Souffles in Saigon

So...I'm sitting in the back of another diminutive
taxi cab in downtown Ho Chi Minh city when it occurs
to me that this isn't the way that I want to go out.

In my mind, I'm running through all the bad scenarios
that await me. My impending doom...

First, unbeknownst to be, I'll be driven to some
remote part of town. Then, I'll be relieved of my
belongings, roughed up and left to rot in an alley
which, due to the extreme over-population and
incredible heat and humidity, bears a stench with a
pungency you can scarcely fathom.

But suddenly, my eternal optimist rears its adorable
little head. I'm a good guy. Good things happen to
good people. Jesus loves me. Never mind the fact that
no less than 5 times since I arrived 3 days ago, a
local has attempted to get over on me. Have faith, I
tell myself. Who cares that neither the cab driver,
nor the bell captain at my hotel were able to figure
out the restaurant that I was trying to go to, despite
the concierge's best efforts to explain it to them.
I'm not at all encouraged by the fact that the two of
them have agreed on a suitable alternative for me
(sans my approval)and my yearning for French cuisine.

As we sift through the shear madness that is Saigon's
constant brigade of motorized bicycles, (chaos does
not begin to explain it), I lay my head back on the
headrest and sigh (two peas in a bucket, que se ra..se
ra...well, you get the picture...). Jesus loves me, I
say again, under my breath.

Then, like a train reaching light at the end of a
tunnel, daybreak to a wino slumbering on a park bench,
title-hopes dashed and a season ended at the hands of
some Florida Gators...SUDDENLY...we pulled up to the
gated fortress that was Au Manoir de Khai.

Quickly, i wiped off the gas-face that had formed
during this excursion, and gleefully accepted the warm
welcome given me by the doormen at this, at first
glance, incredibly grand dining compound. Indeed,
trial and success (save for marriage)continues to
reign supreme in this charmed life that I lead. I
proceed to follow the maitre'd past a fountain,
through a garden, a very regal sitting room, up some
stairs and, finally, to the seat where I would bear
witness to evidence of divine presence...at least
culinarily speaking.

Perhaps I wasn't meant to find the other place at all.
Surely, it would have been the letdown to end all
letdowns compared to this place. The decor of the
dimly -lit room would have set both Marie Antoinette
or Louis XVI at ease. Elegantly lain across my
table was a red and gold striped ribbon, a vase full
of tulips, and a candlestick holder (surely there's a
sexier, more sophisticated term for that) so ornate in
its golden-braided magnificence that I grew more and
more apprehensive by the minute at the notion of
sullying this heavenly portrait of a place setting.

My waiter/sommolier (picture Theo, of 92 the
Beat/Waiting to Exhale fame on crack) brought me the
velvet jacketed menu and accompanying wine list. I
tried to play it cool...act as if I'd been there
before, but every fabric of my being wanted to ring
out with alacrity, exclaiming my extreme delight in
the fact that there were neither packets of sweet n'
low , nor plastic salt and pepper shakers atop a
red-checkered table cloth in front of me. In no time
at all, I had not only selected hors d'oevres, a main
course, and dessert, but a suitable libation (Hedge
Lane, a 2004 Shiraz from Australia) to wash it all
down. If I wasn't such a proud, world-renowned (I'm a
legend in my own mind...so shoot me!)"foodie", I might
have wallowed in self-pity about being without some
female company on this glorious occasion. As the
signature cut from my favorite Miles Davis classic
album so empatically claims...SO WHAT! This dining
experience would prove to be too exquisite to even
trifle about such mundane matters as companionship and
dinner conversation. Surely, my very satisfied
expressions were not lost on the handful of other
patrons in the vicinity, nor the very attentive wait
staff. (I caught Theo shaking his head at me more than
a few times....)

What's more, the entire experience bordered on the
sublime. Not only was my table decorated to a
precision that would make both Martha Stewart and the
Queer Eye guys proud, but the impressionist art on the
walls (still life's are impressionist, aren't they?)
and the very choice musical selection created just the
right ambience. Something about harpsichord music that
just speaks of refinement and elegance. I think it was
Mozart. Yeah...The Life and Times of W. (dot) Amadeus,
Vol. 1...The remixes. I polished off the first course
as 22 Etudes rang out from the speakers. (Okay,
okay... it didn't ring out...politely played, at a
volume consistent with tunes in an elevator would be a
more accurate description). "Can't Knock the Waltz"
got me through course number two. Without a doubt, the
Source would've given this one a 5-mic rating in its
day (back when 5 mic's used to mean something). As the
Grand Marnier Souffle was dropped in front of me, Ave
Maria sent me into a Tom Hanks moment(Philadelphia,
dawg...the operatic arias?...keep up!), as I
reminisced on a childhood of playing classical music
on the piano in my parent's living room.

As I finished the souffle, I found myself staring at
the painting on the wall in front of me, as if I were
at the Louvre, and Jacques Sauniere himself were
lauding the complexities of the wilted roses and
sunflowers as well as the music box monkey that lurked
in the background of this very busy oil painting.
Clearly, the Shiraz was having its way with me at this
point.

Alas, the fact that you are reading this email proves
that I managed to stagger out of there and eventually
make my way back to my hotel. As I conclude this epic,
with Tom Brown's "Thighs High" playing on AOL's XM
radio (gotta love the internet) I leave you with these
two parting thoughts (questions):

1. Is Verbosity indeed a curable affliction?
and
2. I know I have missed the entire NBA playoffs to
this point, but did the Slippers (er..uh...Clippers)
really win a playoff series?