Blog||noussommes.ca

I woke up the next morning to the blare of a terrible cartoon. I’d fallen asleep on the couch, clutching my thumb, trying to stem the flow of blood that was bent on experiencing the world outside. Rising(-ish), I wobbled off to the bright lights of the bathroom. What greeted me in the mirror was a beyond a sorry sight.  Nevermind that I was still dressed in the same stained, crumpled clothing from the night before, or that my sticky-uppy hair had somehow gotten involved in the whole gruesome ordeal (what holds a style better than pomade? Plasma, apparently…) - the paper towel and dried blood had metastasized into one large, hard, crusted-on cast. A large, hard, crusted-on cast that was now refusing to separate from its organic, living host.

“Why didn’t I take you to the hospital?” I cooed to my papier-mâché monstrosity. “Why didn’t I just hop in a cab and…oh yeah. My health card.”

Funny how things hit you in the light of day…er, bathroom.  See, my reluctance to slide on over to the Royal Vic or Montreal General or even “The Jewish” (as they call it here) was due in part to the fact that I do not possess a valid health card for the province of Quebec. Now, why don’t I possess said important piece of identification/insurance? Well, for several reasons, which I will proceed to list here:

1)    I am one lazy SOB: Yes, I have been in this province for several years. And yes, I have required medical, and even emergency attention while living here. And because I am still considered an Ontarioian (I really don’t know what we’re called…), it has always cost me dearly for that attention. But has this prompted me to go and get my “Carte de l’assurance maladie”? No. No it has not. Because getting said card may take two, maybe three hours out of my day. Two (or three) hours that I could better spend looking at things like this: http://babieswithlasereyes.com/. So screw that.

2)    I am also one obstinate, self-righteous SOB: Here’s the deal: I live in Canada, where there is supposed to be free, universal (re: socialized) healthcare coverage. Our southerly neighbours remind us of that constantly. And yes, for the most part, the system works. FOR THE MOST PART. However, should you be from one province, and require medical care in another, you may just have to pay for it. Sorta. But only sometimes. And if the proper forms are sent from one province to another, proving that you’ve paid for your care, you may just get all of your money back. Though there are times when you will only get some of it. And there are other times when you’ll receive none at all. Confusing? Yessir. Not fair? You betcha. Here’s a couple of illustrative examples, taken from my own uncoordinated, sickly existence:

A)   “Golly gee, those Maritime folk are swell!”: I was on a shoot that took me across parts of Eastern Canada. After being forced to stand outside in the blustery, seaside cold of Halifax Harbour for over two hours (without heavy-duty, winter attire or warm boots - we were only supposed to film inside that day), I managed to come down with not one, but two earaches. After a couple of 16-hour workdays, and very little sleep, I was in so much bloody pain, I’se justs couldn’t stands its no more. So, that night, I implored a production assistant to drive me to a clinic. Any clinic. Which he did. A-N-Y clinic.

I became a bit confused by all the twists and turns we had taken (and the big, dark parking lot we eventually found ourselves in.) “Oh, we’re just on the edge of town,” assured the PA, “but don’t worry-the taxis come out here pretty often. They’ll take you back when the doctors are done fixin’ yuh.”

Upon waving the young PA a feeble adieu, I shambled inside the looming Sobey’s Superstore, passed the produce (”Oooo-apples for 79 cents a pound!”), and went straight through the clinic’s door.

“WHAT’S WRONG WIT’ YA?” barked the receptionist, who wasn’t exactly thrilled to see a new patient at 9:15PM, when a posted sign clearly read, “WE CLOSE AT 9:30PM SHARP!!!”  “Uuuuumm, my…BWAAAAHHH!” I bawled, unable to maintain my stiff-upper-lipped façade any longer.

“Oh, c’mon now. Stop yer cryin’. Here-just give me yer health card…”

“Sniff…sniff…OK. But I’m from Ontario. It’s an OHIP card.”

“Oh yeah. That’s fine.”

“So…sniff…sniff…HONK! How much will this visit cost?”

“Cost? What cost? Yer Canadian, aren’t yuh? Why would it cost?”

Exactly.

B)   “Just relax, dude, uh, darling…”: It’s a long story, but for the purposes of this interlude, all you really need to know is that I twisted my ankle during a little sojourn in Vancouver. While doing the frug. With a drag queen named Coco. Who was not dressed in drag at the time. But who still insisted on being called Coco. OK, all right - enough. Leave it to be said that I needed to go to the hospital, where I was told by the admin staff that, yes, I would have to pay fees for my visit. So I paid around a hundred and twenty upfront, with the understanding that I might have to dole out more, depending on the severity of the injury (and the resulting treatment.) Three hours, four x-rays, and many tissues soaked through later, it turned out that I had a bad sprain. Nothing that a few weeks on crutches and some Advil wouldn’t fix. I hobbled out the sliding glass doors of St. Paul’s with the vague promise of a re-imbursement of indefinite amount, mailed to me after an indeterminate period of time.

