Tesco Express

30 Dundas St
Edinburgh EH3 6JN
www.tesco.co.uk

by Beau Cadiyo

Dear Josh Mandel,

FOR FUCK SAKE, STOP TRYING TO CONNECT WITH ME ON LINKEDIN. 

It's like nobody remembers how terrible a campaigner you were, how you'd lie about everything, how viciously you attacked your opponents, how you adopted that fake Southern accent, and how you sided with anti-Semitic white supremacists despite the fact that you are, of course, Jewish. 

I don't even live near you anymore, although I once did live in Lyndhurst.  I can't help you.  I wouldn't help you.  In my opinion, you are absolute scum. 

So why you keep trying to connect with me on LinkedIn is a mystery. 

Go fuck yourself. 

Sincerely,
Beau Cadiyo

I got food poisoning from a chicken sandwich at this Tesco.  It was infinitely more pleasurable to projectile vomit for two days than to implicitly endorse Josh Mandel by being connected to him on social media. 

El Café de las 2

Ronda de Sant Pere, 43
08010 Barcelona
Spain
+34 932 65 78 14

by Beau Cadiyo

At this time, in this political climate, I'm going to write something here that I never thought I'd be writing:

I'm really impressed with American politicians.

When American politicians believe in something - or they're paid enough to believe in it - they fight for it.  They argue.  They hustle.  They lobby.  They press.  They count votes and manoeuvre through whatever legislative body they have to work with to get it passed, or squashed, and if the odds are long, they keep on pushing until they either win or lose, and even if they lose, they will vow to stay around and fight another day.  When an American politician wants something done, they stand up, take the gloves off, and start swinging.

However.

In Britain, when a politician really believes in something that's unpopular, they sit down.  They quit.  They sometimes make up some excuse, like they want to spend more time with family, or they have a newfound interest in beekeeping, but when the going gets tough, a British politician will do everything they can to avoid getting going.

Ruth Davidson.
Amber Rudd.
Phillip Lee.
Sarah Wollaston.
Justine Greening.
Jo Johnson.
That's just in the last few weeks, and doesn't take into account, say, the Theresa May debacle. 

I don't understand it, and I haven't met a single British person who can explain to me why bailing out is such a better option than standing up for what you believe in.  I hate the way America is going, but I have profound respect for politicians who fight for what they truly believe in - no matter how stupid and pro-Trump they are.

Sigh.  Again, I never thought I'd get to this point.  But it's a strange time in the world.

A long time ago, someone pointed out to me that the reason we say "Bon Apetit" is that there is no satisfactory equivalent to that phrase in English.  "Eat Well!" or "Good eating!" just doesn't capture the same spirit - or, perhaps, upon attempts, we in the Anglophone world just decided that most of the food in our hemisphere isn't all that good compared to our Latin counterparts, so we went with their phrase because "good appetite" just...well, didn't apply to boiled vegetables and salt beef.

And I wonder if perhaps "goodbye" and its equivalents are similar.  Once, when I was 15, a girl that I was in love with wrote me a letter that had an air of implicit finality about it.  She signed it, "Fare thee well," and, knowing how big a Dylan fan she was, and that I'd sort of bungled some things, I remembered that "Goodbye is too good a word, babe," and I've always said that when a parting was bittersweet and forever.

The Latinate equivalents are similar - "To God."  Adios.  Adieu.  Addio.  I don't know if I will ever see you again.  If it's God's will, I will.  Or not.  Or, perhaps, it means that if one of us dies before we meet again, I commend your soul to heaven.  I imagine I could spend five minutes looking up the origins and interpretations of these words, but I'm finding it more fun to think about the possibilities, to speculate, which is something that we do far too little of in this day of instant informational gratification.

