Theory: Good Is Good
Not far down the road from us — on a tiny back road, nestled in a copse of trees — is a little Italian restaurant. La Campagna. To be clear, our area is home to approximately 1.2 billion Italian restaurants, and most of them are of the “pizza and cheesesteaks” variety. Nothing wrong with that, but this place? This place is different.
We lived here for almost two years before even realizing they were open. They’re closed most hours, only opening for dinner on a handful of days.
It’s low-lit. BYO. Warm tones. Candles. Maybe… ten tables total.
Thing about this place is, it’s a family establishment. The chef is a CIA graduate (culinary institute, not the spy agency) and he takes his grandmother’s recipes and gives them an added something-something. The aunt makes the cakes. His mother is the main hostess, and his sisters are waitresses. I’m fairly confident that everybody that works there belongs to the family.
Er, not The Family. At least, I don’t think. I don’t see dudes in black suits speaking in Jersey Italian hiding pistol-shaped objects beneath napkins.
Ooh, unless it is. Unless it’s a front joint for the CIA and the Mafia. Maybe the chef isn’t from the culinary institute. Mayhaps this is the center of a conspiracy!
Holy crap, these people killed Kennedy.
Wait, where was I?
Right. The restaurant. So, we go, we dine, we love it. Calamari, veal saltimbocca, this broccoli rabe soup concoction, beef tips, a honey-ricotta cheesecake — a whole blow-out dinner. In face, we more than love it. It feels warm. It’s comforting. It’s complex and interesting and conjures up feelings of home and love and context.
Rewinding a bit, let’s talk about the calamari. No, not the Mon Calamari (it’s a trap!), but the squid dish. Light. Soft. An airy batter. A squeeze of lemon. My mouth is doing a slam-dance just trying to recreate the palatal memory of the appetizer. (Actually, if you’ll see the picture, atop the dish they also had little… baby something-or-others. Since the rest was squid, I’d be inclined to say, “Duh, it’s squid,” except for the fact it looks more like an itty-bitty octopus. Maybe they deep-fried one of those wacky wall-walkers.)
Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have eaten calamari. Why?
Because, say it with me, “I don’t like seafood.”
It was true. I didn’t like seafood. Of course, all my experience with seafood hadn’t been ideal — fishy fish, ill-prepared, a pungent smell. In short, I’d never had good seafood.
And that was the trick.
Good is good.
I know. That’s pretty retarded. I see that I’m reaching for a big blob of obvious here, and yet, I’ll suggest that something slightly profound lurks in the center of that quivering mass — it sounds so obvious, so simple, that it’s truth is all too easy to dismiss.
Good is good.
Now, before I get into the nitty and the gritty, let’s talk about what that means in the context of last night’s dinner.
First, the dinner wasn’t super-fancy, but the presentation was clean, simple, elegant. More importantly, it was made with quality ingredients, and crafted with care and love. You can taste that. Good is good.
Second, I wouldn’t have eaten calamari because I once thought, “Ew, rubbery squid bits.” And yet, it was delicious. Good is good.
Now, what the hell am I talking about? Am I even making sense? Where are my pants? Why is my diaper filled with warm, buttery noodles?
What I’m saying is, once you open your brain to this idea that good is good, you become capable of looking past categorizations and carte blanche statements of dismissal and disapproval. “I don’t like seafood” easily becomes, “I like seafood when it’s good.”
This translates over to your pop culture experiences, too. I could say, “I don’t really like the fantasy genre,” but what I really mean is, “I like fantasy when it’s good.” The first statement shuts the door. It stops me from picking up what might be a truly excellent novel. The second statement opens me up — it allows me the willingness to experience things I might really like. It grants me the ability to be pleasantly surprised. Without that willingness, without that openness, we’ll find it hard to be surprised.
You don’t like big-budget blockbusters? You would if they were good.
Don’t like hard-boiled crime novels? Hey, good is good.
Can’t stand stuffy literature? But what if it’s actually good?
Now, I get it. This is a subjective thing. “Good” to you is different than “good” to me.
Except —
Maybe it isn’t.
I’m not speaking about our enjoyment or appreciation. I’m speaking about a base level of quality. The ingredients put into the Italian food last night, and the love, was of a certain quality regardless of what happened when I ate it. My experiences with it do not change that. So it is with many things. Writers, artists, filmmakers, creators, they sometimes create things with a level of attention and detail and quality and love that goes beyond what happens when I read it — ideally, it translates to my enjoyment and appreciation, but maybe it doesn’t. Even still, does it change the equation of good is good?
I’m pretty sure I’m rambling at this point.
Ultimately, what I’m telling you is — open yourself to things before you close yourself to them. It’s not a guaranteed win every time, but you allow yourself the ability to be surprised. I didn’t really care for beaches, so going to Hawaii was for me a silly idea. And then I went. And then I realized, I just hadn’t been to a really great beach. Because Hawaii was transcendent. It was a whole other world, a world I wouldn’t have experienced if I’d just shut the door and said, “I won’t like that.”
Good is good.
Realize that, and you will be free.
Now, will someone help me get this diaper off? The noodles are getting cold, and it’s really freaking me out.
January 10, 2010 @ 9:58 AM
I’m terribly hungry for Italian now.
The “good is good” axiom is a good one to remember because… well, it’s good. I for one don’t want to just write stories, I want to write stories that are good.
January 10, 2010 @ 10:02 AM
That’s definitely a part of it — good is good, so why not aspire to be good?
January 10, 2010 @ 10:20 AM
Yes. This.
I’m not a super-finicky eater, but there are a few things I just will not eat, e.g., mushrooms, peas, etc. I went to Charlie Trotter’s restaurant in Chicago a few years back and just let it fly: I was eating all manner of fungi and other things that would not normally cross my lips. And, of course, it was all fantastic. When you are in the presence of greatness, you do yourself a disservice if you don’t give yourself over to it.