Do you think I ever received said re-imbursement cheque?

Nope.

Am I bitter?

C’mon - that’s like asking if Coco ever wore sequins.

3) If they call it “universal coverage”, then I should be able to go across the Great Canadian Universe, and be covered: Now, I’m not some big city lawyer. I don’t understand the ins and outs of federal versus provincial healthcare jurisprudence (hell, I’m not even quite sure what “jurisprudence” means). I don’t actually know where my token sixty, eighty or two-hundred dollar “you-don’t-come-from-’round-these-parts” clinic/hospital visitation fees go to (the receptionist’s donut fund? Those atrocious posters for hepatitis vaccines? It couldn’t possibly pay for the doctor’s time - if I have learned anything from watching Michael Moore “documentaries”, it is that my actual, unsubsidized layout for care would be in the high hundreds, if not thousands). All’s I know is that as a Canadian, I pay into a progressive national healthcare plan in some way (through my taxes? Through my wages? Through the ether?), and I want (nay, demand…no, OK-want) to be covered. I should not have to shell out a dime for basic assistance. No matter what province or territory I live in, travel to, or break something in. No matter if I flash an OHIP card, a MIP card, or a Don Cherry Fan Club card. I’m a democratic-socialist, Goddamn it! Give me my cradle to grave (and Salt Spring to Cape Breton) coverage!

4)    And yeah. Taxes:  Now, this isn’t my reason, but it could be. If I understood provincial tax law better. See, I have a friend from out west. Let’s call her…. “Westie.” Westie, like myself, lives in Montreal but refuses to get her Quebec health card.  She does so because she claims that at the end of the year, her taxes would be much, much higher as a “citizen of Quebec” (which you have to become, if you want to be covered health insurance-wise by the province). Westie claims that even with the odd clinic fee she has to endure, she is saving a butt load of money by continuing to maintain her Albertan status. She also gets keep her Alberta driver’s license with the “cute make-up/good-hair-day/coy-smile” picture that she loves so much. And how often does a nice driver’s license photo come along in a person’s life? Not very often, let me tell you.

Now, with all these (somewhat valid, probably not so much) reasons in mind, you must begin to understand my reluctance to get treatment for my thumb (and impending death-by-lockjaw). However, not wanting to curtail my existence (in this, or any other province) just yet, I decided, “bah!  The hell with money!”, I was going to get in line at the clinic.

(*Throw caution to the wind, and read on!  Part Three of this exciting tale is just a click away…)

This’ll be quick, I swear. Unlike the actual experience. Of going to the CLSC. Which cost me a chunk of change, three and a half hours, and momentarily, my pride. Are you still in? OK-here we go. Quick like.

So as you know (from reading the other parts of this epic in proper order….riiiight? Riiiiight?) I totally messed up my thumb, which required some medical assistance, which I (sorta, kinda, and in all honesty, in spite of all my whingeing, not really) was reluctant to get. Off I went to the closest clinic around, where I immediately regretted going, as at least three-quarters of the waiting room were bent over, coughing and heaving into their (required because of the potential threat of pig flu) facemasks. Crap. I just knew I would go in to get my thumb attended to, and walk out with a deadly parting gift.

But forward onward ho, to the signing of forms, the paying of cash, the explaining of my situation, and the (relatively useless) attempts to both charm and arouse sympathy in the young receptionist who was probably relieved to write something other than “suspected H1N1″ on the docket.

“All things considered, you’ll probably be up in an hour.”

An hour?

“Yes, an hour.”

Damn.

And just like clockwork, I got called up to the plate. Two and a half hours later.

The nurse berated me for not going to the hospital earlier. The doctor came in, and did the same thing. I found out that “des points” were stitches, and I should’ve gotten some the night prior. They broke out the hypodermic needle and tetanus vaccine with (much too) much glee. “Hé ben,” said the nurse, “we haven’t done this in a while….”

“Um…”

“Qu est-ce qui y a? Is there a problem?”

“Uh…”

“OOOOOHH ! Êtes-vous une pleurnicheuse ?! Avez-vous peur des aiguilles ?!”

“Noooo! I am not a crybaby! But, er, yes - I am not a big fan of needles, and was wondering if you had the vaccine in one of those strips with the micro delivery system I saw on CNN Health Live…”

“Seine quoi? Micro dee-live…”

“Nevermind. Forget it. Just go ahead and poke me.”

I closed my eyes and thought of England.

And their National Health System.

And the fact that an injured person from Devon could probably flash their health card at a clinic in Essex and not have to pay a red cent.

But then again, they might have to explain what they’re doing in Essex.