The first time I was in El Cafe de las 2, it was 6:30 a.m. and I hadn't showered in what felt like a week and I was wearing my son in a sling on my front.  Five months old, cute as a fucking button, with a little turned-up nose, blond hair, blue eyes, rosy cheeks, a thousand-watt smile, the whole shebang.  He was wide awake, and I had left the hotel to give my wife an hour or two of solid sleep.  We had wandered through dimly lit streets, deserted and empty, stumbling through church squares, passing drunks in doorways, smelling the early-morning smell of Barcelona on a weekday before the lights start coming on in windows and the cars start plowing down the avenues.  It was the only cafe open, it seemed, and when we walked in, two men were engaged in a heated but very, very quiet conversation at the counter; they both looked up to see if I was someone who needed to be paid attention to, then went back to their conversation, guarding their words.  The woman behind the counter, the owner, greeted me with a smile, and then waved at Daniel on my chest, who smiled back and jigged his arms and legs up and down in excitement, and I wondered if, like Gatsby, he was discovering that people like him when he smiles, because he does it an awful lot, and an awful lot of people are captivated by him.  I'm not being biased, I'm just reporting.  The men, hearing my accent, relax.  A bit.

So I order a croissant amb chocolate and a cortado.  She hands it over the counter and I start eating, savoring the dark chocolate melted on the ends, the flakiness of the crust.  Daniel just looks, I suppose - his face was away from me.  The men keep talking.  Minutes pass.  A man comes in and out - the owner's husband, perhaps - tidying up the newspapers, sweeping the sidewalk.  It's quiet, and peaceful, the kind of peace that you don't usually get in Barcelona, or any big city, with a silent street, tree leaves rustling in the pre-autumn wind, and a world waking up.

I look at the front door,

and something smashes on the floor, glass shards spraying everywhere, and I think that the men who were talking MUST have been gangsters, and there was a hit, a real hit, the kind you read about, and I don't know how to react, because I feel fully confident in being able to fight hand-to-hand against someone, but I don't have a gun or knife or anything to defend myself against assassins trying to kill two guys next to me at a counter.

Looking down, my croissant bits are lying in a pool of glass on the floor.  Daniel is staring down at them, completely relaxed.  I quickly realize that he'd reached over, pulled the plate down, and it had shattered on my feet.  Luckily I wasn't in flip flops.

"Daniel!" I say, hoping that my tone expresses my disapproval to the other patrons and the owner while not scarring his psyche forever, hoping that he doesn't actually understand what has happened.  The woman says something and the man mutters and comes over, reaching into a cabinet for a broom and a dustpan and starts sweeping up.  The men have left money on the counter and are walking out into the night.  I have no idea who they were - gangsters?  Union leaders?  Politicians?  All three? - but the woman doesn't seem too sorry to see them go.  She coos at Daniel when we leave, and refuses to let me pay for the broken plate.

So I go back.  Every morning.

This is the sort of cafe that tourist guides want to find and exploit.  It has an owner who doesn't seem to speak much English, and a female owner at that in a country where most cafes seem to be owned by men.  It is brightly lit, with big windows and wood-panelling, and it is frequented by locals, with three newspapers on the counter for anyone who walks in.  It has strong coffee from a gorgeous machine, and a menu written on chalk boards with seemingly varying prices, and much of the food seems to be made on-site.  The croissants are amazing - I had several - and the bocadillos de tortilla de patata are among the best I've ever had.  People say Bom Dia when they walk in.

Perhaps this review will help it get on the tourist track; perhaps the Lonely Planet will start recommending it.  I have mixed feelings about that; in my mind, she clearly deserves business, not just for kindness to a fatigued American with an infant who likes to grab things and throw them on the floor, but for a superior product.

When I left on the last morning, two bocadillos and a croissant in my hands, I said "adéu" to the woman.  She said it back, and gracias, and as I turned to the sidewalk I wondered if it really was goodbye - if I'd never see her again.  I hope that's not the case; I hope her business thrives despite being in a competitive environment, and that, simultaneously, when I go back at 6:30 in the morning the next time I'm in Barcelona, she remembers me, and Daniel, and smiles and waves at him no matter how big he is.

But if I never see her again, I hope she succeeds, with God's help.

I hope Boris Johnson and the conservative party fail miserably, though, in their attempts to get out of the European Union.

