerable success in the business.

Sounds simple. But Conn has made every effort to right the wrong. He’s arranged for significant payments, and gives ample credit – more than is due, in fact – to Feather for his success after the breakup. Still, Feather will not speak to him. Still, Feather holds the grudge. The rabbi is bewildered. What does he want? What is the hurt that is unhealed? Feather won’t say.

“If the circumstances were different, I’m sure I’d be able to look back on my career in comic books with a good deal of pride and affection. But, unfortunately, for various reasons, which, I hope you’ll forgive me, I prefer not to discuss, I can’t think about that time or my work then with anything but a bitter taste in my mouth. A taste of ashes. It’s all ruined for me. That’s the sorry truth.”

The reason is hidden in plain sight. When the offer to buy the rights is made, Feather retains an attorney and prepares to fight. Conn, however, agrees to sign. When Feather learns this, he doesn’t try to convince Conn; there’s no scene, no fireworks; he just dismisses his lawyer and signs on the dotted line. And his work loses its inspiration; the comics they continue to produce together are never the same again.

We’re told this – by the rabbi’s husband, a comic book fan and historian who has idolized the pair since childhood – less than halfway through the piece, yet the story still plays on the mystery of Feather’s refusal of all remuneration and contact with Conn. I assumed I was being hypersensitive again. I thought, there must be something else. Like the rabbi, I wracked my brain. A rebuffed sexual advance? A love triangle? Something said privately, something so cruel it still stings decades later? But there it was, plainly spelled out – and the story itself glossed over it, and returned to it only on discovery of an old yearbook Feather bequests to Conn (a pretty aggressive act, actually, kind of a final “screw you” that doesn’t quite hit the mark with its target), an afternoon the two men, as boys, spent discussing science fiction in the library at school where they hid out from the crowds (another scene that broke my heart, since I spent so much time in my junior high school library I was recruited as a library aide), before Conn’s family moved and they didn’t see each other again until they were teamed up at work years later.

It’s with that yearbook, and the beautiful scene of these two lonely boys discovering each other for one single lunch hour, that the rabbi understands the importance of the relationship to Feather, even if Conn doesn’t:

Perhaps what had snuffed out the flame of Mort Feather’s wild and minor genius was not the fact that Conn had sold out their partnership, and their possible legal claim to a considerable fortune, but that, with a stroke of his pen, he had wiped out the history of a blessing, refuted – to make a balloon payment – the lone, certifiable miracle of Morty Feather’s life: his friendship with Artie Conn.

At which point, I said: “Duh!”

The rabbi goes on, in a second insight which, though beautiful and poignant, feels like one too many:

I prayed that one day, here or in another place, Mr. Conn would find the forgiveness that he sought from the shade of the boy he had once chatted with, for an hour, about life on other worlds, on what had been, though he was blind to it, the happiest day of his life.

I don’t mean to be flip. I’m having trouble typing because of all the tears. And I suppose, if Chabon had made his rabbi a little less clueless, we wouldn’t have had the story. But it just rings false, somehow. I didn’t need the extra poignancy of the earlier meeting to recognize how slighted Feather must have felt when Conn accepted the buy-out. Why did the rabbi?

In spite of my quibbles (I don’t get the Swiss army knife, either, though I enjoyed it), I was engrossed in this story from the beginning. It reads beautifully. It moves at a perfect pace. And as I’ve already said, it touched me greatly. In fact, it’s maybe one of the few stories that made me feel smarter than the characters. Maybe even smarter than the writer, in some respects.

Photo by Paula A. White

Argentine Tango is a silent conversation in a partnership that takes on a style and energy changing with every setting, mood, song and partner. It is a dance of improvisation of which there is no basic set pattern – only a set of guidelines or rules that set it apart from other dances. – from TangoModerna.com

This wonderful novella in eight sections is in itself a tango, as points of view, characters, and settings of time and place trade off, swap the lead, and communicate back and forth. Even the subtheme of language feeds into the tango motif: “Words have big, big stories” said Opa long ago, and later Berg, working as a translator, echoes this: “There is something comic and brave about the way language evolves, each people submitting their truth.” This little book dances its own big story.

Berg was a teen in 1984 when he and his parents visited his father’s parents in a small town outside Paris. He overhears a private conversation, and it changes the color of the air around him somehow. Still, he never discusses it. No one in his family discusses anything tricky, it seems; it’s a family trait. Years later, at his father’s funeral, he’s forced to remember the second conversation he overheard. And to confront, and regret, his own avoidance.

Interwoven is the story of a subway busker from Argentina who dances the tango with dolls he’s carefully hand-made. Berg first sees him performing in the Paris Metro on that 1984 trip, and again, years later. The dancer, too, has his regrets. Their stories tango throughout the book and finally come together in sad resolution.

It’s a wonderful read, though at times I got a bit lost in the shifting time line. In fact, I had to go through the story a second time carefully noting the time frame each section to get the events firmly fixed in my mind. But that’s a minor point (and quite possibly a lapse of attention on my part); I was still captivated throughout.

As I was reading, I kept thinking how similar in tone the prose was to Bobcat by Rebecca Lee, an earlier Madras Press release I also enjoyed tremendously. So I wasn’t that surprised to find, in Hanna Dela Cruz Abrams’ online interview, that she’s studied with Lee. I was surprised to find she grew up on a boat, sailing the world. That makes sense, given the international nature of the story.

Another element I greatly appreciated (I have a copy of the 1988 book The Have A Word For It): Berg is an international translator, and throughout the story, words from other languages are dropped in to illustrate points and intensify certain scenes. For example, at one point his mother is upset, and he feels impatient with her:

I wanted to think of something funny to say. My father was good at that. Slight of emotion; watch this solemnity turn into levity. His prestige was elegance and tact, and maybe we’re all magicians in some way, but I still haven’t found my trick yet. Indians in Boro say gagrom. To search for a thing below water by trampling. I’ve never really learned to step softly.