There’s always a cost for care.

“Et voila!”

While I was busy with the British, the nurse had administered the tetanus shot, disinfected the wound, stuck my thumb back together with 3M sticker “stitches” (See? The future of medicine does not have to involve needles! There are other ways!), and wrapped everything up in a cloud of gauze.

“Just keep it clean. Et sec. Tell your boyfriend he has to wash your dishes for the next two weeks.”

“Um, could you write that out as a prescription? He won’t believe me without a doctor’s note…”

After the settling of more accounts (a tetanus shot for ten dollars? By jiminy, that’s a bargain!), I walked out into the failing light of day (it was the deep of winter, after all), and began conversing with my well-bandaged thumb mummy;

“See? It wasn’t so bad. You’ll heal up and be as good as new in…well, no pressure. You take your time. I’ve paid good money for your care. Why, I bet you were better attended to than those second-tier losers, who expected free, expert service at the drop of a card. Hah. The joke’s on them.”

EPILOGUE: Sadly, the joke really is on Quebec. On March 30^TH, 2010, the Charest government announced a highly controversial plan to introduce user fees for public health care services. These fees will be based on citizens’ visit/appointment frequency, which is a clear attack on the most vulnerable individuals in society - pregnant women, the chronically ill, and aged. Through a dubious legal loophole in the Canadian Health Act (enacted in 1984), a senior advisor (who clearly doesn’t understand the ins and outs of karmic return) in the Charest cabinet found a potential way to pump 500 million back into a (terribly mismanaged) system laden with deficit.

I should clarify, however, that this move only seems to violates the SPIRIT of the Canadian Health Act, and not the act itself. The proposal skirts the law by not charging per medical visit, but by levying a lump sum come income tax time.

I’m sure cancer patients will take much comfort in this technicality.

Up until around seven, everything had gone swimmingly. I hadn’t spilt a drop of my pre-dinner gimlet, I hadn’t tripped over a single foot in the crowded foyer, and, miracles of miracles, my nylons had not shredded into a million tired strands (even after an unfortunate run in with an especially rapacious bit of shrubbery.) I was on top of my game, blending seamlessly into the occasion, mingling openly with strangers, deftly sidestepping dangerous subject matter, like religion and James Cameron. Bully for me! I could finally count myself an adult, practiced, poised, and completely undaunted. This was, of course, until I saw the setting.

My Waterloo.

There it was, gleaming softly, smug in its position on top of the linen, chock-a-block with forks upon forks, several spoons, and a strange, frighteningly fanged knife that I had never encountered in all my years of cutting food. It was going to be my undoing, for you see:

I don’t know how to eat in public.

There. I’ve said it. Now you know. Or, perhaps, if you have dined with me in the past, you’ve known this for a long time. And were too polite to say anything. Well, fine then. Now you know that I know….that you know. Yes.

Now, this fear, this angst, this crippling anxiety might well be a national blight, and I am just too self-absorbed (self-conscious? No, no - self-absorbed…) to notice. Maybe there are others of my generation who grew up not knowing how to hold a fork and knife, not recognizing a desert spoon from a soupspoon. I have a vague memory of my grandmother trying to teach me how to set a proper table, but I also recall being quite young at the time, around seven or eight, and not so concerned about the complexities of “being a good wife.”  She also tried to teach me how to knit during these years, but gave up, mainly due to a lack of dexterity on my part, and the sudden onset of a dreadful wool allergy. Bumps and rashes. And lots of mucous. Not a good look for a potential homemaker. No indeed.

My mother and father, on the other hand, seemed rather nonplussed when it came to my status as the future Mrs. Mackenzie Astin (oh, how I adored him as the rascally Andy on TV’s The Facts of Life…sigh…we going to be something, Mackenzie, you and me…) In fact, my parents’ love of all “Free With Purchase” kitchenware from the gas station made dinner time quite the guessing game. Steak knives with pasta? Plastic travel mugs for juice? Commemorative Olympic serving spoons for reaaaallly big ice cream sundaes? Sure! Why the hell not! We just completed the set with last fill-up!

When it came to the actual maneuvering of utensils, I truly don’t recall being the recipient of any discernable wisdom, save for, “don’t stab at that!” and “Hey! We use those for eating, not digging for bait!”  I knew it wasn’t nice to use your knife to make a point (I learned that the hard way), and instinctively understood one doesn’t hold one’s fork like a winching handle. Other than that, I was pretty much on my own. Growing up in the country doesn’t provide a gal with much fine dining experience. I went through most of my childhood thinking corncob holders were the height of gustatory refinement.