365 Forn De Pa

Carrer de Padilla, 218, 234

08013 Barcelona, Spain

by Beau Cadiyo

This is the Cleveland Sandwich Board Guide to Choosing Political Leaders.  

First, read the following.  Better yet, listen to it in its entirety.  No, right now you don't know what it is; you'll figure it out shortly. 

On behalf of Mrs. Robert Kennedy, her children and the parents and sisters of Robert Kennedy, I want to express what we feel to those who mourn with us today in this Cathedral and around the world. We loved him as a brother and father and son. From his parents, and from his older brothers and sisters - Joe, Kathleen and Jack - he received inspiration which he passed on to all of us. He gave us strength in time of trouble, wisdom in time of uncertainty, and sharing in time of happiness. He was always by our side. 

Love is not an easy feeling to put into words. Nor is loyalty, or trust or joy. But he was all of these. He loved life completely and lived it intensely. 

A few years back, Robert Kennedy wrote some words about his own father and they expressed the way we in his family feel about him. He said of what his father meant to him: "What it really all adds up to is love - not love as it is described with such facility in popular magazines, but the kind of love that is affection and respect, order, encouragement, and support. Our awareness of this was an incalculable source of strength, and because real love is something unselfish and involves sacrifice and giving, we could not help but profit from it. 

"Beneath it all, he has tried to engender a social conscience. There were wrongs which needed attention. There were people who were poor and who needed help. And we have a responsibility to them and to this country. Through no virtues and accomplishments of our own, we have been fortunate enough to be born in the United States under the most comfortable conditions. We, therefore, have a responsibility to others who are less well off." 

This is what Robert Kennedy was given. What he leaves us is what he said, what he did and what he stood for. A speech he made to the young people of South Africa on their Day of Affirmation in 1966 sums it up the best, and I would read it now:  

"There is a discrimination in this world and slavery and slaughter and starvation. Governments repress their people; and millions are trapped in poverty while the nation grows rich; and wealth is lavished on armaments everywhere.
"These are differing evils, but they are common works of man. They reflect the imperfection of human justice, the inadequacy of human compassion, our lack of sensibility toward the sufferings of our fellows.
"But we can perhaps remember - even if only for a tirne - that those who live with us are our brothers; that they share with us the same short moment of life; that they seek - as we do - nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can.
"Surely this bond of common faith, this bond of common goal, can begin to teach us something. Surely, we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men. And surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our own hearts brothers and countrymen once again.
"Our answer is to rely on youth - not a time of life but a state of mind, a temper of the will, a quality of imagination, a predominance of courage over timidity, of the appetite for adventure over the love of ease. The cruelties and obstacles of this swiftly changing planet will not yield to obsolete dogmas and outworn slogans. They cannot be moved by those who cling to a present that is already dying, who prefer the illusion of security to the excitement and danger that come with even the most peaceful progress. It is a revolutionary world we live in; and this generation at home and around the world, has had thrust upon it a greater burden of responsibility than any generation that has ever lived.
"Some believe there is nothing one man or one woman can do against the enormous array of the world's ills. Yet many of the world's great movements, of thought and action, have flowed from the work of a single man. A young monk began the Protestant reformation, a young general extended an empire from Macedonia to the borders of the earth, and a young woman reclaimed the territory of France. It was a young Italian explorer who discovered the New World, and the thirty-two-year-old Thomas Jefferson who proclaimed that all men are created equal.
"These men moved the world, and so can we all. Few will have the greatness to bend history itself, but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total of all those acts will be written the history of this generation. It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.
"Few are willing to brave the disapproval of their fellows, the censure of their colleagues, the wrath of their society. Moral courage is a rarer commodity than bravery in battle or great intelligence. Yet it is the one essential, vital quality for those who seek to change a world that yields most painfully to change. And I believe that in this generation those with the courage to enter the moral conflict will find themselves with companions in every corner of the globe.
"For the fortunate among us, there is the temptation to follow the easy and familiar paths of personal ambition and financial success so grandly spread before those who enjoy the privilege of education. But that is not the road history has marked out for us. Like it or not, we live in times of danger and uncertainty. But they are also more open to the creative energy of men than any other time in history. All of us will ultimately be judged and as the years pass we will surely judge ourselves, on the effort we have contributed to building a new world society and the extent to which our ideals and goals have shaped that effort.
"The future does not belong to those who are content with today, apathetic toward common problems and their fellow man alike, timid and fearful in the face of new ideas and bold projects. Rather it will belong to those who can blend vision, reason and courage in a personal commitment to the ideals and great enterprises of American Society.
"Our future may lie beyond our vision, but it is not completely beyond our control. It is the shaping impulse of America that neither fate nor nature nor the irresistible tides of history, but the work of our own hands, matched to reason and principle, that will determine our destiny. There is pride in that, even arrogance, but there is also experience and truth. In any event, it is the only way we can live." 

