• About

My Grilling Life – Jani Allan

~ Sautéing and Satire. Blue Jasmine story about someone who was a household name in South Africa who becomes a waitress in New Jersey.

My Grilling Life – Jani Allan

Category Archives: Friendship

Maleness is wonderful, really, isn’t it honey? Perfect denial of reality.

29 Monday Sep 2014

Posted by janiallan in Friendship, Jani Allan, My Grilling Life

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

erica jong, Gender, Men, restaurant week, Women

And so, praise the Lord, another Restaurant Week has come to a close. Restaurant Week is the week when most of the regulars stay well away and people we have never seen and may never see again descend on the restaurant. Why not?

A mere $29.95 (tax and gratuity additional) will get you a three-course meal at a restaurant that you would traditionally reserve for a special occasion. Like announcing you want to consciously uncouple. Or propose marriage.

Last week on Monday night a female co-worker – let’s call her Miss Bunny – and I served about 50 people. No hostess, no bus, just the pair of us. (Sounds like a Cole Porter song right there, I know).

Miss Bunny and I hardly needed to speak to each other. We anticipated each other’s needs. Just a tip of the head and I knew that she wanted me to finish clearing table eleven. I reached for the olive oil and found she had already herbed a little ramekin for me.

We worked together in focused silence speaking an unspoken language of co-operation and mutual support.

The restaurant was as busy as an oven at Christmas.

At the end of the night we plopped down, exhausted but strangely elated.

“V-power!” said Miss B. “V-power!” I agreed, swigging my split of champoo.

When women work together in high-stress situations, there is no yelling, no cursing, no bullying and pushing.

The difference between men and women is a topic as old as dirt.

Monday night’s tiny triumph got me thinking on it – and forgive me if I repeat myself – how many women do you know who have committed psychological rape?

How many women do you know who haven’t been the victim of a metaphoric rape? Rape by phony promises. Rape by betrayal. Rape by fraud.

There are men servers I work with – and don’t get me wrong I love them dearly (well that’s what we all say before delivering a coup de grâce, isn’t it?) see life as a contest in which they are constantly challenged and must perform to avoid the risk of appearing to be what they perceive to be weak.

The female servers will carry two cups and a creamer. The male servers will stack a ziggurat of coffee cups and yell “Out of my way! Coffee coming through!” Efficient, yes, but in my reference, very dim.

Men seem to see life in a world where they feel powerful by acting in opposition to others.

Why else would a former Marine (don’t get me wrong, I love him dearly) karate chop the air in close proximity to hot plates I am carrying?

Why else do they flick the napkin off your shoulder? Why else do they walk slowly in front of you when you are hurrying?

Why do they snigger triumphantly when you don’t have the strength in your wrists to carry three heavy platters of food? In short, why aren’t they helpful like women?

Men are never as bossy as when they are wearing aprons.

It is said that born rebels who defy society are not oblivious of it, but hypersensitive to it.

Men who defy authority see it as a way of asserting themselves and refusing to accept the subordinate i.e. law-abiding position.

Even when men are relaxing, their machismo is never off-duty. They’re always regaling you with stories about contest, how they defied authority and how they will sort out so and so if he dares darken their door again etc. etc. The stories about their wives are usually told in a whiney voice. “So my wife said to me, who is going to put up the chicken coop, honey?”

Women’s anecdotes tend to reveal how bad they felt when they’ve violated community values.

“I felt so bad, I didn’t realize it was a formal occasion and I turned up in jeans!”

Some sociologists believe that for a woman, the community is the source of power. Life is a struggle against the danger of being cut off from their community.

Men, on the other hand, have an overweening need to feel independent (even if in reality they couldn’t exist without Her Indoors serving him supper and washing his socks).

Empirical studies have shown that in the work arena women make infinitely better managers. Their managerial style is more democratic. They are likely to consult others and involve employees in decision-making. Women prefer to maintain an atmosphere of community, rather than an autocratic hierarchy.

Of course women get ripped off more often and slagged off more often and disobeyed more often. The reason is easy to explain. It is easy to rip-off someone who is avoiding a confrontational stance.

