The Script

As promised:

Café Boeuf script
Saturday, July 2, 2005

Garrison Keillor: ...and now here is Peter Schickele
with a word about the Café Boeuf.

Peter Schickele: I love the Café Boeuf because they
don't waste your time with a whole long list of
specials. You just come in and say what you want and
then they bring you something else. Just like in real
life. Bonjour, Andre!

Tim Russell: Eh? You're not sure about what?

PS: Never mind. Bring me a piece of beef, Andre.

TR: Aha. (FRENCH APPRECIATION) Beef, eh?

PS: I want beef. The flesh of the animal.

TR: Oui, monsieur.

PS: An animal who lived a rich and varied life, a life
of freedom, who was struck down suddenly in its prime
at a moment of passionate indiscretion.

TR: Excellent choice. (FRENCH CHUCKLING AS HE WRITES
DOWN ORDER)

PS: I'd like it very rare, seared on the outside by a
blinding flame and warm and red and pulsating on the
inside.

TR: You are a brave man, monsieur. I salute you! (HE
KISSES HIM TWICE ON EACH CHEEK) (FRENCH GIBBERISH, IN
SALUTE) A boeuf, extra rare. France is proud of you.
Here. A cigarette, monsieur.

PS: A cigarette?

TR: For flavor. For style. For the tragic sense of
life. Here. (STRIKES MATCH, PS INHALES DEEPLY,
EXHALES)

PS: Wow. That's my first cigarette in thirty years.

TR: It was good, no?

PS: I donno what my kids are going to think of me
smoking—

TR: We do not live our lives according to the rules of
children. Monsieur! We are men!!! (THREE FACE SLAPS)

PS: Thank you. I needed that.

TR: Pommes de terre, monsieur. Potatoes. How do you
wish your potatoes?

PS: How about boiled?

TR: Boiled potatoes? is this a German restaurant? eh??
is my name Heinrich?? am I wearing lederhosen, my
friend? is this a tuba in my hand??? is it???

PS: Sorry— sorry— No— I want my potatoes to be dug
from the earth by barefoot women and washed in a cold
mountain stream and then baked in a pit by
snaggle-toothed crones muttering ancient incantations.

TR: Tres bien. (MUTTERING FRENCH, AS HE WRITES THIS
DOWN) And a vegetable.

PS: Beans. French-style beans.

TR: Monsieur, the beans are French. It is not
necessary to refer to them as French—

PS: Right.

TR: They already are French.

PS: Of course.

TR: The beans do not need your recognition in order to
be French beans—

PS: No.

TR: They are well aware of it themselves.

PS: I'm sure.

TR: And we do not say, "French-style" —

PS: No.

TR: If it is French, then of course it has style.

PS: Yes.

TR: The style is assumed.

PS: I'm sorry.

TR: I don't accept your apology, I wish satisfaction.
En guarde. (PS & TR SWORD FIGHT, THRUSTS, PARRIES, TEN
SECONDS, THEN.....) Enough!!! Tres bien!!! Good. I
salute you, mon ami. (FOUR CHEEK KISSES) So you wish
beans.

PS: Beans that are sensuous, irridescent, glittering
with dew. Sliced and slashed with tremendous ferocity
and carelessly tossed into a pool of butter sizzling
in a saucepan and braised for mere seconds and then
swiftly brought to the table, half raw, half scorched.

TR: Very good. (FRENCH MUTTERING, WRITING DOWN ORDER)
And the wine?

PS: I don't care. A French wine.

TR: If you do not care, monsieur, I don't want you —
go — (FRENCH DISMISSALS)

PS: No— (IN COUNTERPOINT TO FRENCH) I do care—I care
deeply. — I must have it—

TR: Very well. What would you like?

PS: A red wine—

TR: Vin rouge—excellent. (FRENCH AESTHETIC PLEASURE)

PS: A Pomerol.

TR: Pomerol???? Non, non, non. Too— (DISMISSIVE
FRENCH)

PS: A Merlot?

TR: A what?

PS: Never mind.

TR: You said, "Merlot"?

PS: I'm sorry.

TR: Is that the name of a detective?

PS: It just slipped out.

TR: Philip Merlot?

PS: How about a Chateaunneuf du Pape?

TR: Non, non, non....not with beef. It would insult
the beef.

PS: A Zinfandel....

TR: A who?

PS: Never mind.

TR: Is that a composer?

PS: How about a Bordeaux?

TR: Aha. (FRENCH AETHETIC MUSCULARITY, MANLY
SUPERLATIVES)

PS: A Bourdeaux it is, then. A 1988.

TR: 1988!!! (ECSTATIC FRENCH)

PS: From a little village in the mountains, on the dry
side of the mountain, where the soil is stony and yet
complex and subtle, and the grapes are crushed under
the feet of mature women singing and clapping and
dancing, and the wine is effusive and yet ironical,
muscular but sensuous.

TR: (FOLLOWS HIM, WRITING IT DOWN IN FRENCH)—
beautiful. I'll be right back.

PS: Andre?

TR: Oui, Monsieur Schickele?

PS: What are you actually going to bring me, Andre?

TR: I'll do my best for you, monsieur—

PS: What am I likely to actually get, Andre? The
truth.

TR: Ground beef, broiled, on a bun. Some cheese.
Pommes frite. And a Pinot Noir.

PS: Okay. I just wanted to know.

TR: You're not insulted?

PS: Hmmmm. Yes. I think I am. En garde!!!!
(SWORDFIGHT, PS & TR THRUSTS AND PARRIES, UNDER.....)

GK: The Café Boeuf. Where they're passionate about
food— and wise to the ways of the world (GK & PS & TR
KNOWING FRENCH LAUGH) (PLAYOFF)