Jamon

Jamon

Felix Torres was the third baseman for the Los Angeles Angeles in 1964. It was a time that hispanic ballplayers were in the minority having yet to make the big breakthrough to the major leagues, aka, The Show. In order for him to make it into the starting lineup for the Halo's that season he had to do several things well. And a few very well. He had four of the five tools, universally known in the circuit as the ability to 1) Hit, 2) Hit with power, 3) Field, 4) Throw, and 5) Run. Felix could not run. Nor could he speak English. The former was accepted and forgiven, as was the latter, to a degree.

He remembered this story as he sat at the sidewalk cafe in Nice and perused the menu. Sure, he started with a half carafe of vin rouge and a basket of pain rustica, that was easy. But what about the main course? Moreover, how did he get some balance with his vegetarian preferences? Did that mean another salad, or the french version of pasta primevera, again? Maybe he should have gone back to his pals at the pizza cafe or gone to see his buddy from Tunis and had another fornage baguette and a bottle of beer. But the waiter was surprisingly decent with his anglais and together they worked through the menu, carefully and relatively painlessly, for to him, being a stupid American was painful.

The starter course was fresh asparagus, with sliced tomatoes in a tangy white sauce. The spears were steamed and then covered with sauteed garlic and tiny balls of sea salt. Two lemon spirals added color and zest. The evening was warm as was the bread. He was informed that the house wine was a four varietal blend of Provence. He could only recognize one, and after the second glass gave up trying to guess. The waiter, being it a slow night, came over on two occasions to converse, the first topic that of traffic, gas, global economics and the driving habits of the french. The second was money, the Italians, the Russians, the changing city center of Nice and,of course, footbol. Together they managed to make it an interesting conversation with the waiter's broken English and his bent French. It helped considerably that when they reached a verbal stalemate, he could play an Italian pawn into play and get to the next move. This pleased him immensely and reminded him of the movie he had seen the night before, The Orphans of Huang Shi, in which the main characters are English, but the setting is 1930's China and subtitled in French. You had to pay attention.

The main course arrived and he was pleasantly surprised by the delicate preparation and presentation of the risotto avec artichoke. Tomato base, topped with generous portions of parmigiano. More bread, more wive, more conversation. It was a wonderful Wednesday evening in Nice. He was happy that he chose the L'Albatros as the spot to dine. Finishing off with two scoops of vanilla (french) ice cream and an espresso, he left a thankful tip and walked off into the night.

At the roundabout waiting for an opening, he suddenly laughed aloud remembering that Felix Torres, a professional ballplayer only forty-four years ago went an entire season (156 games) eating nothing but ham and eggs because that was all he could say in English.

Race day is still four days away.