Success, for women, usually means getting along with everybody. For this reason they lay themselves open to being taken advantage of by avoiding confrontation.

Even the meaning of conflict and the means that seem natural to deal with it are fundamentally different for men and women.

Men and women don’t only play by different rules. They play different games. What game is it that makes a male server belch in a female server’s face?

A few weeks ago, I timidly asked the acting manager if we were all in. I pointed out that I was the low man on the totem pole. I was yelled at as though I were a Standard Three pupil although I have more degrees than a thermometer and I have interviewed princes and kings.

When the same question was asked of the same acting manager by a male server, the male server was rewarded with an extra table. Either the acting manager has animus towards me in which case he is not being fair, or, the male server’s demands are taken more seriously than my timid request.

When I was in the newsrooms in London there wasn’t such drama.

In the newsrooms I have had female news editors that had grit and guts and held their own in what was then, a predominately male-dominated world.

Don’t get me wrong. Of course I love all my co-workers dearly.

But clearly, men and women speak not different dialects, but different genderlects.

Men talk to preserve their independence (so-called) and assert their status in the hierarchical order. Thus they will tell you how they red-flagged someone in the bar; how they told a customer there was nothing wrong with the pork chop; how they challenged the State Trooper who pulled them over etc. etc.

Women are not that bothered about how they appear. They don’t mind self-deprecating humour. They aren’t flexing their sociological muscles. They will say “I think that woman on fourteen hates me!”

(Most male servers automatically think that all the customers they serve are charmed or a little in love with them.)

Then there’s the thorny issue of cash.

For men, possession of money is power, sexual prowess even. Why else would the male servers chant “I made more money than yoo-oo tonight. Just want you to know I made more than you-oo.”

Doesn’t this smack of ‘I’m the king of the castle’ playground behavior?

For women – or for this one at any rate – money simply represents security and not being dependent on others. When a female server gets a bad tip she will agonize about it. “I thought they were happy. I know the sweetbreads took a long time to come out,” etc. etc.

When a man gets a bad tip the response is usually: “Jerk!”

The key issue for men is retaining their independence (or the illusion of it).

How many women have been left in the wake of a man who just wanted to be free? When a man wants to be free he wants freedom from obligation, the relief of feeling claustrophobic and freedom from responsibilities. These are all regressive reasons, characteristic of infantile thinking.

When women discuss freedom, they mean not having to worry about their husband’s dinner or who is going to car pool to yoga.

Generally I’m with Erica Jong on this one.

Maleness is wonderful, really, isn’t it honey? Perfect denial of reality.

On Friendship

09 Saturday Nov 2013

Posted by janiallan in Friendship, Jani Allan, My Grilling Life

≈ 8 Comments

I think my Pomeranians have taught me much about friendship.

After a gruelling shift I walk down the lane in the violin case dark to my little apartment. My footsteps quicken. I peep through the window and there they are, waiting expectantly.

They are greeted in order of seniority. Breeze (aka Tallulah Wiggles), whirls like a top spins waiting to be picked up. China hasn’t quite mastered the full-spin so she does a ballerina three-quarter turn.

Molly, agitated with delight, runs into the other room and picks up a toy, squeaking it excitedly. She promenades around the apartment, beeping it while I prepare their late-night supper

After half an hour in the company of my pups – interesting how God is dog spelled backward – the cares of the day boil down to sediment. Often times I will look up from my computer keyboard or a book to see Breeze gazing at me with the consummate devotion of a Believer.

I am so humbled by her adoration that it makes me a better self to be. Those who know me will testify that I am the best Pom Mom in the world. While I wear schmattas from the Gap, my little girls have real shearling coats. At night, when the last tweet has been sent, the peace plant has been spoken to and I am about to switch off my bedside light, I look at the three small furry sleeping soundly on their designated areas on the bed, and I think my life is as beautiful as a Beethoven Sonata.

I may have made questionable judgements about those I thought were friends. I have, in main had rotten luck with men. But my pups fill me with a kind of constant ecstasy. Everything they do amuse, entertains or comforts me. How many people can you say that about?