This is the way he lived. My brother need not be idealized, or enlarged in death beyond what he was in life, to be remembered simply as a good and decent man, who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to stop it. 

Those of us who loved him and who take him to his rest today, pray that what he was to us and what he wished for others will some day come to pass for all the world. 

As he said many times, in many parts of this nation, to those he touched and who sought to touch him: 

"Some men see things as they are and say why.
I dream things that never were and say why not."

Second, review the list of political candidates available to you. 

Third, vote for the one who most closely adheres to the description above. 

Really good toasted jamon and cheese sandwich.  They somehow transformed the bread into a delicate, crispy cloud, and the ingredients were simple and perfect; the olive oil was a brilliant touch.  These were also the best toilets I have seen in Barcelona - clean, well-designed, and with a good baby changing area. 

It's good to be back.  I've missed you, and I've missed sandwiches.  I already have a few drafts in the mix, and I promise to be better at staying in touch.  I got married, and then moved to England, and then traveled around the world, then moved to Scotland, of all places, and now I have a baby - a bouncing, beautiful non-gendered individual who brings me all sorts of joy and smiles every day, but who also interferes with writing extensively.  But having a baby makes you think of all sorts of things.  Actually, that'll be another draft.  More soon, my friends, more soon. 

Tinker's Creek Road Tavern

14000 Tinkers Creek Rd.

Walton Hills, OH 44146

216-642-3900

tinkerstavern.com

by Ray Zinn

The last time I saw my good friend Beau, we had just finished a bottle of Black Velvet and no fewer than a half-dozen sundaes at East Coast Custard. It was around 3 a.m., the Witching Hour, and we were walking through the elm-lined streets of a quiet Northeast Ohio suburb when he asked me a question that, until this day, I'd failed to answer. I decided that a sandwich review was as fine a delivery system as any in this communications-addled world. 

When I wake up each morning, I stumble, bleary-eyed, into my office on the south side of the old brick bakery where I live in Cleveland. There, in the corner, I sit Zazen for 20 or 30 minutes. I hear my neighbors walking on the street below, and I hear dogs bark at the rising sun. I empty my mind. The whole point of sitting is to sit. There's nothing else to it!

Then, of course, I go about my day. Coffee in the French press, toothpaste on the toothbrush, the whole thing. I struggle to remain in the present moment (who doesn't?), but I take the mindset that I harvested on my zafu that morning and bring my mind back to the now. I commandeer my presence, best I can. When my thoughts wander, I picture a river; I watch the water (my thoughts) flow past me and I revel in the continuous, self-repeating nature of the moment. 

This is the sort of thing that has improved my outlook on life immeasurably. That's important in a city like Cleveland, where nincompoop leaders and rah-rah civil society will do everything possible to wear down the slightest inclination toward rational thought. The point is: We aren't separate from nature, from the universe, from the undulations of Cleveland. We are a subjective manifestation of the universe, experiencing itself anew with each passing stitch in eternity. (I tried explaining this during public comment at a Finance Committee meeting earlier this year, and I was promptly and forcibly removed from 601 Lakeside. The tapes of the meeting have been destroyed, according to the mayor's lackeys. And those in attendance were made to sign extensive NDAs before being granted egress to the Willard Park Garage. 