Later, when he attends for the first time a traditional family Christmas party, he wanders through somewhat unnoticed for a while: “Sometimes feeling you’re on the outside is powerful. To be the observer, the witness. Verfremdungseffekt. The distance the audience keeps from the play. The action belongs to others.” This blends well with his habit of eavesdropping, and with the powerful word introduced at the end, when we find out the bombshell he overhears the second time he listens unnoticed:

In Arabic there is a word for the sound a stone makes when it’s thrown at a boy. Who’s doing the throwing I’ve always wanted to know, and what’s the word for them?

All of these words are, by the way, accurate, at least the ones I googled. There really is a phrase in Malay for how long it takes to eat a banana (pisan zapra) and Russians do say “That’s where the dog is buried” rather than “That is the heart of the matter.” And I would assume that, among all the Inuit words for snow, “Nowhere in their lexicon is there a word for the snow that reveals a woman.”

But I’m particularly taken with gwarlingo: Welsh for the sound a grandfather clock makes prior to striking the hour. New England writer/photographer/blogger-of-the-arts Michelle Aldredge has reinterpreted this as “the movement before the moment.” It occurs to me this word, though presented in the story as just another example of the words Berg has come across in his career, was not selected at random.

I’m enchanted by the way the form of this story, as well as the content, matches with the essence of the tango:

In Tango, the partners take turns expressing the dance. The uniqueness of Tango lies in the intimate exchange between a man and a woman.
The variation lies in the nuance similar to the difference between language and conversation. Language is the transmission of ideas, events and emotions through the use of symbols. Conversation is more than the exchange of ideas; it is the give and take of social interaction. It creates a tangible connection between two people….Tango is a language that dissolves boundaries. In the realm of music and movement social barriers melt away and disparate individuals find an intimacy almost unexpected. A satisfactory partnering requires a trust that, if one listens, one will also be heard.

As well-learned as Berg is in language, he never learned conversation. He was dancing with dolls, all along.

From The Getty Collection

There are some who say I did not kill my father.
Not technically, they mean.
But the one who say I did not kill my father are the ones who want to have sex with me.
They say I did not kill my father because they cannot have sex with a woman who killed.

It’s one of those stories where every line contains something important to the whole, so it’s not easy to discuss without copying the whole thing. It’s stark. It’s touching. It’s true.

She’s not much for artifice, this woman. She recognizes the desire and need for it, like when the doctor called to tell her that her father, an abusive addict long estranged, was on a respirator and a decision needed to be made.

The doctor said my father would be a vegetable, and upon hearing this word, I imagined a plate; I imagined vegetables on this plate.
One does not want to imagine this. One wants to imagine one’s father spinning through a field, arms spread, something dynamic like that.
Even something totally made up like that.
My father would never have spun through a field.
He was mad, yes, but not that kind of mad. He was not that kind of happy mad. He was the other kind He was ferocious.
And besides, what field. And where.

She’s living in Missouri, where there are cowboys and tornadoes and brown recluse spiders. A guy at work was bitten by one, in his own bed.

Because he was trying to tell me the bite dissolved the skin on his ass. Because he was trying to tell me that this just wasn’t right.
The technical term is necrotized.
The point is, I was not always serious.
No, the point is we’re limited.

She captures the family outcast perfectly as she comes up against this wall of artifice and pretense, all their sighs because she won’t go along with it, similar to the guys she sleeps with who sigh because she doesn’t do what they want: “The woman is supposed to know the subtle difference between being a woman and performing one.” There’s a scene about dipping french fries in a milkshake, and a scene about organ donation (everything but the eyes), and some direct address to the reader, first as to why she’s writing this story now, since it happened years ago, and second, to assure the reader:

There is no intentional meaning in this story.
I would not subject you to intentional meaning.
I would not subject you to some grand scheme.

The closing half-page, from a better place than Missouri, is astounding. And I wonder, is this a suicide note? A letter to someone? Or, as she assures us, just a story she wrote down, and I’m just one of those who insist on finding intentional meaning where there is none?

I was debating about the choppy style. It’s distracting, I thought. Yes, it is, isn’t it. Distracting, from the father’s death, from Missouri.

There I was, just some poor soul. Same as you.

But there’s no intentional meaning there, I’m sure.

In the summer of 1972, my brother took me to see Godspell at the Shubert Theater in Boston. I’d been living in Florida for the past ten of my seventeen years, so I had no idea what professional theater was like. I still remember the actor who played Jesus. His name was, I think, Jeffrey Weller, and I had a crush on him for years. I adored the show, and still have the album (yes, vinyl). A few years later, after I moved to the Boston area myself, I was lucky enough to perform “By My Side” in a church basement semi-production. I do horse-around versions of “All For the Best” and the vampy “Turn Back, O Man” every once in a while, in my living room, just for fun. And “On the Willows There” makes me cry. I used it as the basis for a flash once. I gave up on “religion” a long time ago, but I like to think if Jesus was around today, he’d be very much like the character in the musical.

Uh oh, what is Project Runway going to do to Godspell?

Prelude:
Austin is setting Kenley’s hair. Those two are perfect for each other. Kenley and Jerell are shocked by last week’s results. I keep hearing them say “I can’t believe Romney is gone.” I really listen to MSNBC way too much. Jerell’s philosophical about it, though; “Eventually they all have to go so I can get my check.”

The Challenge:

The designers head to Broadway and meet Angela and composer Stephen Schwartz in the theater. The designers pretend they know who he is. Kenley says she goes to Broadway shows all the time. Is her boyfriend that rich? She’s still wearing the curlers Austin put in, covered by a scarf. I hope she takes them out when she goes to Broadway shows all the time. Austin gets excited by fantasy and illusion. Why does that not surprise me? He works with theater troupes, so I’m thinking this is his challenge.

Their challenge is to design a costume to be worn by a character in Godspell. They pretend to know what that is. The character they are designing for is ostentatiously rich, hoarding and showing off her wealth. Everyone in the show puts together their costumes on the stage, so it must be separates, and it should look like something put together from whatever they had in their closet, or from a thrift store. I’m not sure what a thrift store has to do with rich, but that’s ok. In my day, they all wore Haight-Ashbury or psychaedelia (except for the one who keeps trying to seduce Jesus), but that was a long time ago. They get two hundred dollars. Angela tells them to break a leg. Oh please.

