Read Online Quite Enough of Calvin Trillin by Calvin Trillin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Calvin Trillin
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speech that had the tone of those nineteenth-century accounts of the frustrations experienced by someone trying to bring a working knowledge of Latin grammar to the Hottentots.
It was obvious to me that the storyteller didn’t understand the story he was telling. He assumed that the cork was eaten out of ignorance. He didn’t realize that there are any number of Americans who might want to eat a cork for effect. In other words, we are dealing here with someone who never met my old Army buddy Charlie.
I could easily imagine Charlie eating a cork—although I’ll admit that it takes a leap of imagination to envision him in a fancy restaurant, particularly if he happened to be wearing his Jayhawk sweatshirt. It’s bright red, and it’s designed to look like a jayhawk, beginning with two huge eyes around chest level. Charlie wears it as a symbol of the semester and a half he put in at the University of Kansas before what he always refers to as “the little trouble down at the Tri-Delt house.” I don’t think cork-eating would present any physical problems that Charlie couldn’t handle: He always used to delight in startling convenience-store clerks by finishing off a bag of Fritos in four or five bites without opening it. All in all, I think Charliewould consider cork-eating what he sometimes refers to as “a real hoot.”
I can envision any number of ways he might do it. He might swallow the whole thing at once—an alternative available to someone who has always been able to put his gullet on automatic pilot and pour down a couple of cans of Budweiser—or he might put it in his mouth and wash it down with water, as if it were a particularly large anti-cold tablet he had been instructed to take immediately before meals. He might take a small bite, spit it onto the floor, and shout, “You call that cork, my man!” Or he might finish up the cork, turn to the rest of the people at the table, and say, “I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV, so I know the importance of fiber in your diet …”
I think it’s more likely, though, that he’d raise the cork to his mouth and chomp off a big bite, as if he were eating a radish. I can just see him chewing the bite slowly, staring very hard at the sommelier the entire time, and doing that trick he does with his stomach to make the beak of the jayhawk seem to open and close. The rest of the people in Charlie’s party—the band of galoots Charlie often introduces as “my good friends and accessories”—are playing along, of course. They continue their small talk, occasionally glancing over at Charlie to see if he seems to be satisfied with what he’s eating. Maybe a couple of them try to get the sommelier’s attention so that they can ask him whether he would recommend a red or a white for chugalugging.
The sommelier is trying to muster the polite and expectant expression he learned in sommelier school, but his face is drained of color and he is emitting some soft beeping sounds that might be sighs or groans. The proprietor, who has come over to see what’s going on, at first stands there with a fixed smile. Then he begins to look desperate as he notices other diners following Charlie’s example. All over the restaurant, diners are eating their corks. Then Charlie finally swallows what he has been chewing, puts the rest of the cork back on the table, pauses for a moment to give the matter one last bit of consideration, and turns to the sommelier. “Fine,” Charlie says. “That’s fine. It’s not the year I ordered, but it’s fine.”
1987
The Italian West Indies
I daydream of the Italian West Indies. On bleak winter afternoons in New York, when the wind off the Hudson has driven my wife, Alice, to seek the warmth she always draws from reading the brochures of ruinously expensive Caribbean resorts, I sometimes mumble out loud, “the Italian West Indies.” Alice gets cold in the winter; I yearn for fettuccine all year round.
“There is no such thing
It was obvious to me that the storyteller didn’t understand the story he was telling. He assumed that the cork was eaten out of ignorance. He didn’t realize that there are any number of Americans who might want to eat a cork for effect. In other words, we are dealing here with someone who never met my old Army buddy Charlie.
I could easily imagine Charlie eating a cork—although I’ll admit that it takes a leap of imagination to envision him in a fancy restaurant, particularly if he happened to be wearing his Jayhawk sweatshirt. It’s bright red, and it’s designed to look like a jayhawk, beginning with two huge eyes around chest level. Charlie wears it as a symbol of the semester and a half he put in at the University of Kansas before what he always refers to as “the little trouble down at the Tri-Delt house.” I don’t think cork-eating would present any physical problems that Charlie couldn’t handle: He always used to delight in startling convenience-store clerks by finishing off a bag of Fritos in four or five bites without opening it. All in all, I think Charliewould consider cork-eating what he sometimes refers to as “a real hoot.”
I can envision any number of ways he might do it. He might swallow the whole thing at once—an alternative available to someone who has always been able to put his gullet on automatic pilot and pour down a couple of cans of Budweiser—or he might put it in his mouth and wash it down with water, as if it were a particularly large anti-cold tablet he had been instructed to take immediately before meals. He might take a small bite, spit it onto the floor, and shout, “You call that cork, my man!” Or he might finish up the cork, turn to the rest of the people at the table, and say, “I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV, so I know the importance of fiber in your diet …”
I think it’s more likely, though, that he’d raise the cork to his mouth and chomp off a big bite, as if he were eating a radish. I can just see him chewing the bite slowly, staring very hard at the sommelier the entire time, and doing that trick he does with his stomach to make the beak of the jayhawk seem to open and close. The rest of the people in Charlie’s party—the band of galoots Charlie often introduces as “my good friends and accessories”—are playing along, of course. They continue their small talk, occasionally glancing over at Charlie to see if he seems to be satisfied with what he’s eating. Maybe a couple of them try to get the sommelier’s attention so that they can ask him whether he would recommend a red or a white for chugalugging.
The sommelier is trying to muster the polite and expectant expression he learned in sommelier school, but his face is drained of color and he is emitting some soft beeping sounds that might be sighs or groans. The proprietor, who has come over to see what’s going on, at first stands there with a fixed smile. Then he begins to look desperate as he notices other diners following Charlie’s example. All over the restaurant, diners are eating their corks. Then Charlie finally swallows what he has been chewing, puts the rest of the cork back on the table, pauses for a moment to give the matter one last bit of consideration, and turns to the sommelier. “Fine,” Charlie says. “That’s fine. It’s not the year I ordered, but it’s fine.”
1987
The Italian West Indies
I daydream of the Italian West Indies. On bleak winter afternoons in New York, when the wind off the Hudson has driven my wife, Alice, to seek the warmth she always draws from reading the brochures of ruinously expensive Caribbean resorts, I sometimes mumble out loud, “the Italian West Indies.” Alice gets cold in the winter; I yearn for fettuccine all year round.
“There is no such thing
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