Upon reflection, though, I suppose there were clues to the contrary. Which generally began popping up as soon as I began to edge my way towards womanhood (a “hood” that still seems somewhat out of reach.) Like, when I was a teenager on vacation, and my older, city mouse cousin introduced me to the joys of sushi. Never mind that there were chopsticks to handle (oy vey), and tiny sake cups to delicately sip (not gulp down in one foul swoop like a shot of Jäger - be a lady, be a lady), but there were subtleties in protocol that demanded rapt attention and scholarly precision. Such as:

-       Miso shiro should be consumed from the bowl, and not spooned up to one’s mouth like common beef barley (hah! Screw you, soup spoon!)

-       to immerse your wasabi paste in your soy sauce is considered an insult to the chef’s choice of soy (and his prissy-poo creations - though he apparently won’t care one whit if you do so while eating your sashimi)

-       you may use your fingers (oh yeah!) to convey certain forms of sushi to your mouth

-       never dip your nigirizushi into the soy sauce rice first - you will insult the chef on his rice-making abilities (sushi chefs are as sensitive as 14 year old girls, one can assume.) Flip over, and lightly touch the fish to the soy.

There was also the time that I, as a freewheeling undergrad in Ottawa, dined with my Moroccan friend and her likewise Moroccan family. They took me to a lovely restaurant that screamed, “EXOTIC!!!”, but only to me, only because I was choosing to “other” another culture. Which I knew was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Given the 1990’s proclivity for all things PC and inclusive.

Right.

So I contained my excitement, over vibrant swathes of embroidered fabric and fabulously tasseled cushions (eeeee!), and followed my friend to our knee-high table. How cute! And ornate! AND HOW COMPLETELY NORMAL (nothing to see here.)  We sat, I, next to my friend’s father, as the guest of honour, and my friend to my other side. “Use your right hand for everything, your left hand only for wiping,” whispered my helpful pal. “Wiping what?” I whispered back, momentarily distracted (and secretly mesmerized) by the thin stream of water being poured into my glass from on high. But Ari didn’t have time to explain, as her parents began ordering an endless litany of dishes from the increasingly gleeful waitstaff that slowed only slightly when it came time to ask the honoured guest about her interest in wine.

Eep. See, I knew enough at the time that A) Ari’s family was Muslim and B) some (most?) practicing Muslims did not drink. But Ari was pretty moderate in her leanings, so did this mean her family was too? On the flipside, if I said no to a splash of vino, was that denying her parents a welcome respite from the endless rhetoric of two wide-eyed, change-the-world, “WOMEN, UNITE! TAKE BACK THE NIGHT!” intellectual-sophisticates? Oh, heavy hung the head that held the Guest of Honour crown.

“Um, gee, well, I dunno, I mean, if you…uh, this water is pretty spectacular, and…”

My country bumpkin was showing. Two years in the big city had done nothing to lift the pilling polyester pall of my (ill) breeding. A true urbane urbanite would know exactly what to do. They wouldn’t dare insult their meal ticket by flippantly commanding a tipple, especially if said tipple flew in the face of thousands of years of cultural sobriety. Even if that culture placed a high premium on hospitality and amenability. But then again…

“We’ll start off with a bottle of white - what do you recommend?”

And with that, Ari’s dad (and the obliging waiter) relieved me of my honourific duties. Phew. Thank Allah. Please pass the Chardonnay.

Things went great during the soup course. Ari and I were charmingly entertaining, if only slightly bombastic through salads. Once the couscous and shared mains came (complete with a ver y memorable Cab-Sauv), I was thoroughly feeling my oats (if not a shade tipsy.) This was totally my scene, digging ’round with fingers and bits of bread, dipping here, scooping there. Why couldn’t every cuisine be eaten this way? Fettuccine Alfredo could only benefit from the addition of hands (and hands could only benefit from the curative lashings of cream sauce.) You could easily pick the best bits out of paella (and flick offending, excess grains of rice at your competing diners.) Why, even a porterhouse…

Wait. Why was everyone staring at me?

“I told you to eat with your right hand!!!” hissed a now propriety-bent Ari.

“I was!!”

“Not your right AND your left! Just your right!”

“What’s the difference?!”

“Your right hand is for eating. Your left is for…dirty things.”

Dirty things? What could be…oh crap! It took me ¾ of the meal, but I got it; I was eating with the hand consigned to the tail end of things. I was eating with my ass-hand.

“Ah, shit. Sorry.”

Sadly, I was never asked to accompany Ari to anything family-related again. But I’d like to think it had more to do with me questioning her father’s stance on female imams, than eating with my ass-hand.

I’d like to think that, anyway.

But the fact is, even I have stood in judgment over the eating habits of others. Like, when this date of mine asked for chopsticks in a Thai restaurant. God, how gauche. Everybody knows Thai food has to be eaten with a fork and a spoon. Or at least that’s what this other guy told me over a shared plate of Phat khi mao.  He and I didn’t last very long. I hate culture bullies.

