3/13/05
How strange to find pride of workmanship in this seaside casino where the trick is to get rich without working; unless you consider work the mashing of a red lighted button that says "spin wheel".
Surrounding the buffet, where I'm chewing on a moist sticky sweet macaroon are hundreds of players symbolically throwing money at numbers in electronic machines — numbers painted on felt tabletops — numbers inscribed on wheels.
Gaming they call it, not gambling. Gaming is sport — gambling is a vice.
The idea is sort of a "Bread upon the Waters" concept but with the substitution of selfishness for generosity.
At the roulette wheel adjacent to the buffet, where I'm enjoying my macaroon, if I put a chip on number 11 — I'll get 35 chips back. All I need is for fate to favor 11 over thirty seven other numbers. But for the moment, my mind has landed on macaroons not roulette. While random circumstances might make number 11 a winner, somebody lovingly, wholeheartedly, purposefully has flavored, shaped, and baked this ambrosia of a cake.
Overwhelmed by the talent that produced something as real a a mouth-rewarding coconut cookie in this sea of emptiness, I poke my head in the kitchen: "Hey who made this spectacular macaroon?" A fat guy, wiping his hands on an apron steps forward and announces himself as the pastry chef. I babble about this celestial macaroon. (OK, I had a small rum and coke.) He responds with proper pride. He lovingly recites the ingredients. He adds with flashing eyes that they bake everything themselves.
This clearly is a man who enjoys his work and understands its value to the world. He may be the only winner in the casino. If I bump into Diogenes and his feebly flickering lantern I'll direct him to the macaroons and the artist who makes them.
