Whether Herodotus is the father of history, or the father of lies, is completely irrelevant. I remain deeply attached to the image of the Egyptian Plover bird--its black crown, white head, and gaudy orange belly--hopping around and performing simple dentistry in the open mouth of a crocodile. It's a sweet picture: a deadly croc half way up the shore, it's great mouth open, in desperate need of a good flossing, and a little bird being welcomed in to pick off the decaying bits of meat. Because it's not a trick, the crocodile is not waiting for the right moment to snap the bird shut in its jaws. It's symbiosis. It's mutualism--the croc gets his teeth cleaned, his body combed for insects and parasites, and the bird gets a snack as well as protection from other predators. Everyone is happy.
I remember asking my cousin about this--the Asia-Pacific migratory water bird conservationist and educator--referring him of course, to a clear illustration by Quentin Blake, only to be given a confusing answer which I didn't really understand. Which brings me back to believing, wholeheartedly, in adorable situations in which smaller animals help out larger animals and trick evolution into gambling on them together, despite their weaknesses.
The sausage shop that my friend Greg took me to ther other day, is a cash only establishment, and not for those who like to take their time. The lady offers her customers only one thing, and expects them in and out in no more time than necessary. Half of those intent on getting their sausage sandwiches the night I went, I gathered from their very friendly reception, were frequent visitors.
"Chop chop," the sausage queen said, glancing behind me at the gathering of men, knowing the dangers of coming between a hungry man and his sausage sandwich, "I have a lot of customers tonight." I looked up at the condiments completely befuddled--sauerkraut, grilled onions, peppers, or spicy beef chilli--"em, onions!" I shouted, "and ketchup and mustard, please."
She smiled warmly and put together my simple, tasty, smoked lamb sausage: a French bun, fried onions with a squirt of mustard and ketchup. And I sat at the tiny bar, in front of an old sausage illustration, between two happy men and their sandwiches. My only complaint was that the onions were a little bland and could have done with some salt, pepper, maybe a little more cooking.
But this is not about my sandwich. This is about the advantageous alliance on Haight Street, where the Catholic marriage of sausages to beer is honoured. The pairing is indisputable, international, and eternal, in sandwich and in mash, in pie and on a stick. It is not to messed with. But unfortunately, at Rosamunde's Sausage Grill, where you can build your own sausage sandwich with fifteen sexy sausages and several condiments for four dollars well spent, they sell no drink stronger than fizzy Jamaican ginger ale.
And what should be next door but Toronado--a pleasantly grotty bar with an international menu of reasonably priced ales and lagers. But wait--it gets better. They are not just friendly neighbours, these establishments; patrons of Toronado are not just notified in passing of a little German sausage joint next door. No, they are prompted, persuaded, encouraged to go next door and bring back a Wild Boar or a Nuernberger Bratwurst to wash down with a Belgian beauty. And this is doubly convenient for Rosamunde's, where there are only six stools and a standing space the size of my first studio apartment's closet. It's symbiosis. It's mutualism, and everyone is happy.
545 Haight Street (the opposite side from Amoeba)
415 437 6851
cash only
Ohhh, that sounds just fantastic. I can't wait until you are in New York and I can take you wonderful places! We will eat poutine together.
I can't wait! It's not long now...
How did you come up with that analogy? It's brilliant. And very well-written. And also brilliant.
I mean, in my professional opinion...
oh professor, you make me blush. And I'm so happy you're visiting!
As for the analogy, I don't know, too much animal planet plus too much snacking (a.k.a. writing) equals extraordinarily nonsensical patterns of thinking. But I'm glad you're on my page. So to speak. Because I wasn't sure it would work at all...