This works for media too, e.g., books, movies, music, etc.
January 10, 2010 @ 10:30 AM
Good is good, so say we all. I get pissed at people that refuse to try mass media because they are “different” and “unique little snowflakes” that don’t “bend over and take” what the “corporate conglomerates” are “mass producing to destroy creativity”. “Quotation marks”. People that stick their head in the sand and aren’t willing to witness deserve the ignorance they live in; I can’t think of a more fitting punishment.
I have a friend who loved the Matrix. Fucking loved it. A month later when everyone else did, he hated it. He refused to see the other two (alright, I can’t rightly blame him for that – bad is bad) simply because he wouldn’t like it… and he wouldn’t like it because everyone else would.
By the way – I want Italian food now. Thank, Magic Talking Italian Food Suggesting Beardhead.
January 10, 2010 @ 10:41 AM
Good is good, but great is up for debate.
January 10, 2010 @ 10:46 AM
Oooo, nice to see Fred again. (Named him since I met him thanks to your Tweet last night. I know he’s been talking to you too. A piece of him is now part of you forever.) Hey Fred! *waves*
Very nice post, because you are totally correct. Good is good. And as authors we want to experience as much as possible.
Now get us all some take-out! Heh
January 10, 2010 @ 10:49 AM
Scionical made me laugh out loud.
I sometimes think that good CAN be subjective, though. The best Chinese takeout I ever ate in my life was in Dublin when two of my traveling companions and I broke free from the bus tour people, ordered some, and ate it in our room. We were desperate for crappy food after a week of being fed well-prepared Irish cooking, and I remember enjoying every single drop of grease on those spring rolls.
I even licked them to get every oily smear.
January 10, 2010 @ 10:52 AM
Julie:
Well, first, that speaks to my “food as a child of context” idea — in that, the enjoyment of food often has a lot to do with context.
In that regards, though, I’d argue that the food wasn’t necessary good — meaning, “of quality” — but that didn’t damage your enjoyment of it. Enjoyment and appreciation can be separate from “good is good.” Burger King isn’t good. It’s horrible. I won’t eat it. I won’t eat it, though, because I’ll enjoy the shit out of it. (Er, probably literally.)
— c.
January 10, 2010 @ 11:11 AM
Newfoundland is a great place for seafood. Even with the fishery in the shitter because of flatlining cod stocks, Newfoundland remains a great place for seafood. We’re coastal. We’re Atlantic. We’re a fucking island in the middle of the ocean, for Chrissake. How could we not be good for seafood?
Of course, there’s nothing really exotic about our cuisine. We’re mostly Irish, so we tend to boil everything to a homogeneous paste before consumption. Don’t blame us, blame our ancestors.
Still, nothing says Roman Catholic Meatless Friday like fish cakes, or fish’n’brewis, or fish’n’chips (fried cod and fries). The latter two can be something of an acquired taste, but there are several great recipes for the first available online.
Oh, and I hate seafood too.
January 10, 2010 @ 11:01 PM
Did Hawaii for the honeymoon. LOVED Hawaii. Hawaii is far if you’re on the West Coast, though, and we live on the East coast. Return trips are kind of out. (Stayed in a few eco-friendly places while we were there, tho, gave a real nice spin on everything.)
You should really make it to St. John’s some time, down in the Virgin Islands.
Do not go to/spend much time on St. Thomas other than to get the apallingly cheap booze.
Then get your ass back to St. John’s. Some rich motherfucker gave the island to the USA a long time ago and like 70 or 90 percent of it is a national park.
Do not stay at a resort. Rent yourself a house for the week or whatever. Worth. It.
Then chill. Snorkel. See things. Swim in an ocean so blue it will redefine blue for you.
Eating out there can be expensive. Lunch? $100 for two folks. Dinner? $100 for two folks. A wafer thin mint? $100. (Well, no. But damn. Feels like.) So we freeze meat stateside, pack it into a cooler, and check the cooler as luggage. When we get to the islands we *grill*. Which we then eat. With our cheap cheap alcoholic beverages.
St. John’s was the first place where I truly experienced how much time can slow down — in a good way — solely through the power of your mind. A week there was like taking a 3-month sabbatical. Nuts.
Anyway. Do these things. They are good.
January 11, 2010 @ 8:09 AM
Hawaii is a hard trip — it’s not bad once you’re *at* the West Coast, because then it’s only a handful of hours on a plane flight. I think the next time we do it, we’ll head to LA or San Fran first, and stay there for a couple-few days, then embark to Hawaii.
A part of me thinks that the distance and difficulty of getting there is actually part of the fun; it feels so much like an escape, then. It’s like climbing to the top of the mountain. Worth it for the work. Of course, that means *coming back* is harsh — like reentering the atmosphere from outer space. Ugh.
We did an eco-friendly place for half our Big Island trip.
And St. Johns. Duly noted!
We’re considering the Florida Keys at some point when time allows.
— c.
January 11, 2010 @ 7:40 AM
I wonder if you can be enjoying something so much you can’t even tell if it’s truly good or not.
I second St. John. I went there for one day on a cruise when I was 16. I have been desperate to go back. 7 hours on the island, and I NEED to go back.
January 12, 2010 @ 1:07 PM
The tentacled bits are just from the end of the squid (we once made fried calamari at home—you slice up the main body into rings, and at the end are the little tentacles all bunched up. They’re my favorite part).
Good is good—unless we’re talking onions. And then they’re just godawful. But I blame my taste buds for that. To me they just plain have a bad taste to them, no matter how well they’re prepared.
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February 20, 2010 @ 8:55 AM
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