It works the other way too, when admiration, nay, envy come into play. A particular turning point in personal etiquette came after an evening of watching a comely steakhouse diner sing for her supper. She was very obviously on a date, laughing at the slightest provocation, tossing her hair, lightly touching her dining companion on the arm - you know, the usual shtick.  What got me, though, was her expertise with silverware; this lady understood the power of good table manners.  Holding her fork in her left paw and her knife in her right, she began (almost) imperceptibly sawing away at her filet and veg. Keeping eye contact with her man, she slowly (though not too slowly, as to make a whole production out of the thing) brought the fork up to her mouth. With tines turned in, she slid the meat between her lips, smiled, and…OK. This is starting to sound weird. What I am trying to get at is A) she didn’t so much seduce in order to eat well, as use eating as a form of seduction and B) I became aware, for the first time, of the “continental” style of dining.

Who knew they did it differently on the continent? And here I was, juggling my gear like a chump. Making sure I had enough stuff sliced on my plate so that I could free up a hand (knives may not be used for emphasis, but fingers are perfect for proving your point.) All this time, I should’ve been holding on to my utensils for dear life (or at least for the duration of the meal.)

This woman made the act of chowing down look so effortless, so sexy, so refined. I won’t even begin to get into what she did with her napkin. I wanted, nay, needed to learn her ways. So I gave it a shot - I palmed the fork and kept my hold on the knife. I cut, I lifted, and gazed knowingly at the man across from me.

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?! ARE YOU HAVING A STROKE?” squawked my Uncle Ernie. “Harriett, go tell your mother you’re not feeling well. I told you not to order the fish here, but did you listen? No. No you did not.”

Sigh. He never got my name right.

So fine. Family dinners were obviously not the place to test out new and exciting ways of conducting one’s self. But if not there, then where? Things only got worse when I moved to Montreal. Though I managed to get through grad school relatively unscathed (drunken, late night bagel runs didn’t require anything but a steady hand with which to pay the counter lady) it was when I started working that my shortcomings became glaring apparent. Yet again. They always find ways of showing up, don’t they?

After a particularly long and arduous day, my colleagues and I decided that a nice dinner was just what the doctor ordered. Since it was going to be on the company’s tab, it was just what my accountant ordered too. We breezed into the resto, the Maitre d’  snapping to attention with the appearance of eight young hotshots (with cash to blow) at the door. He sat us in prime real estate, and swiftly brought a round of complementary aperitifs (as a general rule, it is good to get hotshots drinking early.) We all took a cursory glance at the menu, zeroing in on the items we’d rarely order when left to our own line of credit. The wine came fast and furious, and the stress of the last ten hours began evaporating like so much good sense after a long stretch of working under the hot, unrelenting sun.

The bisque appeared and disappeared without much ado (”Bisque? That requires a….spoon. Yes. Good. Scoop away from myself and everything will be allllllriiiigh…ah, phooey. I hope this comes out of silk…”) Then the roasted endive, which caused only slight prickles of sweat (”The sections are cut lengthwise, like spears of crudités, so, technically, I could eat them with my fingers. Sure. I’ll own it, make it look cool.”)  A bit of bread was nibbled (”which plate is mine? Ah, who cares-I’ll just share this one…”) and then, the entrées.

Those prickles of sweat? Yeah - they joined forces to become a veritable Niagara Falls.

All of my other tablemates began tucking into their elk or bass or

lobster roll-ups with shaved white truffles bedded on a saffron cream reduction, nimbly wielding their utensils without the slightest deliberation on their (very continental) technique. I, on the other hand, sat frozen with dread.

“What’s wrong? Did they mix up your order?”

“Um, no….”

“Did you find a hair?”

“No, no.”

“Madame ? Y a-t-il un problème ??”

“Non, non. Tout est parfait. Merci.”

I had to start eating. Mainly because everybody was staring. But also because the bisque and endive were doing nothing to sop up the tanker spill of alcohol now flooding my system. So, I reached for my knife and fork. And then promptly let them clatter to the floor.

“Whoopsy!”

Smart thinking, huh? That gave me a few more minutes to…

“Aucun problème, Madame. Voici un autre ensemble d’ustensiles,” murmured the waiter, hovering over our table like a well-manicured vulture.

Yes. OK. Back in the saddle, then. What did it matter how I ate? So what if those who dine with refinement get further ahead in life? Who cares if I look like one of those sign language apes out on a day pass? Bet they’ll think it’s cute if I eat “mash-up style”, starting out on the continent, and ending up lost somewhere in the Ozarks. It will be refreshing, to see someone breaking the mould.

That was, of course, what I kept telling myself throughout the meal. I tried not to notice, as my co-workers glanced questioningly at my plate. I blinded myself to what they saw-the mess, the massacre, the bits of braised matter spattered Jackson Pollock-like around my place mat. “They’re soused,” I mantra-ed, “they won’t remember this tomorrow.”