I meditated on the gentle crest of Mall B until dawn that night.)

There are problems in Cleveland, and, certainly, there are problems in the United States. Something foul is rippling through society, and I fear that it has more to do with how we communicate than any authoritarian political machinations. (Though beware the demagogue's calls to dismantle our public institutions!) My concern is that technological conveniences rather inconvenience our ability to think and speak clearly, to share ideas in a coherent manner, to empathize and to grow. We give our own minds short shrift with our digital yammering, and we end up rallying mindlessly around mere symbols. Endless points of reference. Memetic yearnings. 

The real revolution is in our head. We won't achieve much of anything out there until we can conquer the short-circuiting circus of the mind. Watch your breath flow in and out. Let the madness of this world drift down the river. Avoid all calls for party unity, avoid appeals to base instinct and tribalism, avoid God. 

What was the question that Beau asked me? 

Oh, I've quite forgotten at this point. We were far too busy embracing the moment—engaging the very zeal of life—for me to retrace our steps now. We had a grand old time, and that's the important thing. We're onto the next present moment, always.

The reuben at Tinker's Creek Tavern is fine, and the Swiss cheese is melted just so. It's a nearly perfect rendition of the classic sandwich, and maybe that's just it: I was looking for something more? Then, as I came to the last bite of 1,000 Island-slathered marble rye, bursting with a final morsel of corned beef, I realized that the sandwich had all but come and gone -- before I had a moment to enjoy it!

Immediately after lunch, I said good-bye to my colleagues; they traveled back to the office, and I wandered down to Tinkers Creek, which flows serenely along the restaurant's gorgeous patio. I found a long slab of shale, baking silently in the sun. Folding my knees in full lotus, I sat Zazen on the stone and brought myself back to the place I'd left my mind.

Belted Burgers

57A Frederick St 

Edinburgh EH2 1LH

https://www.beltedburgers.co.uk/

by Beau Cadiyo

Perhaps once a month, I'll be in a thrift store in the UK, and there will be an elderly volunteer who is there to help the shop and also to be social and chat.  I always like talking to them because they're outgoing and don't possess the standard British reserve of not speaking to strangers; they're usually the opposite and, in Scotland, where people are friendlier generally, they can be downright friendly.  Usually the conversation begins with a throwaway comment from me, then progresses to me saying that I'm from America, and, before I leave, I get the standard, "Let me ask you something."  

I always know what's coming next.  

"I speak to a lot of Americans," they will say, "and I've never met one who likes Trump."  

It goes without saying that nobody here likes Trump, regardless of his self-delusion to the contrary.  I've heard Tories call him an "abomination" and a "disgrace," and more liberal people often just shudder rather than put their feelings into words.  More than anything, there's an assumption that I also hate him, and there's a deep sense of pity - shared pity, because while I'm an American and he's the president of America, he's a problem for the world to deal with, so we have to face it from a common front.  

There's the standard response: the people who do support Trump generally never leave the country, and probably don't even leave their own state.  They might not know much about Europe other than that it has been the site of a few wars over the years; they may not know where the UK is.  They probably don't have passports.  Thus, the reason no Brits would have ever met a Trump-supporting American is because Trump-supporting Americans generally live in a small, insulated bubble, secure in their idiocy and protected from anyone different than they are.  

Then I generally hear my interlocutor say, "I love America.  It's just a mystery to me..."  I have to respond: I do, too, and most of America also considers it a mystery.  

Trump is supposed to visit this weekend to play golf, although it's also supposed to be very rainy.  There will be protests, which I'll probably join, despite the warnings for Americans not to go into places where violence may be directed at them.  Seriously?  I suspect this is meant more to indicate to Trump supporters that the world is a dangerous place; anyone who has spent any time over here knows that there won't be violence directed at Americans unless Americans are being idiots first.  Anyone here knows that Americans are victims, too, and we're not going to turn on each other.  

Sigh.  I just wanted to get thoughts out, get back in the groove of writing.  

The burgers at Belted are good, but not great.  There are better ones in the city.  

Holyrood Palace

Canongate
Edinburgh EH8 8DX

by Beau Cadiyo

Every year the Queen hosts a series of garden parties - three at Buckingham Palace in London, one at Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh.  As you may have guessed, they are held in the gardens, it's invitation only, and everyone gets all dressed up.  It's a chance to see the royal family, if you're into that sort of thing, drink really amazing tea - like, perhaps the best I've had outside of Sri Lanka - and eat absolutely delicious cakes and cookies.  
We got an invitation this year, which was pretty exciting, considering we've been here eleven months, and it's the only one that the Queen does outside of London.  So we got dressed up, and went, and at one point when the queen was a few yards away, I turned to Frank and said, "Next time we get an invitation, we'll know what to do to get as close to her as possible."
Frank said, "There won't be a next time."
She was right.  It turns out that you get one invitation, and one invitation only.  Ever.  They keep lists and everything.  No re-dos.
I was going to keep any observations I had to myself.  I didn't want to give tips to anyone else, just in case if we went in some future year and everyone read this post they might know what our competitive strategy would be and then we'd be fighting to get a chance to be on the front lines.  But seeing as I won't ever get to go to another garden party, it doesn't matter; everyone may as well know exactly how to plan their day.  If you can finagle an invitation, that is.  Without further ado, here's my advice on how to get the most out of a Holyrood Palace Garden Party with Queen Elizabeth II.

