The food doth protest too much, me thinks

What would Dada serve for lunch? You’ve probably never asked yourself that question, but I did when I attended the Dada exhibit at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D. C., recently. I was there on business, but because I had the good sense to fly in early, I had an afternoon to absorb some culture.

Actually, I was long overdue for cultural exposure, because I had always pictured Dada as a man who looked like Salvador Dali, but only used one name like Prince. I was embarrassed to learn Dada was actually an anti-establishment art movement by 20 or so artists and writers protesting the brutality and absurdity of World War I.

Their art—or anti-art—was crude, raw and exciting. Collages using ordinary objects was one expression, another was putting a urinal on a stand and calling it a fountain. Poetry was written by cutting words out of the newspaper, flinging them in the air and then recording the words in the exact order the pieces of paper were picked up. (Sometimes when I reread things I write on deadline, they appear a little dada-ish.)

After I walked through the exhibit, I noticed a banner for the Dada Café. And, that’s when I asked myself, “What would Dada serve for lunch?”

I gave my name to the surly hostess who promised the wait was under 10 minutes. Forty minutes later I was shown to a low coffee table with two leather lounge chairs and two ottomans. If I been there with my family, we would have all fought for the two chairs with backs.

While I had accepted the wait time unconditionally, a pushy woman didn’t. When the hostess left her post, the woman grabbed the clipboard, counted the names and then counted the empty seats in the dining room. She announced loudly that there was room in there for everyone waiting. “What’s wrong with these people?” she said, gesturing wildly. How fitting to have an anarchist at the Dada Café. Here was life imitating art. Dada had attitude, would-be diner had attitude. I half expected her to rip up the menu and reconstruct it as protest art.

The lunch menu played off the nationality of the artists. The Charcuterie, a meat platter, had samples of saucisson sec, prosciutto, Bundnerfleisch, slaw and red-wine pickles (not to be confused with red wine and pickles, the waiter pointed out, because apparently guests before me were “disappointed” when they didn’t get the expected glass of red wine). Other entrées included a Trio of Smoked Seafood with fingerling potato salad; an Artisanal Cheese Plate with quince paste and a prosciutto panini with truffle butter. The theme was to include something from the artists’ home towns, Zurich, Berlin, Hannover, Cologne, Paris and New York (I think the woman I mentioned earlier was from New York, so perhaps she was a prop, after all).

One of the desserts, a chocolate pear tart was a nod to the classic French dessert of a sugared pear with chocolate icing, featured in one of the museum’s brochures.

Dada will be replaced with a new show when I return to Washington, D.C., this month. I plan to clear my calendar so I can experience the national gallery’s next pairing of food and art.


Fear of flying—coach

I owe my husband an apology. When he had automatic first-class upgrades, I openly resented the fact that he left me behind in coach when we traveled together. I thought it was for the free beer. Now that I’m occasionally afforded first-class privileges on domestic flights due to an active travel schedule, I know I would not only leave him to fend for himself in coach, but also a 3-month-old baby, if I had one.

It’s not just the comfort factor. It’s the entire experience. You’re sharing a restroom with the pilots; you’re not having to root through your purse in a space designed for people without arms to find correct change (which is always appreciated) for a drink or box of snacks that aren’t good for you.

In first class, the flight attendants smile at you. They actually act like they’re glad you’re on board—maybe it’s just because the good actors work the front of the plane. Who cares? Everyone’s happy in first class.

The biggest perk, however, is that in first class, you can work. You can set up your laptop, spread out your notes and write—and still have a drink at your side. In coach, you’re forced to read novels or fashion magazines. If you have an aisle seat, you’re constantly whacked by passersby. If you’re in a window seat, you’re doomed to sit there for the entire flight needing to go to the restroom, but knowing you can never ask two strangers to let you out.

However, even worse are the “B” seats. Everyone secretly hates the person who sits in the middle seat. From our window or aisle seat, we resentfully watch each person approach our row, silently praying, “Please God, don’t let him sit next to me.” A lot of prayers are wasted on airlines.

I’m writing this from my seat, 4A. While coach is being asked to pay for the privilege to eat, I’ve already had a drink, plus a bag of mixed nuts, and cherry chicken pasta is about to replace my laptop on the tray. When asked if I’d like another glass of wine, I reply, “No, just water, please,” and I’m handed wine and water! If I was in coach, her mistake would cost me $4, but here I just smile and accept the wine. I wouldn’t want to spoil her good mood.

Life doesn’t get much better than this. The only thing that could improve my current situation is if my husband was sitting in the B seat in coach with a 3-month-old on his lap.


The war at work

In my role as managing editor of Franchise Times, sister pub to FSN, I spent $136 to board my dogs so I could fly to Denver to play with other people’s dogs. I had decided it would be great fun to pretend to be a doggy day care provider. Business writers don’t often get to do “gonzo” journalism, so we embrace the role in whatever form it takes. The experience reminded me of my first gonzo role—war correspondent for a local newspaper in San Diego. It was during the first Gulf War and my assignment was to find a meaningful way to link the war to the local residents in the area we covered—every day. As you can imagine, after a couple of weeks my coverage bordered on lame: There are only so many ways to report on grade-school fund raisers for the families of service personnel and patriotic T-shirts silk-screened in someone’s garage.

My big break came when the first ship to return from the Gulf was to dock in San Diego. The media was invited to fly out to join the ship and ride back with the soldiers for the last few miles.

Photographer John Alvarez and I donned our flight gear and took turns with the other media snapping pictures of ourselves in the noisy military helicopter. After we touched down on the flight deck, we toured the ship, and then set off in search of soldiers who lived in our circulation area. We talked to a handful of men about their experiences in the desert, how excited they were to come home and how much they missed their families and their country.

When we pulled into the harbor, hundreds of men, women and children were cheering, armed with banners and balloons and waving American flags. One of the first soldiers to reach land kneeled down and kissed American soil. I was openly sobbing, and even big, tough John Alvarez had a hard time focusing his camera lens as he wiped away tears.

After being part of such a moving experience, I raced home to my family.

“Kids,” I yelled. “I’m home. Mommy’s home.”

Three pairs of eyes tore themselves away from the TV set.

“Zack put the remote in his pants again so we couldn’t change the channel and had to watch his dumb shows all day,” Sarah reported.

“Zack hit me and called me a name,” Becca volunteered.

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“What’s for dinner? There’s never anything to eat around here,” Zack complained.

I backed out of the family room and went to look for their father. The next time I return from war, I vowed, I’m going to insist they meet me at the ship.

Or better yet, I’ll have the dog wait for me in the car.