But I did. I remembered. And I still do.

Because unlike an unfortunate memory that softens in perspective over time, this inability to dine kept rearing it’s uncouth head anew. It turned up in all of my other business lunches, on-the-job dinners, and heinous pre-work breakfasts (it takes a special kind of crazy to stomach job talk while hammering back runny eggs and cardboard toast.) Practice at home did nothing to stem the burgeoning tide of my paralyzing angst. I’d prick my lip with salad tines. I’d send potatoes skittering across the table with a single cut. I’d get heart palpitations after the fourth failed attempt at conveying more than three peas to my mouth. That sign language ape? I bet she’d have mastered this by now…

Which brings me back to the beginning. Of my story. Remember? That egregious setting. That immaculate sheen. My Waterl….oh, OK. You remember. Good.

I sat down at my assigned table, ready to disappoint all who had, in the making of my acquaintance, mistaken me for a fully functioning human. I nodded hello to the lawyer to my left, the politico to my right, and hoped to God that the much renowned (and quite revered) TV journalist seated kitty-corner wasn’t hiding a spy-cam in his tie clip.

“Your soup. Bon appetit!” the (bastard) cater waiter cheerfully sang out.

The horror. The horror.

I waited for everyone to be served. I stared blankly at the four spoons, their spindly stems pointing menacingly at me, all silently screaming, “J’accuse!!” I contemplated asking the politico for a Xanax (those kids  - they’re always on something.) And then…

Like a ray of light, like a beacon of hope, like a happy, long lost memory from another lifetime, I remembered something.

There is a rule of etiquette that supersedes all other dining traditions. You want to know it? This could be of help to you. All right. Here it is:

When in doubt, follow suit. Pick you mark, and watch what piece of cutlery they choose. Then see how they use it. Then, do the same. Sound simple? It is. However, there is a caveat. Should that person commence eating with the wrong utensil intended for the course, you must also do the same.

That’s right; if the first guest to start eating screws up, just go along with it. Eat that radicchio with your seafood fork. Butter your roll with a switchblade. Or, in my case, start sipping your soup with a desert spoon.

I had to. It would have been impolite, otherwise.

Guess they don’t teach table manners in journalism school.

I was most excited about the cake. From what I heard, the big finale was all about the cake. “It’s normally large and white and there’s a plastic baby in a compromising position on it,” said my friend. Wow. How could you beat that? Pre-all-of-this-activity, I had seen cakes of this description in a few Montreal bakeries, and had wondered, in my sanctimonious ignorance, what the hell they were for-the birth of an infant? I thought it quite cruel, as a baby straight out of the womb couldn’t really eat anything solid. He’d be forced to stare on, in terrifying black and white, while his beast of a mother (unfairly equipped with teeth and a mature digestive track) greedily stuffed a piece of this layered heart attack into her maw. “This is what all the late night crying is for,” I thought. Revenge.

I had also seen a few of these window-wanton, girthy temptresses blessed with a large, blue frosting cross. “For fans of Christianity,” I surmised, just as a child in love with Spiderman would ask for a birthday cake festooned with cobwebs.

Upon learning the gospel truth, I must say that I was a bit confused. I mean, really-you’d order a cake to commemorate the washing away of original sin? Kind of a dour use for all that sugar and lard, no? A lentil stew, maybe, or something dignified, like three fingers of scotch-now those had the gravitas to mark God’s first disappointment in man (and man’s subsequent attempts to get out of the perennial dog house).

I managed to come to terms with things quite quickly however, as I didn’t think it fair to judge other, perhaps, less-advanced cultures on their unique ways of relating to the world. Furthermore, I did not want my disdain of irrational, antiquated traditions getting in the way of any potential, diabetes-inducing fun.

***

“What does a gal wear to these things?” I asked my boyfriend, Monsieur T., the would-be godfather of the proceedings. “I dunno-whatever a woman normally wears to church, I guess.” Looking up from the pants he was pressing, he could see by my expression that his glibness wasn’t going to cut it. “Well, nowadays in Quebec’s churches, you’ll see everything from jeans to miniskirts to sweater vests. Nobody really dresses up for Sunday services anymore.” Noticing that my face was still screwed up like a constipated toddler’s, he continued on:

“After the Quiet Revolution, the people here just stopped going to church. They stopped getting married, they stopped going to their priests for advice, they stopped taking part in the traditions that conventionally bound family and community together. They found other ways bond, to connect, to do things and get things done. The respect and fear and wonder that held them in check for so long just ceased to be.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, always ready to engage in debate, even with the scantiest knowledge of the issue at hand, “I see people going to church all the time in your neighbourhood.” Did Petite Patrie escape the Quiet Revolution? Judging by some of the fashion found around the area, it wasn’t crazy to think that this place had all but dug in their heels at the advent of 1962.

