With my former boss, Dov Charney, once again in the
spotlight (I usually say ‘former boss’ meaning that I no longer work at
American Apparel, though in this case it could be interpreted as a reference to
his current displacement as said boss) I have been mulling over whether this
blog – whose very existence is based in the arguably least contentious
experiences of an overlong three-year career working for Dov – should chime in
to the media frenzy surrounding subjects of which I actually have some first
hand knowledge. In due form, I decided I would write a post that was as related
to Dov as this blog is related to food: which is inconsequentially.
The First Pâté de Foie Gras
My first introduction to foie gras was in Montreal
just two years ago at Alexandre’s on Peel Street. Directly across from
Les Cours Mont-Royal, where American Apparel has its Canadian offices,
French-owned Alexandre’s has carefully captured the Parisian brasserie look
with its dark interior, mirrored walls, red front, and the old men that have
spilled out from the upstairs cigar lounge, sitting so comfortably on the
terrace chairs - cigar in mouth - they look as though they have been sitting
there since the restaurant’s opening almost forty years ago. And they very
likely have.
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| Chez Alexandre, Montréal |
At the end of the summer, Dov would come to
Montreal to get a feel for the looming cold weather and put his mind to
planning the business’ upcoming winter season. We worked long hours on
marketing projects, the fall ads, the assortment and allocation of product,
along with whatever particularity on which Dov was currently focused (I believe
this was the year of reducing the aging inventory and improving the efficiency
of our shipping routes, or maybe it was watch standards). This work came in addition to our regular positions –
at this time mine was the managing of five stores, located in five different
cities, none of which were Montreal – so I gleefully looked forward to the
almost nightly offer of French cuisine that came well over twelve hours into my
work day, despite the delay it might cause to my shift’s end.
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| Watch Standards |
It was on the first of these occasions for me, in a
midnight meal so indulgent – with oysters, steak tartar, and lobster – that I dove
into the foie gras without a single thought for the cruelty in which it was
created. As a French-Egyptian, perhaps I can feign cultural loyalty to a French
delicacy adopted from ancient Egypt, but I do believe that would be an
embarrassing stretch of an argument to make. I was a vegetarian for most of my
life on the principle that I did not need to consume another living animal,
raised in ghastly conditions, for my own survival; but as the popularity of
local, free-range farm-to-table restaurants increased, so did my ability to
justify eating meat. On a parallel plane, on the notion that I was promoting
fair-wage labour, I had gone from an outspoken aversion to consumer culture, to
climbing up the ranks of a corporate ladder based on my previously undiscovered
ability of getting people to buy more stuff. The symbolism, then, of eating
foie gras for the first time with Dov Charney is not lost on me now, though I
am certain it was then.
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| A tired meal at Alexandre's, likely eyeing the foie gras. |
The Foie Gras Saga Continues
I am not well versed in the rules of etiquette, but
I do have a healthy fear of social impropriety, as arbitrary as my
understanding of that category of behaviours may be. Thus, in these shared
meals (meals with Dov almost always consisted of sharing plates chosen by him
for the whole table), I was careful to consume just shy of my fair share of the
portions. On one occasion, however, at a late night staff dinner at L’Express on St. Denis – another Montreal-French bistro – I watched painfully as the
foie gras, from which I had already consumed my self-calculated due ration, was
neglected by everyone else at the table. As the bill was being paid and my
colleagues stood up from their seats, my eyes darted around at them, certain
that someone else would see the madness of leaving such a large serving of
fattened duck liver behind. No one, however, did. I had to think quickly, and
in moments of panic where food is concerned, matters of etiquette become
dwarfed by my gluttonous nature. Standing by the table with my jacket
already on, I took the whole of the buttery pâté, carefully arranged it on a
piece of delicately toasted French bread, and furtively placed this rather
large combination into my mouth, raising my eyes to meet the downcast glare of
the head waiter. I turned away to avoid this judgement only to meet Dov’s
inquisitive look as he paused his cell phone conversation to ask me “What are
you doing? Are you still hungry?” to which all I could reply was “I didn’t want
it to go to waste” if only my mouth had not been too full to do anything but
grimace sheepishly.
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| L'Express, Montréal |
The Last Foie Gras
Enamoured with foie gras as I was, I could not pass
up the opportunity to order it whenever it was an option on the menu, and
perhaps I inclined my restaurant choices based on this infatuation, but who can
really say. I was happy to be travelling either alone or with a rotating cast
of coworkers that could not keep a count of my foie gras consumption. This love
affair reached a pinnacle of opulence one night in France, when I found myself
staying at the Cour des Loges, a five-star hotel converted from four Renaissance
homes in the heart of vieux-Lyon. I was still dazed by the glamour of my room
and its ensuite complete with Jacuzzi, when I stumbled across the alleyway (is
it an alley or a street? It’s hard to tell in these old European cities) to La Nef des Fous. Luckily my senses had been primed by the lavish décor of
the hotel so as not to be too offended by this restaurant’s eccentric
interior, which even featured a claw foot tub as a pond basin, goldfish and
all. I was eating the best foie gras in a city where foie gras comes standard
on every menu – and the
fall-off-the-bone sugar glazed orange infused duck legs were not bad either – as
I discussed my future at the company with the sous-boss, tempted by potential
positions of power and importance. Yet something did not sit well with me. It
wasn’t the foie gras - that went down with ease and not a trace of hesitation,
and was likely coating my stomach sufficiently to ignore the anxious malaise my
work was otherwise causing me. But a month in the foie-gras-less regions of
Scotland sobered me up to my reality and I vowed off of foie gras – and sales –
for life. I am proud to say I am four months clean, and it looks as though I
quit it all just in time.
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| La Nef des Fous |
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| La Nef des Fous |
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