1. Get an invitation. Marry well.  I mean, I don't know what else to say.  I certainly wouldn't have gotten an invitation on my own merits.  So first, get a good spouse.  That's my first advice in anything, really.  
2. Get there early.  The invitation tells you when the gates open; you should be there waiting, with your two forms of ID and your invitation in hand.  If you come late, you have absolutely no hope of getting close to any majesty whatsoever.  
3. Dress fancy.  The invitation says morning coat or lounge suit for men, dress and hat for women; most guys ended up just wearing standard suits, and women were in summer dresses with hats or fascinators (although a few gauche damsels opted to go noticeably headpieceless).  I work for a tuxedo rental company, and my workmate David hooked me up with tails, a tophat, and as fancy a suit as I could ever imagine wearing.  I mean, I looked GOOD.  There were a few other men dressed up like me, but we were definitely the standouts, and we matched the men who walked around behind the queen, so we ended up blending in with the best-dressed, most prominent men at the whole event.  I try to remember that it is always good to set yourself a bit apart in your appearance, and that still holds true when you're in the presence of Royalty.
4. Lanes.  Now that you look better than everyone, it's time to pay attention to location; lanes are perhaps the most important thing to understand.  Here's the deal: the Queen comes out of the palace, walks down some steps, and the Archers - not the radio show stars, but her bodyguards, all carrying bows - create "lanes" of people.  There are two lanes - one for the Queen, called the Queen's Lane, and one for whoever is accompanying her that day (Prince Phillip isn't doing official events anymore).  The lanes aren't fenced or anything; they are just organized by the Archers for the royals to walk down, greeting people and being seen.  When you arrive early, you'll be able to ask the Archers where the lanes are; then, you can place yourself at the edge of one.  And wait.  You'll wait for an hour or more, just standing there, as people mill about, or go off and explore the tea and biscuit tents, or try to meet someone who might be a suitable mate.  They will all wonder why you're just standing there, waiting, like something is going to happen.  You'll look terminally uncool.  Then, suddenly, everyone will GET IT and they will start crowding in behind you, and you'll have the last laugh, sort of like when all the cool kids in high school laugh at all the "losers," then at your twenty year reunion you can't make it because you're hanging out in Europe with entrepreneurs and rock stars and royalty.  Not you, I mean; "one."  Anyway.  If you're me, and you've been standing in place for an hour and suddenly everyone realizes that you were smart to place yourself on the line of the lane, two older women will stand behind you, passive-aggressively bumping you with their elbows and purses because they didn't get there as early as you, talking about how tall everyone is around them, saying how they want to get photos with the Queen.  They didn't get there early enough.  Their problems are not your problems.  If they assault you, it is not your fault, and you're allowed to get a bit of elbow room.  When they shriek into your ear like teenagers at a Justin Bieber concert because they can see the top of the Queen's pink hat, and they try to pull your shoulder down so that their iPhone video is at a better angle, ignore them and realize that suddenly you're as close as you can possibly be to the Queen without shaking her hand.
5. Be First.  If you're smart, you'll also put yourself toward the beginning of the Queen's Lane.  What happens is that she walks down the lane, slowly, meeting people - or, rather, having people presented to her.  All those people are pre-selected by the Palace for some reason or other; it's out of your control.  Place yourself between two of the Archers.  She will come by, people will be presented to her, and she'll chat; after a while, she will give a secret signal and an Archer will come get her and she'll move on.  When this happens...well, you can't really just follow her around, because there's a line of other people waiting along the lane, and you've already gotten as close to her as you could.  Now, you have time to explore.  We decided to go to the fully-stocked tea and biscuit tents; they were almost empty of people, all of whom were still trying to see the Queen in person, and I must have had thirty or forty little cookies, cakes, tarts, and amazing macarons, with special Garden Party tea.  After she'd made her way through the lanes and went into the special Royal Tea Tent, everyone rushed for refreshments, and then the tents were full and they ran out of macarons and, well, it wasn't as easy to get a really really good sugar high.  Don't be like them: be early in line, get out early, stuff yourself on the Queen's food.  
6. Walk around.  Enjoy the surroundings.  Think.  There's something glorious about the whole thing; the pomp and ceremony and pageantry, the rules, and how much this tiny woman means to everyone.  At the same time, as an outsider, it is a bit bizarre.  I was standing next to a navigator on a nuclear submarine who had just gotten back to port; he'd been playing war games around the arctic, and his skill had won whatever competition they were having.  He was really, really cool, and really impressive, and I wondered why he wasn't the one being celebrated by all these people, but we were all waiting around for someone who had just been in the right womb at the right time.  It was like a mass psychosis; the only reason she was important was that everyone was waiting around to see her, literally waiting on her, and the only reason they were waiting on her was that she was important.  And I was part of that.  And as much as I hated to admit it, it was cool to see her.  The Queen.  And I broke my one-year-of-no-photographs rule to get a photo with her in the background.  
7. Think of what you'll say if you meet her.  They tell you not to introduce topics of conversation, and yeah, I get that.  But I kind of wanted to follow Mike Birbiglia's lead and say something like, "Your majesty, my wife is pregnant, and if we have a baby, we're going to name it after you no matter what.  We're going to name it...Queen."  Oh man, the archers would have tackled me, but it would have been worth it.  

But would it have been worth it?  I mean, it goes back to the whole way that the event was structured.  I have been challenged, philosophically, recently; I no longer believe in things like fairness, for example.  Fairness is whatever the rules define as fair; whenever someone is engaged in some competitive pursuit and complains that something is "unfair", it simply means that they are losing, their opponent is playing within the rules, and they want some sort of change to the rules in order to make something fair.  Similarly, when someone says they have a "right" to something, it means that they actually don't have any "right" to it recognized by the law; they want more than they have, but don't actually have the ability to gain it.  

Here, I was struck by the fact that the Queen is famous, powerful, and wealthy purely by chance, which made me want to read Fooled by Randomness.  If, en masse, people had pulled their recognition of her - either by ignoring her iconic image, voting the monarchy out of the governmental structure, or overthrowing the economic system - then she would have lost everything.  We are only famous, powerful, or wealthy if others recognize us as so; if we were islands, we would be nothing.  So, then, the esteem of others - is that all that matters?  Is that completely random?  What can be done to increase it?  And isn't that a terrible foundation on which to build a life, the esteem of others?  Point me to something real, something you can eat, or throw, or hold; show me something of more substance than other peoples' opinions!  But what else do we have?  What else is there that we can look to in the world that isn't based on these opinions - ownership, for example?  Ownership is simply the recognition of others that we have rights; without that recognition, without their opinions, we have nothing - no ownership, no rights.  It's the system, the commonly agreed-upon system, that is everything.  

The tea was a special Twinings blend, and it was incredible.  But the sandwiches fell down a bit for me.  Sure, they were crust-less and cut into odd inch-wide fingers, which indicates some amount of extra, unnecessary work; sure, they had interesting flavors, like mint and cucumber.  But they were on standard corner-store bread - not anything more interesting, like sourdough - and...well, egg salad?  Really?  Cucumbers?  I know British food didn't have the best reputation fifty years ago, but now, we could have advanced.  It's the Queen's Garden Party, for crying out loud, not some low-level Duke's Garden Party.  I expected more.  

But perhaps that is royalty.  Impressive by reputation, but when you get up close, 

Red Bean

ng Buồm Hoàn Kiếm Hà Vietnam, 94 Mã Mây, Hàng Buồm, Hoàn Kiếm, Hanoi
http://www.redbeanrestaurant.com/menu.htm

By Beau Cadiyo

Back in 2000, I joined a cult.

It was a cult in the sense that later on, it was designated a cult by the US Attorney General or something; the founder was prosecuted for stealing money from the church he'd created.  They called themselves Christian, and the main idea was that all other Christian churches had strayed from the original meaning of the Bible.  In a very A. J. Jacobs way, they believed that everything in the Bible was meant to be taken literally, and they would strive do render unto the Government what was the Government's, and render unto God what was God's.  They couldn't own slaves, for example, without breaking the law, so they had to (temporarily) ignore those parts of the bible regulating slave treatment.  However, they could go out daily to try to convert people; they could grow their hair long, and not touch women who were on their periods, and avoid pork and wine.

The reason I joined was simple: I'd never really learned a lot about the Bible, and I figured the best teachers would be a bunch of people who believed in it completely.  Also, I was friends with one of their stars in the church, Frank Evans.  He was a New Zealand boy who joined the church after coming to university; his mother rejected the church, so he'd decided to have nothing to do with her or the rest of his family, such was his faith.  He was an otherwise nice guy.

I don't know what precipitated it, but I once asked him what New Zealand food was like.  "Oh," he said, "it's known all over the world!  New Zealand is experiencing a bit of a moment for its food."  At the same time, he explained, he didn't understand it, because the food was just about being "more" than everything else.  "They take a burger, right, and they add a bunch of stuff that isn't normally on a burger, like spaghetti, and pesto, and an egg, and Brie, and some spinach, and hot sauce, and they serve it to you, and it is supposed to be like some grand dish, but it's just a burger with a bunch of shit on it, mate," he said.  "If I want a burger, just give me a fucking burger!"  I don't know what the bible said about cursing.

I was reminded of him and that conversation upon eating at Red Bean.  I got the Red Bean Sandwich, with chicken breast, ham, lettuce, a tomato, mayonnaise, and cheese.  It sounded like a pretty straightforward sandwich.  When they brought it out, though, it was a monster: triple decker, with everything split in the middle by an extra piece of plain white bread.  The filling, meanwhile, was exactly what you might expect from that description; however, it was somehow all, together, bland, in a way that I wouldn't have expected from a Vietnamese sandwich.  I mean, a bahn mi is just incredible: the delicate interplay of so many different flavours and sensations, all in delicious bread.  Why couldn't this have been similarly intricate and balanced?  Why did it end up just being a whitebread sandwich?

The service was absolutely impeccable, though, and it didn't exactly break the bank.  My banana flower salad, and the chocolate mousse dessert, were both delicious, and they had Tiger beer and Johnnie Walker Red, so I was a happy camper in the end.  But if you're looking for a delicious sandwich in Hanoi, find a hut in the road with a charcoal fire, and pay the $2.50, and be happy.