“Well, firstly, we’re close to Montreal’s Little Italy, and a lot of the older generation of Italian-Canadians still centre their lives around the Church. Secondly,” and at this, Monsieur T. had to wave his hand in front of my face to snap me back to attention, as my mind had already wandered off into the ricotta-filled realm of mini cannolis.

“As I was saying,” Monsieur T. pressed on, “this particular neighbourhood, which was once considered very ‘working-class’ Quebecois, is now populated with a lot of Latin Americans, Dominicans, Cubans and Portuguese. They have their own history with Catholicism, and their own ties to the Church.”

I couldn’t fight him on that. With all the new taquerias, cevicherias, and busy, late-night barbershops sprouting up (with requisite spill-over of young, preening, sidewalk lotharios), I had jokingly begun referring to his part of town as “Spanish Harlem.”  It made me giddy to think I could easily get a hit on every corner (and before you start accusing me of being a racist bastard, understand that I am only referring to the extraordinarily strong, tiny sweet treat of Cuban coffee-let’s keep it clean, people).

With thoughts of churros and cannolis and thimble-sized caffeine bombs sashaying around my head, I went to sleep, gleefully anticipating the big sugar payoff to come.

***

The next morning, we dressed (having both escaped the lure of the miniskirt), and made our way along Beaubien Street to church. There was signage here and there on the lawn, advertising youth programs, basement bazaars, and concern for the state of my soul. “How nice of them,” I thought (but really, they needn’t worry). We were some of the first attendees to arrive, only “out-earlied” by the man of the hour, Lil’ C, and his super chill posse of two (otherwise known as his parents).

The kid was looking cool and collected in a pair of ivory cotton pants, a crisp white dress shirt, and a matching, v-neck sweater vest. He was perfectly kitted out for a swank beach wedding, or prepped to step in should a spontaneous cricket match erupt.

It turned out that Lil’ C was not the only one egging for some holy attention that day; he up against three other baptism contenders, primped and set to get their worship on. There was “Disgruntled Chef Baby,” with his white silk tunic and puffy, toque-like hat (I don’t think he dug the hat), “Baby Liberace,” in his gleaming, all-white, all-satin suit, and “Cater Waiter Baby,” whose parents, I suppose, had already concluded that their child was going to grow up to be an unsuccessful actor.

After a few preliminary greetings and hand-shakings, Monsieur T. and I scooted into a pew, close up to where the action would happen. We had Lil’ C (and crew) in front of us, and his beaming grandparents to the back. “Padded foot rests-neato!” I whisper-shouted, raising my tired heels up from the marble floor.  “Um, no-those are for kneeling and genuflecting,” corrected Monsieur T., already questioning his decision to invite me along.

“Tout le monde, en arrière, s’il vous plaît !”

And with that, we followed the priest-a young, Mexican padre with an obvious pasión for electric blue robes–and his flunky to the back of the church (which I thought was odd, since we had just secured our seats and gotten comfy).

While we all were busy elbowing for a good place to stand, the priest rallied the fathers around to ask what they required from the Church. “Bapstism,” responded every dad-every dad that is, save for Lil’ C’s. Lil’ C’s pop came back with, “Bonheur,” or happiness, which was pretty shrewd, if you ask me; ride the coattails of the other christenings, and then get in a little something extra for your own kid. Now that’s a dad who’s thinking.

El Padre, relatively satisfied with the answers he received, kept on with the show. Intoning what sounded like a refrain from La Isla Bonita, he doled out four quick signs of the cross. The tots did not appear impressed with his haste, and at least one (I’m looking at you, Chef Baby) threatened to start crying. That was probably the game with the highest stakes that Sunday-which baby was going to cry first. One tiny outburst would undoubtedly set off a tidal wave of wailing which no bottle, binkie or boob could ever hope to halt.

Trailing the priest back to the front (he was quite good at leading us about–perhaps in seminary they’re forced to moonlight as ushers), we pushed back into our seats. Lil’ C got a bit excited over the commotion, and started attacking his mother’s earring. Unable to let go of a good thing, he was swiftly passed off to his dad.

A Sunday school lesson on the rights and requisites of a baptismal ceremony ensued, complete with “raise your hand” questions, prolonged silences and embarrassed, clueless giggles from the peanut gallery. El Padre explained us about the sacraments, the vestments and the oil (I still don’t get the part about the oil), and then, upon sensing restlessness in the crowd (you really can only go so far with vestments), our consummate Master of Catholicism asked for a volunteer from the audience.