Kara and Mila do fur; Kenley and Mondo do brocade. Austin loves Kara and her emotional roller coaster. Mila still disapproves of the “overcomplimentary” attitude they have for each other. I think it’s a perfect symbiosis.

Joanna does her walkthrough:

Austin is thinking Marie Antoinette, baroque, Rococo. She loves that his fabric is hideous right now and he’s going to make it fabulous. Hmmmm…

Kara‘s doing a v-neck top with a tie because she thinks the knotted tie thing is rich. Oh? She’s got a maxi skirt planned. Joanna advises her to push herself; she isn’t being as ambitious as an All Star needs to be. Kara is not happy with this critique, and gets all weepy and frustrated. I can sympathize; but she’s over her head in this group.

Mila has a beautiful sheer striped fabric in gold she plans to seam in a chevron pattern, and hideous green and yellow fabric for a skirt. They discuss the skirt; Mila was thinking dirndle, though it isn’t really her, but Joanna thinks a pencil skirt would denote power in a way that’s interesting.

Mondo is using a smoking jacket as inspiration, which is pretty cool. Then again, I think just about everything Mondo does is cool. Joanna loves the fabric and thinks the deceitful nature of the character is played out brilliantly. She worries it won’t be dramatic at a distance. He shows her fabric for a mandarin collar and a ¾ sleeve; she tells him to work it. I think that ‘s the Joanna version of Make it Work. Damn, I miss Tim. Joanna’s fine, much better than I expected, but I miss Tim. And Swatch. Seems like Swatch is part of the standard cast that didn’t carry over. I hope he hasn’t gone to that big Mood-in-the-sky.

Jerell is working with texture, a waist-length coat with an extravagant cuff. Joanna worries he has too much going on. Which would be a big surprise, right?

Kenley shows Joanna her fur and prints; Joanna notes it’s the first time she hasn’t done polka dots, though the print is pure Kenley anyway. She just says good luck and moves on with no comments we see.

Joanna tells them to break a leg (I’m warning you…) and leaves, and Kara has a meltdown, which Kenley attributes to her missing her kids. I didn’t know Kara had kids. Michael and Mondo give her a group hug, which is very sweet. Kara’s toast, isn’t she?

The models come in for fittings, and Mondo doesn’t like his work; it’s heavy and overthought. He’s not feeling it. He has a meltdown, still traumatized from last week. Michael’s worried about him. Michael shows his model what he calls a Pebbles and Bam Bam hat. Kenley can’t help but compliment herself on her wonderful work: “Every piece is so beautiful, it must be so annoying for those other designers.” Yeah, like the ones who are actually winning challenges, which you haven’t yet? There’s the usual exchange of snipes: Mila doesn’t like Kara’s work, Kara doesn’t like Mila’s fur; “It’s not even real.” Wait, is Kara’s fur real? I thought they were fur-free. Maybe that was a Tim thing. I can’t imagine she could afford fur with $200 to spend. Mondo thinks Kara’s model looks like a tube of lipstick; she pushed to the edge but didn’t push it over. Austin thinks Michael’s look is more Mother of the Bride than bitchy drama queen. I want to know what kind of weddings Austin’s been going to. Jerell doesn’t understand Mila’s look: she looks like the girl who can’t get into the club.

On runway day, Mondo has a resurgence. He has to go to a dark place, tell himself he’s stuck so he can grab it by the balls (like Casanova!) and move forward with more energy and passion. Ok, if that’s what works for you. There’s a kerfluffel about who’s using Austin’s sewing machine. I still don’t get the whole thing about “my” sewing machine – do they have elaborate settings they need to re-do? The only sewing machine I ever used had a tension knob and an on-off switch and that was about it.

Michael’s model is falling out of her purple shoes, so he makes straps out of the chartreuse skirt fabric to keep them on. Kara wants her model to have “evil eyes, but not costumey.” Mondo wants intimidating hair, “Almost horns.” Horns? Michael and Mondo have somehow styled themselves the same way. Hair down on the forehead. Scruffy almost-stubble. I love these guys, but it’s weird. And it’s not the most flattering look, especially for Michael.

Runway:

Angela is wearing a shockingly ill-fitting silver lame dress. Maybe it’s just the long sleeves that makes it look so awful. A Broadway leading lady is the guest judge. Used to be “leading lady” meant someone like Angela Lansbury or Ethel Merman, but that was long ago, I guess. Now everyone looks 22 years old. The designers pretend to know who she is. I figure Austin does. But the rest of them? They’re faking it.

The raves:

Michael: chartreuse tutu-skirt with bow, print halter top, feathered headpiece. And of course, purple shoes with green ties to keep them on the model’s feet. I have such a visceral reaction to the chartreuse, I can’t really breathe, but it looks kind of like a normal outfit a girl would wear to a premier or a club or a party, not a stage costume or anything funky or thrown together. He says she wants to look like money, but she has a sense of humor. Angela loves the strings on the shoes, and sees something a little bitchy, an “I have everything” attitude. The actress says it draw her eye; she’s a rich party girl, a little wild. That’s a good description. Isaac says congratulations, the color is difficult but it’s a good idea. In their private chat, where the judges say what they really think, Angela says she’s almost the Chiquita Banana woman, which is a whole different comment. Georgina thinks it was clever how he used the reflective quality in the chartreuse. The actress thinks the character is not specific enough.

Austin: gold and silver metallic pinafore over a black v-neck capri catsuit with a furry stole of sorts; it looks like a loop over both arms coming behind her back, but that would mean she can’t bring her arms forward and I can’t imagine that would do for a Broadway musical that includes dancing. Frankly, it’s ugly, but I can see youthful exuberance and I can certainly see Broadway and the kind of thrown-together quality they asked for. The hat thing makes it whimsical. What I see more than anything is a futuristic Rocky Horror Picture Show. What I don’t see is rich. I see imitation of rich, but not rich. Austin talks about decadent luxury and does his best Marie Antoinette: “Let them wear Austin Scarlet.” Georgina loves it; the actress loves that it draws attention; Angelina likes the silhouette; Isaac calls it incredibly wonderful but thinks it borders on too young. It’s strange, what he says, something like “Women who want to buy Austin Starlet will need to have money.” First, it’s a stage costume, not something anyone is going to buy. And second, getting the name wrong is a little bitchy, isn’t it? Austin corrects him firmly – politely, but with a perfect touch of arrogance. Later, Georgina praises the Antoinette, and Angela sees it dancing and expressing a character.