In my self-imposed exile in America the silence from some of my soi-disant friends has been deafening.

Of course there have been rare exceptions. One friend and her daughter came to see me in America. They arrived shortly after 8.am on 9/11. As they drove across the Verrazano Bridge in New York they saw the Twin Towers collapsing. We will be forever friends – even if months go by without us speaking.

I am blessed to have a friend in Missouri. We speak three or four times a day. She is the remote witness to my life. As unselfish as the wind, she listens to the trivial details of my life and we laugh together. She is a friend for all seasons. My young friend (now a short gallop away from Blenheim Palace) continues to surprise me with his intuition and generosity.

Great friendships don’t happen in flashes. They ignite slowly and burn steadily until a great fire of warmth wraps you in its cloak.

Perhaps I have erred in my choice of friends because anyone can be a friend when you are at the top of your game and you can provide food and drink and amusing banter.

It is easy to find people who will kill time with you.

The trick, I think, is to find those who wish to live time with you.

On Monday night I took the Poms to my friends Dee and her husband. The plan was to let the pups run in Yang Chin meadow. Four Temple dogs and three poms… It was a sight to warm any dog-lover’s heart. We drank champagne at the fireside and Dee played the harp.

Later, much later, on arrival home, I thought I had lost China. Immediately I felt like a switchboard with all my nerves on Emergency Alert.

I raced up and down the sleeping streets calling her name. China! China! Chahooey! Chahooey!

Panic-stricken, I called Dee. I knew that although night’s shutter board was still down, she would hop in her car and help me search for my child. Now THAT’S a friend.

In the end, China was found sitting placidly between the screen door and the wooden door. Of course we use the term ‘friend’ loosely. I have friends with whom I natter happily but would never dream of calling if I was in real trouble. It would be an imposition.

I have ‘’first responder friends’’ – those who are on speed-dial for when I have to be dragged to hospital.

I have a friend in Australia who has been my confidante for more than thirty years. At the outset of our friendship, I fancied I was something of a mentor to him. As the years passed the roles have reversed entirely. Although considerably my junior, now it is to him I turn for life-advice. It is his email addie that I search for and press send when I have good news.

I haven’t seen him since he lived in the marvelous villa in Bantry Bay and I lived in an apartment the size of a throat lozenge in Clifton.

But I know that when I see him we will take up like a piece of knitting those circumstances forced us to lay aside. Every stitch will be in place. We will remember the intricate pattern and our souls will continue to knit together.

If I were to draw up a manifesto on the rules of friendship it would start as follows:
1. Your friend is for your growth and for the deepening of your spirit.

2. If your friend intentionally damages your spirit this friend will also coil around your limbs and crush you.

3. Friendship is about sharing – laughter, pleasures and the little things because in the little things, ‘‘the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.”

Kahlil Gibran wrote one of the best explanations of friendship ever.

He wrote

Your friend is your needs answered.

He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.

And he is your board and your fireside. For you come to him with your hunger.

And you seek him for peace.

ends

You can also read this blog at janiallan.com

In Praise of Youth

24 Wednesday Jul 2013

Posted by janiallan in Age, Friendship, Jani Allan, My Grilling Life, Youth

≈ 14 Comments

Fame is a vapour, popularity an accident and riches take wings. The only certainty is ageing. Getting older is like being fined for something you didn’t mean to do. Since I am on the wrong side of twenty-five. All right, thirty-five. I find myself in a curious situation. With one or two exceptions, I am not, it seems capable of friendships with people of my age. They are secure and boredom flourishes when you feel safe. It is a symptom of security. When they invite you for supper they show off relentlessly. “He buys all my clothes for me. Do you like this ring? He chose the diamond. Had it reset. He won’t let me cook. He does it all.” You are forced to take a tour of the house, each room accompanied by a before and after explanation. “THAT over THERE was a tiny little window and then we decided to OPEN IT ALL UP…” etc etc . You sit on the patio with self-pity rising inside you like a pair of wings. You have no-one in your life who buys you clothes or cooks for you.

