Gringo

I got this thing I do when I get around a bunch of high falutin literary types, especially if we’re all gathered for an author event in some lovely industrial space that doubles as both a bookstore and the headquarters for a classy independent press (a hometown LA press who doesn’t know who I am). What I do is immediately separate myself and say, “No, you are not my people.” I do this as a shield against both their rejection and acceptance, each of which would agitate me, though in different ways.

A subcategory of “You are not my people” is you’re a bunch of privileged white folks who have no connection to the deep ethnic thrum of the real Los Angeles, and that’s why there is not a black, Latino or even Asian face here, and I, who grew up in Great Neck Long Island and has had access to the best of white, Jewish intellectual art, culture and education am the great knower of the disenfranchised and honorary “other.” These are some of the absurd judgements and identity gymnastics I dabble in when I find myself in situations like these.

Luckily, at the age of sixty-three, these thoughts are only a backbeat, and I’m able to enjoy the paragraph the author begins with, an insightful bit of confession about believing her agent’s praise, even though she can never get her on the phone. It doesn’t hurt that she’s Italian from Italy and radiates a self-aware intelligent charm. There’s a semi-famous writer two rows in front of me known for noir Raymond Chandlery books and a brief TV series he had on HBO. He’s got a rep and a vibe and my first thought on seeing him is, your noir shit ain’t as good as mine, buster, but the next morning I’m full of regret that I didn’t go up and introduce myself, say we have a mutual author friend, and give him a copy of my detective book, which our mutual author friend is a huge fan of and which I had in the car for just such an occasion. This “I don’t want anything to do with any of you, but please read my book and see how great I am,” combo platter is one of my favorite meals and as it’s happening, I can only sigh and try to have compassion for the little misfit inside.

The interview is neither thrilling nor long. The author (a friend of the friend I’m there with) is quickly swarmed after and a large receiving line formed. We’re happy to wait five minutes to praise and chuckle but thirty seems extreme, so we split, passing on our chance for a literary shmooze (We are more Spanky and Alfalfa than F Scott and Zelda).

I drive back to my part of town thinking about a roasted cone cabbage I left in the oven and whether I should cook a 9 P.M. pork chop to go with. I decide to pass on the piggy and give in to my darker angels, which in this case are thick cut French fries, cooked in fat vats of cheap boiling oil on the corner of Western and Venice right in front of the U-Haul sign. These frites are the opposite of the thin, French crunch sticks you find in Paris cafes. They are also unlike diner fries or burger stand crinkle-cuts. I guess you could call them steak fries but on steroids, the massive, peeled potatoes cut into planks six inches long and an inch and half wide, then cooked for twenty minutes in a pot so huge it could deep fry a five-year-old.

I park on the sidewalk because it’s my hood and I know I can get away with it (It was the driveway of the U-haul joint, it’s not like I jumped the curb). I saunter up to the stand which consists of two giant frying vats set up on the street and a large foil-lined, glass case where the taters and fried chicken live once they’re done (It’s a pollo frito and papas stand). I want to get home and watch the second half of the Laker game but much to my chagrin, the case is empty, though a fresh batch is browning in the lethal, bubbling swill.

The kid working the friers is about twenty. He usually has a partner but tonight he’s working alone. He’s got a shaved head, perfect skin and the distant brown eyes of those who know all or nothing. There’s a curly haired Latino cat waiting as well. We trade hungry smiles and knowing nods. I ask the kid “Cuantos minutos?” pointing to the fries. “Siete,” he answers. “Estoy esperando papas.” I say to the other guy waiting, thrilled to have used two verbs in one sentence.

I wander to the vats and watch the chicken fry. There’s something about huge pots of boiling oil right on the sidewalk that feels downright murderous, but this is the LA I love most. Back at the reading it was all about the death of Hollywood and how stolen water built the illusion machine. They were praying at the altar of Robert Towne, saying Los Angeles is as much an idea as a city; an empty desert that white men willed into bloom. I get it and know that’s true, but to me LA is as much kimchi as it is Kim Novak. I see the movie business not as a fallen empire but as an ATM machine that has allowed me to learn and love a city, which for me, has little to do with celluloid.

The fries are taking more like quince minutos than siete but the game’s at halftime and all is right with the world, though I am getting a touch hungry, and to be honest both the fries and the chicken look done. Finally, our saint of the distant stare takes a huge paddle sieve and pulls the fries from the grease, forming a shiny golden mound in the bright, bulb light case. I thought he might hook me up with a quick box full since I’ve been waiting so patiently, but instead he goes and does the same with the chicken. Alright, patience Swerdlow. The other guy was before you anyway. All will get their fried yummies and joy shall reign. But instead of putting together the other guy’s order, he starts slicing new potatoes for another batch. And not one or two but seven or eight. Finally, he finishes and drops the spuds in the grease. Good, the papas in the case need a little time to cool anyway and will be perfect when I get them home and watch LeBron, but instead of giving us our food he starts preparing chicken, dredging piece after piece in a bucket of flour. I look to the other cat to see if he’s concerned about these delays, but he’s taking it all in stride.

Ten pieces of chicken dredged and now frying, our hero is finally ready to give us our food. It’s been at least twenty minutes and I’m a tad hangry, but this is the real world, and we must adapt to the pace of the place we find ourselves. Another guy has now shown up who I have seen working the stand and who might even own it, but he is not doing any work, so I’m not sure. The kid turns to him, and they trade a burst in Spanish. Then the new guy turns to me and says, indicating the other customer, “He has a very big order and there may not be anything left.” I must be honest and confess that I did not take this news well. “Why didn’t he tell me?” I ask. The guy has no answer. “He told me to wait seven minutes. If he knew he wasn’t going to have enough, why didn’t he just tell me then.” “He didn’t know.” “But he knows now?” “He has five orders,” he says referring to the other customer. “I understand that, but he should have told me that so I could have decided whether I wanted to wait or not.” I look to the kid, hoping he’s following along, but he’s all business putting together the other guy’s order. “He doesn’t speak English.” “He could have told me in Spanish,” I say. “Why did he tell me to wait seven minutes if he knew he didn’t have enough!” And just like that I’ve gone full gringo. I’m the flustered and impatient white boy who’s not getting what he wants. The stranger who doesn’t understand the ways and customs of the world he’s entered. I’m treating them like it’s Five Guys, but it’s not Five Guys it’s one Guatemalan kid.

I’m still talking with the guy as the kid boxes up chicken and fries. I get a slight hold of myself and say “Look it’s not the end of the world, but he could have told me.” The kid gets to box four and I realize there are going to be enough fries for me too and feel even stupider. He scoops up my fries and I tell him to throw in a piece of chicken. I smile, trying to make up for my gringo display, but there’s no need to apologize because he wasn’t offended. He was just doing his job. If I wanted my fries I could wait for the next batch, my time no more valuable than his.

He fills my carton, hits the fries hard with a spray bottle of ketchup and when he hands me my change I tip him five bucks as penance. He nods and absolves me with his all or nothing eyes, and I realize I’ve still got a lot to learn; about LA and everything else.