Mondo: satin jacket with feather detail, chiffon-over-lame flowy dress. Ok, I’m biased, of course, but this week, there’s Mondo, and there’s everybody else. This evokes Norma Desmond, streetwear, money, class, and deconstructed thrown-together funk all at the same time. The actress is smiling as it goes down the runway. Mondo says her secret is this is her dad’s old smoking jacket. Isaac calls her sexy in a crazy passive aggressive way. Georgina notices the dress is simple layered fabrics, and the sparkle underneath makes it rich; the hem showing the foot is a problem. Why do fashion people want everyone tripping over their hems all the time? In their later private chat, Isaac says sometimes they have to give leeway for the time restraints, but this looks like it might’ve taken a couple of weeks; Georgina says he really knows his woman, though the length is not “resolved.”

The understudy:

Jerell: b/w textured print jacket with feathered cuffs, lacey neck and closure, and narrow belt over a grey almost-knee-length skirt. I see Marion the Librarian. I see 1939 dustbowl schoolmarm. But I think this is one of those things that comes across very differently in person. The jacket looks tweedy on TV and in the picture, but it’s not, and there is a lot of detail. Still, that would get lost on the stage, and she’d just look like an old, rich spinster great aunt you have to be nice to so she’ll leave you her money. The hair doesn’t help in that regard. I suspect he ran out of time and didn’t do what he wanted with the skirt. It makes the model look, um, substantial rather than slender, but it’s definitely a step up from the crazy stuff he did the first few weeks, and I still wonder about the change. Because he’s safe, we don’t hear any judges’ comments, which is too bad.

The pans:

Kara: bright red pencil skirt, black furry stole over the striped v-neck, and a hideous silver bow that looks like she swiped it from a wreath. It looks like a wannabe got drunk at the office Christmas party. Stiff, stuffy, wrong. And again, the hair doesn’t help. Angela loves the red pop of the skirt but the bow takes away from the richness. Isaac thinks it’s the best she’s done (no, it’s not) but needs to be developed. Georgina wants little tweaks, like fixing the issue with the back slit that pulls at a strange angle; it’s a good idea but needs “resolving” which seems to be the word of the night. In private deliberations, Angela appreciates that she tried to push, and points out it’s Isaac’s favorite look of hers but it’s in the bottom; Isaac admits even if it is the best she’s done, he doesn’t like it (so they are treating these guys with kid gloves on the runway). Georgina worries about the proportions and color; it’s almost good, but not.

Kenley: Red and white brocade jacket with super-long peplum and feathered lapel, print skirt, white shell. This is another thing that probably looks better close up: on tv and in the picture, the fabric looks like a simple cotton print, not a brocade. I don’t like the combination of prints at all, even though the skirt has the red dot motif (interesting how she didn’t use polka dots but managed to evoke them anyway); it’s too minty green. The peplum is the main feature, and it falls perfectly, but there’s something about it I don’t like. It’s almost a military uniform. I’ve been surprised at how much I’ve liked her stuff so far; this might be my least favorite, and yet I can appreciate the jacket. Kenley calls it East Village. Isaac says she’s flying in their faces, and I have no idea what that means. He sees a need for tweaking. The shoe goes too East Village; she doesn’t live in the East Village, she lives in a doorway of the East Village. I’m sure Neiman Marcus will appreciate that. Georgina thinks she caught the coat really well, but it has one too many elements, and it’s too easy to miss the cut of the coat. The actress wants to wear it but the patterns muddle it; on stage it would blend instead of pop. Angela sees eccentricity but not rich. “I see what you mean,” says Kenley. Wow, someone has been working on her runway demeanor. I wonder if they had to force her to say that, because it sounds a little forced. Still, nice job, and smart, pulling a Tiffani Faisson image rehab. Later, Georgina was a little disappointed, and Angela thinks she only heard vintage and mix & match, not rich; Isaac says it doesn’t really work. I wonder if Kenley threw a cat at her TV set when she heard that.

Mila: white fur jacket, gold shell, green-and-yellow striped asymmetric skirt. The more I look at this, the more I… like it. Yeah. That scares me. She was going for a woman who shops on Rodeo Drive. I don’t get that at all – I get a teeny-bopper (do they still call them that?) who just got a fur jacket and can’t wait to show it off. But I still like it. Isaac loves the top, the rabbit fur jacket look (they were so popular when I was in high school), the sort of asymmetric skirt (is it a kilt?), but it doesn’t work together. Yeah, that was what I thought last night, but now, looking at the picture, it works better. The actress thinks she’s a borderline rich party girl, someone who might, um, pause, walk the streets. Mila glares. The actress continues: it doesn’t feel wealthy, it’s a little gaudy. Mila glares harder. She should be glaring at Joanna who told her to do a pencil skirt instead of the dirndle she had planned; the dirndles are ruling the runway tonight. Privately, Isaac says the character looks like she does drugs. The actress calls her Pretty Woman before she gets pretty. That’s the fur jacket. Georgina thinks with the right skirt it would’ve been safe. I’m really worried, because it’s looking better and better to me. Not rich, certainly, but 20′s flapper funky. Maybe because I always wanted one of those rabbit jackets (though in multi browns), but I lived in Florida then, and that would’ve been ridiculous. And that was back before fur was evil.

Mondo wins, Kara is out.

Much better than last week. And they didn’t trash Godspell.

Next: The UN. Just the thought of these people near international officials scares me. Kenley seems to use the same blurred polka dot Mondo used last week. Isaac gets communism from a dress (see, it is catching!).

There comes a moment when you realize the magic is gone, like the first night you tell your beloved, “I’m really tired tonight, honey, can we just go to sleep?” Well, I’m tired tonight, honey, so can I just tell you there was cooking in a gondola, there were ice picks, and there were rifles and cross-country skis? Can I just tell you there was snidery, snippery, condescension, whining about who had more bullets, and a takedown on the ski trail? That the food was cobbled together under duress and inconsequential? That the Forces of Evil triumphed once again over the Forces of Ditziness?