I have yet to find an American chum who can be counted on for a jorl. (And yes, I do request acknowledgement for the fact that I coined the phrase jorl. (*Not to be confused with jawl which rhymes with brawl.) They are not up for midnight jaunts to the local pub for ‘one and done’ after a shift because they are watching re-runs of EastEnders. They don’t drink because they are diabetic and in any case the sulfites in wine gives them a headache. They have one small sherry before supper. They don’t eat giant slices of pizza because it gives them acid reflux (whatever that is) and too much salt causes oedema. Being with people of my age depresses me. People of my age are knitting bootees for their umpteenth grandchild. They are always going in for colonoscopies. They refuse to come with me to see Pink Floyd. (“Are you nuts? The traffic will be impossible!”) The only thing they exert is caution.

My co-workers, on the other hand, are more fun. They live life at a helter-skelter pace, go kayaking in the moonlight, drive to New York or Atlantic City on a whim – even if it’s raining shuttlecocks. One pretty boy insists that when he is a famous model, he will buy me a baby blue Rolls-Royce. Or is it a Bentley? Optimism such as this is marvellous to be around. As the old German proverb goes “Youth is a period when we believe many things that are not true, in old age we doubt many truths.”

According to the Seven Essene Mirrors of Relationship about which Gregg Braden writes so eloquently, the mystery of the Third Mirror has to do with reflections of loss. “As you journey through the waking dream that is your life, pieces of you may be lost, innocently given away or taken away by those who have power over you. These portions of you are your compromises, exchanged for surviving your experience of life.“

The pattern of losing, giving away or having it taken away is a path I know well.

To the degree that you have experienced losses to survive, there remain emptinesses waiting to be filled. The voids are like empty charges. When you encounter someone with a charge complementing parts of you that have been lost, their charge is a gift from the universe.

My bestie is a kid about a third of my age who succeeded where many others failed. He inspired me to write this little blog. The friend who understands you creates you.

He is a brilliant linguist, recently graduated, and has the kind of poetic soul, limitless curiosity about the world and compassion that men will grow to envy. Despite the fact that we have never met – he is almost in constant motion – now in Genève, now in Jerusalem, soon in Spain – but a recent kindness was putting a prayer for me in the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.

I have pondered often on our friendship. Perhaps he is the embodiment of the Third Essene mirror. He brings to my life that which I have lost, given away, had taken away from me or forgotten within myself.

Perhaps I find companionship with the young moderns because in the end youth has to do with spirit, not age.

As Henry Miller remarked “Men of seventy and eighty are often more useful than the young. Theirs is the real youth.”

Jani Allan

Jani Allan
Follow My Grilling Life – Jani Allan on WordPress.com

Follow Jani Allan on Twitter

My Tweets

Blog Stats

  • 1,043,384 hits

Recent Posts

  • Crimes and Misdemeanors
  • The Freedoms that Come with Age
  • Calorific waves and a botanic feast in Philadelphia
  • The Soundtrack of my Life
  • Four Christmases: I still have the brooch

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Recent Comments

Ingrid on Crimes and Misdemeanors
Chisenga on Jani writes to Melissa Ba…
failong on The Soundtrack of my Life
failong on Crimes and Misdemeanors
Adam on Jani writes to Melissa Ba…

Archives

  • August 2016
  • December 2015
  • March 2015
  • January 2015
  • December 2014
  • September 2014
  • November 2013
  • September 2013
  • August 2013
  • July 2013
  • June 2013
  • May 2013
  • April 2013

Categories

  • Age
  • Charles Saatchi
  • Charlton Heston
  • Death
  • Easter
  • Friendship
  • Jani Allan
  • Margaret Thatcher
  • Melissa Bachman
  • My Grilling Life
  • Paula Deen
  • Table manners
  • The Great Gatsby
  • Youth

Meta

  • Register
  • Log in
  • Entries feed
  • Comments feed
  • WordPress.com

Goodreads

Buy Jani’s memoir, Jani Confidential

http://www.amazon.com/Jani-Confidential-A-Memoir-Allan/dp/1431420212

Blog at WordPress.com.

  • Follow Following
    • My Grilling Life - Jani Allan
    • Join 215 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • My Grilling Life - Jani Allan
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar