Dream Log: Pasta Competition

In a decaying commercial neighborhood in an American city, amid strip malls which were going under, a TV network had bought three glass-walled fast food restaurants and converted them into fancier restaurants for the purpose of a competition where a chef and their staff would move into each of the restaurants and make fancy pasta dishes. I was one of the chefs, Johnny Depp was one of the others, and I don't remember anything at all about the third one. COVID-19 didn't exist in this dream. So in that way, it was sort of like being a Republican.

In the dream I was a renowned chef of Italian cuisine, and I was annoyed that Depp had the nerve to enter this competition against me. In the first round, we had a short period of time in which to prepare several pasta-based entrees. I made several traditional Italian entrees. When I saw the menu which Depp presented to the judges after he was done, at first I wondered whether his kitchen had been out of protein and dairy, and whether he had just used a small amount of lightly-cooked vegetables and a whole bunch of spice in a desperate attempt to compensate for the missing ingredients. 

However, to my astonishment, Depp was awarded first place in this round, and I came in second. Oh well, I thought, those are the perks of being a world-beloved movie star. But then I tasted a couple of his entrees, and was astonished again, because they tasted very, very good. I wondered, Did he have a ringer? A world-class sous-chef, perhaps? I reached out for info to my many contacts in the culinary world, and found out that, in this dream, in addition to being a huge movie star, he was also, in fact, a well-respected chef specializing in varieties of East Asian cuisine which were not well-known in the West.

In the first round the only rule had been to prepare several pasta-based entrees. In the second round we were to prepare several pasta-based entrees in which pork was prominently featured. In the dream, I was known as an Italian chef. Fewer people knew that I also was well-versed in very eclectic global cuisine. Well, a lot more people were going to find out, because this competition was being recorded for a television network, and in the second round, I and my staff worked hard and pulled off several magnificent Chinese-French-Thai creations. And once again, Depp got first place and I came in second. This meant that it was very unlikely that I would be able to overtake Depp in the third and final round to win to the overall competition. 

And I was not taking it well. After the second round, we had a session of on-camera interviews, being shot in a building which looked as if it might be a strip mall which was in the process of being demolished or converted into something else. The front of the building was mostly glass. And if it had once been a strip mall, the walls between the individual stores had been knocked out, so that a long and narrow space remained.

Depp was being very gracious and polite. I was not. He said very complimentary things on-camera about me and the food I made and about my whole life in general. He came over to me and held out his hand for a handshake. I didn't shake his hand. Instead, I told him that he looked as if it had been several years since he had taken a bath, and advised him to stay downwind of any judges sampling his cuisine.

Depp had been perfectly nice until then. Even now he kept smiling, but he retorted right away by saying that I looked as if it had been several years since I had been able to run a hundred yards without stopping to rest partway through. 

"Touchee," I said, and then I ripped off my microphone, stormed out of the building, wearing heavy winter clothes because it was winter and we were somewhere in the northern US, turned up a long, steep hill and began running very fast, into a stiff headwind. Even still I ran uphill for a long longer than a hundred yards, just in case any of the TV cameras were following me.

And, once AGAIN, just as in quite a few other dreams I've had in the past several years, the running felt so real that I thought to myself, "Okay, it's NOT just a dream, I really CAN run pretty darn well!"

But, once again, after yet another fairly glorious, long dream-run, I woke up, and was confused for a little while about the running until I figured out, Okay, that was just another one of those running dreams. Could I run a hundred yards right now? I don't know. 

I ought to try sometime.

Dream Log: Reporter in Philadelphia

I dreamed I was a newspaper reporter who lived and worked in downtown Philadelphia. I had some sort of unexplained gift of making myself almost completely unnoticeable, so that I could get up close to people and listen in on conversations they thought were private. Some of my colleagues in journalism referred to me as "the Ghost."

In the lobby of a huge skyscraper was a white-tablecloth restaurant patronized by people who were very expensively-dressed. The restaurant's dining area was separated from the rest of the lobby only by a waist-high partition, with no wall or windows. Against a wall across the lobby from the restaurant, a homeless man wearing an orange-and-black checkered overcoat sat on the floor. Two expensively-dressed men approached him and spoke with him, and I did my unnoticeable thing and listened in.

"Does the restaurant ever give you food?" one of the expensively-dressed men asked the homeless man. He was tall and broad-shouldered and bore a slight physical resemblance to David Harbour.

The other expensively-dressed man was nondescript.

"No," the homeless man answered. "Some of the customers are very nice. They'll get leftovers in a doggy bag and bring it out and give it to me. Good stuff. The duck is out of this world, but all of the leftovers I've had from this place have been outstanding. But the restaurant itself seems to have an official get-rid-of-me policy. The maître d' especially seems to have a hard-on for me."

"That's too bad."

"I can see his point of view," the homeless man said. "Some restaurants will give you food, but I can see why they might not want to. They pay God only knows how much for the rent here, and they see me as bad for the ambiance."

The next day, the two expensively-dressed men-- silk suits, both of them -- were at the same place at the wall where the homeless man usually was, but the homeless man wasn't there. They were looking across the lobby into the restaurant and smiling. The homeless man was there, seated at a table in the dining area, scrubbed and brushed and clipped and clean-shaven and wearing a silk suit, looking like three million bucks.

Suddenly, the maître d', holding the overcoat the homeless man had been wearing the day before, charged up to where he was sitting, shouting something which was unintelligible from where we stood across the lobby, threw the overcoat at the homeless man's feet and literally chased him all over the dining area. The two expensively-dressed men ran across the lobby and into the restaurant and got between the maître d' and the homeless man. I stayed back and watched. The two expensively-dressed men and the maître d' were all yelling at the same time. I couldn't make out what anyone was saying. The homeless man wasn't saying anything. He just looked embarrassed.

Finally, the yelling died down a little, and the two expensively-dressed men stood protectively on either side of the homeless man and walked him out of the restaurant, out of the skyscraper's lobby, around the corner and into an only slightly less-fancy restaurant nearby, where they all three sat down together for lunch.