Back at the beginning of the season, I used a “No Crap” button as a graphic. It seemed like, given Tom’s quick dismissal of the Pork Loin Butcher Who Sells Knives And Cooks At The Same Food Fairs As Famous Chefs (remember him?) they were taking this more seriously. No Robins hanging around until nearly the end to provide drama; no Stephens lecturing about wine and trying to turn every two-bit challenge into a dining challenge the likes of which no one in this country has ever seen before, no Jersey girl winning elimination challenges with watermelon-tomato salad because Today show staff fear sumac and have palates dead from not tasting the dirty water dogs and craft tables they’ve lived on all their professional lives. No, this season, everyone would prove they could cook right off the bat, the drama would be incidental and minor, and we’d see some serious, inventive, and professional cooking.

Didn’t work out that way, did it?

Instead we got two 24-hour challenges in heat over 100 degrees. We got bicycles in traffic. We got heat stroke.

We got Kill Chef.

And so it continues, but now they’re going to freeze them. And if that doesn’t work, well, let’s put them on cross-country skis and give them rifles, and watch what happens.

No more.

My recap: Sarah’s an ass. Lindsay’s a copycat ass. Beverly’s turned into an ass as outsiders sometimes do. Paul’s The Man, and I’m sorry he’s tainted with the stench of this season.

Just thinking about this episode pisses me off. In fact, a few minutes ago, I got a phone call; I had to go through thirty seconds of “Hi how are you today” before discovering it was the Maine Association of Professional Firefighters (is there a Maine Association of Amateur Firefighters?) asking for money. I screamed at the guy. I mean, he’s a telemarketer, doing his job, and I’m sure he didn’t say, on Career Day in third grade, “When I grow up I want to call people at 9 in the morning and read a script and have them swear at me.” I’m sure he needs the job he’d be doing something soul-satisfying and socially redeeming. But I was in such a mood, being immersed in Sarah and Lindsay and the people at Top Chef who think this is what I want to see, I screamed at him. And slammed down the phone. That’s a bad habit I have, slamming down phones. It doesn’t do anything to the other person, and sometimes it breaks my phone. Gotta stop that. But that’s what Top chef has done to me this season.

So this episode… oh, I have notes. I have notes about Paul asking Beverly something in the car and Sarah cutting her off. I have notes about how Paul’s grandfather fled from China to the Philippines. I have notes about the absence of snow on the ground until they got to Whistler. I have notes about how cute Padma looks in a snowsuit, and how it’s strange you can still pick out the rich supermodel in a group even when they’re bundled up for a blizzard.

I have notes about the three challenges, how the winner gets to sit around the fireplace while the runners-up have to keep cooking; about how absurd cooking in a freezing moving ski gondola with induction burners is (I had a very bad moment when Padma announced Paul, victim of high-altitude cooking that prevents searing of lamb chops as well as motion sickness, came in last in the gondola challenge and I thought that meant he’d been eliminated; a very bad moment. That’s what I get for not paying attention to the details). I have notes about the food, including Sarah’s dish that blessed Hugh calls “Spanish food for old people with an out-of-season fruit.” Hugh is the best thing about this season. I have notes about how disappointed I was that Lindsay won the first round and got to go sit inside with a nice mug of spiced rum while everyone else trudges back out into the wild again the next day.

I have notes about everyone playing Sharon Stone and chopping through ice blocks FOR A HALF HOUR FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE to get at ingredients frozen therein; about Padma teasing Beverly about who she’s envisioning when she rips into that ice; about Paul beating Beverly to the ice block containing the crab legs, but helping the two women by smashing the ice blocks on the ground for them (which did little good, but it was still a nice gesture); about Sarah using frozen cream that separated but was rescued by blending her soup; about Paul winning, thank God, leaving the final match-up the producers were going to get no matter what anyone cooked: Beverly and Sarah.

I have notes about the history of the biathlon combining cross-country skiing and shooting, how it makes sense when you look at it in the context of the Olympics originally, back in BCE Greece, being about preparing for war; about Beverly maybe skiing into Sarah to take her down on the ski trail; about how Sarah’s grandfather taught her to shoot at tin cans in the back yard, so she should be able to shoot herself some ingredients; about how Beverly, who’s never held a gun, pretty much outshot Sarah or at least was even with her; about how Sarah accused them of giving Beverly more bullets (they didn’t); about how they finally get to cook in an actual kitchen; how Beverly, in a second show this episode of sheer assholery (because Sugar has forever exposed the self-diagnosed Asperger’s scam, and I’m really, really feeling mean, probably about as mean as she was feeling at the time) plugged her blender in on Sarah’s station; how I knew Beverly was toast when they said her arctic char was underseasoned and maybe overcooked, while Sarah only had tough rabbit; how I lost interest in the season at that moment, because I’m tired of nasty, evil people getting away with it.

And I’m tired of chefs with bruises, frostbite, heatstroke, acrophobia, motion sickness. Challenges more about physical fitness and endurance than cooking ability. Forced improvisation that makes Chopped seem rational. Obnoxious people. Least-common-denominator ideas.

I don’t care what happens next.

(until next week, of course…)

New Yorker illustration by Brian Cronin

My legend grew. Of course, to be a legend, to attain that status, is to court attention. That was how they found me. And truly? I wish they never had.

Yeah, this one went by me. It’s a fine little story, there’s plenty of momentum, but there isn’t much to it. A fictional South American dictator is breeding an army of giants, and maybe another of tiny people. The men are treated well, the women are not. One of the giants escapes in Samsonian fashion and returns to his as-yet-unrecruited tiny wife…. So? If there’s a point, I don’t see it.

I’m seriously disappointed. I like TC Boyle. At least I thought I did. Maybe there’s something that I’m not grasping, but it seems almost cartoonish. The Book Bench interview is singularly uninformative (the interviewer seems to be desperately casting about for something interesting to talk about in connection with the story), except for mention of the paperback release of his novel When the Killing’s Done. Which gives me some conspiracy theories of my own. Fail.