Being the closest contender in reach, Lil’ C was picked first to get off the bench. There was scuffle in my pew, as I had the godfather to left of me, and the godmother to the right. Mom, dad, Lil’ C, godparents, El Padre, and church flunky all rushed to gather around what appeared to be the holy washbasin. Up on stage stood a Dominican, a Thai and a Jew (just kidding-there’s always a Jew in these things…) and a Quebecoise who swooped in around a solitary microphone and started singing something about glory and maybe God. It was hard to tell. One of them was banging the crap out of a tambourine.

Lil’ C’s little head was positioned directly above the steel basin. El Padre commenced murmuring…something to the effect of a blessing, or a curse, or a passing criticism, stopping only to ask mom n’ pop (and god mom n’ pop) pertinent questions about the state of their ward’s nine month old soul. What he found out must’ve pleased him, or troubled him, because he proceeded to hold up a white scallop shell to those of us in the audience. He then used said tool of divine seafood to both scoop and pour wash bin water over Lil’ C’s head. Now, to El Padre’s credit, he performed this rite so that the water (which I really hope was clean, what with all the viruses and parasites going around these day) would drip in a thin stream off the back of Lil’ C’s noggin. And let it be noted that Lil’ C was holding his own-not exactly thrilled to be there, but, like a big boy, he wasn’t about to break. He wasn’t, that is, until Monsieur T. stepped up to the plate.

What was required of the godfather was to follow El Padre’s lead and pour a little symbolic dribble onto his godson’s head. And so–

Into the water went the empty shell.

Out of the basin came a laden scoop.

A move was made, to get closer to the child.

Then closer, and closer still, until…

SPLOOSH! gushed the water, all over Lil’ C’s face.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH,” cried our brave little soldier. “BWAAAAHHH,” answered back his compatriots. Men began exchanging dollar bills under their hymnals. Women began sighing and rolling their eyes. I burst out laughing, and Monsieur T., momentarily chagrinned, made the smart decision to smile, shrug, and get on with things.

After all, there were three more babies in line, with their own shaky-handed godfathers to deal with.

The ceremony continued, with some candle lighting, a whole bunch of standing and sitting, a quick turning ’round to shake hands pour donner de la paix (I didn’t understand what was required at first, and didn’t offer to shake with anybody-my fellow pew pals looked a bit put out), a little singing combined with a few futile attempts to block out the tambourine. This was all terribly interesting, yes, but what absolutely stole the show (and my breath away) was the man who I will describe for you in the next sentence. If you can stand to wait for a few minutes while I take this phone call. Just….one….Hi, mom? Yeah, I got the coupons in the mail…thanks…no, no, you already told me the thing about the cat….no-really, I’m not just….sigh….

…

OK. I’m back. My apologies.

So, who was this fabulous creature? I don’t know. Why was he there? You got me. What possessed him to preserve his scuba-tight shirted, balloon dress-panted, slick fade with eight-inch rattail glory for all these years? I wish I knew. Perhaps he was divinely informed. Maybe he was a huge fan of Cameo. Whatever the case, this beefy gentleman strode right out from (church) stage left, and straight into my (once aesthetically bored, now slightly less so) heart. A baptism miracle, he was. Right there, in Petit Patrie. I couldn’t have been happier…

…oh yeah. And the rest of the babies got water splashed on them too. It was all super spiritual, and stuff.  Truly…..but for real, people-that dude was amazing! He didn’t even have a function! He just stood around, occasionally drifting over to the folks with the tambourine, maybe telling them to cool it….I dunno. Bouncer of the flock? Nah-too chill. Priest understudy? Could be, but then El Padre would’ve been best advised to step aside. Not for nuthin’, but 1986 was in the house, ripe and ready to be praised. Word up! Er, I mean, Hallelujah!

***

Back at Lil’ C’s crib (which is funny, see, because he’s a baby, and “crib” is slang for…yep, well, you get it), we all gathered round to devour a bit of brunch. I have to say-have lox, have bagel, expect a stampede to the buffet table. People can’t get enough of smoked fish these days. I was holding Lil’ C, walking him around to get kissed and coddled by the feasting throng. During a lull in the cooing, I asked him how he felt, now that he was clean of Adam’s curse, with a new lease on life, accepted into the Church, etc, etc. He didn’t say much (being more of a laconic gent), but his gurgles and drooling spoke volumes. You could tell that this was a new man in my arms, well on his way to the next stage of personal development. Which would include walking. And eating strained, not pureed peas. Yes, big things were just around the corner.

As for the cake? You didn’t think I forgot, did you? Well, sorry to disappoint, but there wasn’t a plastic baby cake. There wasn’t a crucifix dolled up in blue icing either. But there were mini-cannolis. And in the final analysis, isn’t that what we’re all really looking for? Just a simple bit of pastry, to shove into an ever-expanding spiritual void?  Yes, that sounds about right.

Amen, brothers and sisters. Amen.