On the boat, we often wondered: Would we like them? Would we love them? Would we recognize them from their pictures when we first saw them on the deck?

I found this book to be brilliant and stunning, a wonder to read both on the story and discourse level. Let’s talk story first.

In the early part of the 20th century, about twenty thousand Japanese women arrived in the US as picture brides, to marry Japanese men they had never met. Their marriages had been arranged via correspondence. You can listen to an interview Otsuka gave with NPR to learn more about this history, or hear Jane Kaczmarek read a passage from the book, at NPR.

This book is the collective story of one boatload of picture brides. It’s a short book in eight sections and covers their lives from the boat to their internment after the attack on Pearl Harbor.

It’s the discourse (and I’m using that word, as I understand it, in a very basic sense), and how it works with the story, that’s brilliant.

The book is written in first person plural – another “we” story, like Then We Came To The End – but more firmly so. It starts out quite rigid on a sentence level; in the first section nearly every paragraph starts with “On the boat we…” though it evolves (as the women do) throughout into a more individualized group, even finally using names, though “we” still remains a collective protagonist. The effect, for me, is to emphasize that what happens to one of these women, happens to them all. And, likewise, the use of “us” requires a “them” and reminds us what we as a “them” are capable of. Who is “us,” who is “them” now –and what we are capable of now. And how careful we should be of what we do out of fear, of what is done in our name, especially now.

I chose to read this book because of a reviewlet by Anne Barnhill at Fiction Writers Review; she asks the question:

Do we still need the Aristotelian notion of protagonist and antagonist? Must one create rising tension? Is a Greek chorus still drama? How far can the bounds of narrative be stretched and still provide satisfaction?

I’m not sure protagonist-antagonist, rising tension, have been abandoned here at all. The protagonist is not a person, but a group: the Japanese picture brides, how they deal with their boat passage, the strangers who are their new husbands, their relationship with whites, their function as childbearers and child rearers, all with background tension of their status as outsiders. That tension is then brought to the front, and reaches a climax in the next-to-last section. So I think it’s actually a pretty classic structure.

That being said, the collective voice will not appeal to everyone. In fact, it’s going to drive some people bonkers by the second page. There was a kind of acclimation experience for me. I kept waiting for the introduction to be over, for the story to begin. I gradually realized the story had begun with the first page, and allowed myself to go with it. It’s a brilliant approach, and I’m surprised the book hasn’t received more notice (though it was a finalist for the National Book Award). I have to wonder: if a man had written this about a group of literature professors (or, say, a group of suburban teenage virgins, or advertising executives), wouldn’t it be hailed as a breakthrough and on everyone’s read list?

But back to the book. By sections:

Come, Japanese!

On the boat we were mostly virgins. We had long black hair and flat wide feet and we were not very tall. Some of us had eaten nothing but rice gruel as young girls and had slightly bowed legs, and some of us were only fourteen years old and were still young girls ourselves.

In this very short, very poetically stylized section, we are introduced to the women, how they vary in age and background and reason for being there, but how they are still one group. In discourse terms (and again, I’m kind of making this up as I go along from a very basic grasp of the term) it is exposition in which the protagonist and setting is introduced.

First night

That night our new husbands took us quickly. They took us calmly. They took us gently, but firmly, and without saying a word….They took us flat on our backs of the Minute Hotel. They took us downtown, in second-rate rooms, in the Kumamoto Inn. They took us in the best hotels in San Francisco that a yellow man could set foot in at the time.

We see the wedding night. This section is very short, and quite poetic, and further introduces us to the lives these women will lead, and especially how they will be viewed by their husbands.

Whites

We loved them. We hated them. We wanted to be them. How tall they were, how lovely, how fair. Their long, graceful limbs. Their bright white teeth. Their pale, luminous skin, which disguised all seven blemishes of the face. Their odd but endearing ways – their love of A.1. sauce and high pointy-toed shoes, their funny, turned-out walk, their tendency to gather in each other’s parlors in large,noisy groups and stand around talking, all at once for hours. Why, we wondered, did it never occur to them to sit down?

We see the women surviving their work environments, from the farms where they worked the fields endlessly to the city houses where they served as maids and nannies to Japantowns in various places where they worked in noodle houses and laundries and boarding houses, at the hands of white people who had power over them; white people they had to work for, sleep with, keep secrets for, learn from, and sometimes, admire.

Babies

We gave birth under oak trees, in summer, in 113-degree heat. We gave birth beside woodstoves in one-room shacks on the coldest nights of the year. We gave birth on windy islands in the Delta six months after we arrived, and the babies were tiny, and translucent, and after three days they died. We gave birth nine months after we arrived to perfect babies with full heads of black hair.

All the circumstances of childbirth. The places – fields, laundries, houses, midwife’s clinics, hospitals. The number of babies – ten in fifteen years. The ones who were left to die or smothered or who never made it into the world at all. The ones who never bore children.

The Children

Still, they dreamed. One swore she would marry a preacher so she wouldn’t have to pick berries on Sundays. One wanted to save up enough money to buy his own farm. One wanted to become a tomato grower like his father. One wanted anything but. …One wanted to become an artist and live in a garret in Paris. One wanted to go to refrigeration school… One wanted to become a state senator. One wanted to cut hair and open her own salon. One had polio and just wanted to breathe without her iron lung. One wanted to become a master seamstress. One wanted to become his sister. One wanted to become a gangster. One wanted to become a star. And even though we saw the darkness coming we said nothing and let them dream on.

As the women raise their children from infancy to maturity, care for them, teach them, and watch them grow – they are American citizens, after all, able to buy land – they still fear. The rising action begins.

Traitors

What did we know, exactly, about the list? The list had been drawn up hastily, on the morning of the attack. The list had been drawn up more than one year ago. The list had been in existence for almost ten years….It was nearly impossible to get your name on the list. It was extremely easy to get your name on the list. Only people who belonged to our race were on the list. There were Germans and Italians on the list, but their names appeared towards the bottom. The list was written in indelible red ink. The list was typewritten on index cards. The list did not exist. The list existed, but only in the mind of the director of military intelligence, who was known for his perfect recall. The list was a figment of our imaginations. The list contained over five hundred names. The list contained over five thousand names. The list was endless.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor, the dread becomes real. The list – who doesn’t flash to Schindler’s List here? But it is the opposite. This is a list of uncertainty, banishment, perhaps death, no one knows. They hear of other towns where all the Japanese are gone. They hear of individuals who have simply vanished. Individuals become more prominent in the narrative.

Last Day

Some of us left weeping. And some of us left singing. One of us left with her hand held over her mouth and hysterically laughing. A few of us left drunk. Others of us left quietly, with our heads bowed, embarrassed and ashamed.

The women, their families, all the Japanese, leave for an uncertain future. It’s hard not to compare the scene with Holocaust, though it isn’t as determinedly, heinously evil. There’s a lot of switching back and forth between the transitive and intransitive meanings of the verb “left” – they left, and they left things behind. It’s definitely more personal, these are individuals. The title of the book comes from this section: “Haruko left a tiny laughing brass Buddha up high, in a corner of the attic, where he is still laughing to this day.” This breaks my heart.

A Disappearance

With each passing day the notices on the telephone poles grow increasingly faint. And then, one morning, there is not a single notice to be found, and for a moment the town feels oddly naked, and it is almost as if the Japanese were never here at all.

And now, in this last section, there’s a sudden shift. We’ve heard the last from the Japanese, and the narrative voice moves to a different collective: the white people in the town. noticing how the Japanese have disappeared suddenly. They don’t know where they’ve gone. Some feel a little guilty; they should’ve done something, said something to somebody, but what, who? New “others” move in – “country people” who find work at the war factory, people who make some of the white people long for the quiet Japanese. Surreptitious looting of Japanese belongings left behind begins, and Japanese items – stone lanterns, scrolls, hair chopsticks – begin to appear in white homes. And I have to say, just typing about white people and white homes throughout this post is freaking me out.

A year on and almost all traces of the Japanese have disappeared from our town….All we know is that the Japanese are out there somewhere, in one place or another, and we shall probably not meet them again in this world.

The book ends here, on an uncertain note. Rumors fly, but no one knows where the Japanese have gone, if they’ve been shipped back to Japan or put to work on farms or just abandoned somewhere in the middle of the country, if they’re alive, if they’re ever coming back.

But like the laughing Buddha in the attic, they were and are here. And I’m grateful to Otsuka for reminding us who they were.

[Addendum: I'm delighted to see this book is a finalist for the 2012 PEN/Faulkner Award.]

"This is my cathedral"

I first thought I might want to read this collection when I read the gripping “Sheep May Safely Graze” in the 2011 Pushcart volume. I ordered it after I read “Call of Blood” in BASS 2011. It’s a smallish collection – only five additional stories – but I had to read them, based on those two.

Christopher Feliciano of The Rumpus puts it well in his introduction to his author interview: “Row grapples with questions of identity, religion, and extremism, exploring how we manage (or fail) to co-exist in a post 9/11 world.” I’d add grief and loss to that list. Row’s interview with Charlotte Boulay of Fiction Writers Review is likewise informative, asking about not only craft but his exploration of fundamentalism and race in these stories.

I found the stories beautifully written, extremely intelligent and thoughtful. My favorites were emotionally engaging, often devastating, with images and metaphors that put complex things in a new light, such as the changing harmony Guruhka speaks of in “Amritsar” or the heartbreaking cathedral image in the title story. I have to admit I was surprised by the use of, well, harangue in “The World in Flames,” “Call of Blood,” and “The Answer.” Each contains extensive monologues in which a character explains his philosophy. I’m fine with this, but it strikes me as old-fashioned (the latter part of The Jungle, Magic Mountain) and no longer condoned, though I can hardly figure out why given the power of those “old-fashioned” books. I guess I need to learn the difference between talking heads and effective use of monologue. While I found “Call of Blood” mesmerizing, I had less connection to “The Answer” and “The World in Flames,” perhaps because in the former, the people doing the lecturing seemed to be wondering aloud rather than dictating, looking for answers instead of insisting they already had them all. In the latter two, they seemed to have their positions firmly entrenched, but I never saw much of the path towards those beliefs.

It’s a collection for someone who wants to think about issues, to see several points of view, not to just nod and agree with what they’ve already decided. Stories to think about. I wonder how some of these stories will look five, ten, twenty years from now.

“The World in Flames” (Full text available online at Five Chapters)

She’d always seen herself as a fairly good interpreter of men, their attitudes and postures and elaborately disguised emotional agendas, but here, she thought, these waters just get deeper and stranger.

Samantha – Sam – is a young British woman backpacking through Asia. It’s her “last best chance to see the world” before settling down to all the things in a regular life. In Bangkok, she sees an American man, Foster, who somehow intrigues her, and she pulls a fast one: she tells him she’s lost her money and is waiting for the credit card company to send her a new card. It works, and he invites her to stay at his house overnight. His wife is upcountry. It’s a small dishonesty. She isn’t particularly looking for sex, or for anything; the shower and real bed and private room are extremely welcomed after months of bathing from pots and sleeping in communal rooms. She finds a cross hanging in his bathroom, and the conversation develops around religion; she discovers more than she bargained for about his brand of Christianity. He’s out to speed up the pace of things, to get the Rapture going once and for all. And for him, that means a grenade launcher. Poor Sam’s radar was seriously off with this guy. The evolution of their encounter is the thread that pulls the reader through this story.

I sometimes joke about my misspent youth as a fundamentalist. I know the territory. Though it reads like horror story, everything in the story is pretty much based on truth. The “Left Behind” books are still flying off the shelves. There are organizations that return diasporic Jews to Israel in an attempt to speed up the Rapture. Christianity: it isn’t just for Sundays any more. Foster turns out to be a cross between Pat Robertson and Charles Manson, and I don’t need convincing. Row’s intent was to look at how fundamentalism can lead to violence. None of us need convincing about that, not any more, though some may be surprised to see this setting. This is what I wonder: how can people who truly believe their religion is the difference between eternal paradise and eternal damnation, not be fanatics?

“Amritsar” (Full text available online at The Atlantic Monthly)

Having found it only late in my lifetime, you could say I believe strongly in harmony. An outdated concept, you might say. It carries with it a strong whiff of the Beatles and that terrible Coca-Cola commercial I watched with the children when they were young. But, of course, a marriage relies on harmony, a family is composed of nothing but….
I am learning to fish because the components of a harmony change over time. Because the song changes, if you’ll excuse the terrible analogy.

I love stories that teach me about something I didn’t know before. Then again, I get annoyed by stories that are so unfamiliar they require research before I can follow along. It’s a delicate balance, and this one falls right in the sweet spot. It’s not the easiest read – after a magnificent opening scene of the narrator (I didn’t now for most of the story if the narrator was male or female) climbing nervously into a boat with his son, there’s a flashback to his childhood in the Punjab and the first reference to Amritsar, which jumbles the timeline for me; I was no longer sure where the present of the story was, in 1919, fifty years later, or fifty years after that. But, as I’ve learned, I just kept reading, with an open mind, and it came together. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from reading over my head, it’s that an open mind is crucial.
The short version: This story is about assimilation, but that’s like saying Othello is about jealousy; true, but not sufficient. Gurukha, our first person narrator, doesn’t like boats, but he is learning to fish because his son Ajay is marrying Christine, the girl next door (literally) whose father Tom is an avid fisherman. It wouldn’t do for one father-in-law to teach the other, so Gurukha has asked Ajay – “this son, who has never known a barrier he couldn’t leap, who will never have to do anything in his life he doesn’t want to” – to teach him. And on this day, a lot comes up. Memories of his childhood in India; his childhood friend Gopal, who was always intrigued by the massacre at Amritsar fifty years before, and later became an extremist himself. His emigration to Virginia to become a radiologist. The day his daughter found sand nigger painted on her school locker, and Ajay ended up arrested when things got convoluted and misunderstandings multiplied. His feelings about 9/11, with neighbor Tom parked in his driveway with a shotgun when reports of Sikhs, mistaken for Arabs, being attacked were all over the news (“Don’t be ridiculous, our neighbors know who we are, we’ve lived here for 20 years” says Gurukha when his best friend calls to warn him about the backlash; this reminds me of the line in Diary of Anne Frank, when one of the people hiding in the attic says, “I always thought I was Dutch”), and the terrible fight he had with his wife that night. His feelings about Christine making efforts to be a little bit Indian – watching his wife cook Indian food, asking about wearing a sari for her wedding – “in the way that so many Americans want to be something they aren’t.” So many points of view – the “other,” the ally, the vengeful militant, the concerned father, the kid who thinks it’s all worked out now, the parent who knows it isn’t. I’m still a little hazy on a few points, but along the way, the story wrings a lot out of me; it’s very special, and a beautiful read.

“Nobody Ever Gets Lost” (from American Short Fiction)

You have to stop looking, she thinks. You have to stop lying your way into the right metaphor. Nothing works by analogy anymore. The act of comparing is another kind of violence.

This story, maybe the shortest in the collection, is worth the price of the book in itself. Let me take a different approach, and tell you my reactions as I read, because I think Susan, the protagonist, would understand. Despite the numerous references to 9/11 (September again, stores with T-shirts saying “I [heart] NY – More Than Ever”) including the obvious one about her fascination with an elevator accident that killed two children, I believed her when she said her boyfriend died of an aneurism. I was relieved, if a bit surprised and possibly disappointed somewhere I didn’t want to look. Oh, it’s that kind of story, not the kind that means I need to go get more paper towels (I’m a Olympic-level crier; tissues are for wimps). And of course, she lied to me, because that’s part of what the story is all about, glossing over things, getting on with our lives, erasing the scars. “It wouldn’t be fair, she finally decided, to expect them to realize that despite its seeming surface continuity, the world’s underlying chemistry had been permanently altered….Somebody has to remain innocent…” The last page is transcendent.

“The Answer” (Full text available online at Granta)

When you come to Yale, you relinquish the right to be a mad prophet…. You take on the humiliation of belonging.

Isaac meets Rafael during Orientation Week at Yale in 1993. Most of the story is monologue: Rafael’s defense of jihadist Islam, and his attempt to lure Isaac to Karachi to study the Quran and convert. Isaac is not Jewish, by the way; he was raised Unitarian, which (to me) is religion in the vaguest sense. There’s a beautiful rhythm to this story; the sections flow perfectly and end on just the right note for the next one to start. The main story covers one night, more or less; four appendices provide additional context. There are no surprises here, really, outside of the unconventional structure of the appendices.

“The Lives of the Saints” (from Ploughshares; full text available online at Numéro Cinq)

It’s because you’re a woman that you don’t want me to die, Tayari says.

That’s the first sentence of this story, and I gave up trying to figure out why dying was an issue quite soon; so at the very end, I realized Tayari was referring to the impending crucifixion. In the name of art. I’ve been known to get impatient with people who have pretentious and pseudo-intellectual views about art, but if someone’s going to have nails driven into his palms, I’m thinking he’s suffered enough. It’s the story of a very mixed-up couple. He’s the artist, bordering on famous; they live in a deserted storage shed where he completes his projects such as False Postitive, pinning a year’s worth of pregnancy tests to a board, and videos of martyrdom. The title refers to a book detailing the treasured gory details of persecution throughout history. He’s got some idea about bursting through artifice, to really affect people. Hence the crucifixion. His girlfriend is pretty much led down the garden path by this huckster, abandoning dance and education, and becoming pregnant. I was sorry the collection ended on this note, because it all smacked of pretentious nonsense and left a bad taste in my mouth. And yet – is there something here about the artist’s martyrdom, in comparison with religious and political martyrdom? I’m not sure. For one thing, he crucifies himself, not unwilling bystanders.

Overall, it was quite a collection. Out of the seven stories, I loved four. I generally bat about .500 on collections, but I loved these stories more than usual. It’s interesting how both the first and last stories were titled for books that appeared within them, that gave a character an avenue for “rationally” considered (rather than overtly anger- or hatred-driven) violence. It’s also interesting that I considered those the two stories I responded to the least. I’m assuming they were over my head, which means I have more work to do.