Originally I wanted to show you all how to make a nice dinner, but… it has not gone as planned. A wonderful artist named Barlee drew a picture of the ensuing chaos.

Compare this to Japan, where an apple costs at least ¥398 (about $4.25 at time of this writing). That’s one apple. You can see it off to the right. It’s a beautiful apple, uniformly frosted red all around, and it’s pretty big, big enough to make me spread my fingers a bit when I hold it, but it’s just one apple all the same.

Truly, I live in a land of plenty.

On the other hand, I wonder sometimes if we pay something for that abundance. It’s easy to think of food as a commodity, to think that one apple is the same as another, but that really isn’t the case. Food is a biological product, the end-result of some living thing and the environment around it, its lineage, handling, and care. For example, the Red Delicious is very red, but it’s only nominally delicious, because it’s been bred to be harvested early, in enormous quantities, and trucked across the continent. On the other end of the spectrum, Japanese farmers have made a science out of growing delicious, picture-perfect apples. That apple was simply better, crisper, sweeter, and better-balanced than anything I’ve ever bought at Safeway (or Whole Paycheck, for that matter, or even farmer’s markets and freeway-side stands), and I would love the chance to indulge in more, if only once in a while. At $4.25 each, Japanese apples could get almost as expensive as a bad Starbuck’s habit.

In Japan, though, that was more-or-less a standard apple, and by Japanese standards, it was quite reasonably priced. I found apples just like mine in every grocery store I visited, at train station fruit vendors, and sometimes in department stores and even 7-11s. Japanese consumers expect apples of that quality, and they’re willing to pay for them, so there are no cheap apples, only precious, semi-rare treats. Here in the United States, I’m guessing, we don’t and aren’t, so apples are cheap and plentiful, everyday in every meaning of the word.

I wonder, what does this say about them? What does it say about us?

1. Tahdig! I think that only makes sense if you’re one of the three people I spoke with about it, but it’s awesome anyways.
2. Café Verführen has great souvenirs. Their shot glasses are etched, not printed, and their Sunday-morning gift boxes are copied from real vintage labels (seriously).
3. Ryusei is never ever without less than immaculately dressed. I think I’m a little bit jealous.
4. I wish I had taken up Tiff’s invitation to go watch Supernatural on Saturday night. I got some ideas for First and Last and Always that I needed to write down, and I didn’t see her at all on Sunday. She seemed like a good person to know.
5. In general, wish I were better about collecting phone numbers and email addresses.
6. The official YaoiCon “bishounen” events – Bingo, the Auction, and the (ahem) Bishounen Spanking Inferno raffle – can be a lot of fun in their own rights, but… (I never finished this sentence, and I wish I could remember what I was thinking when I started it. The events are fun.
7. Mostly for DreamSkaype, I’ve uploaded a picture of my special badge from my service as a waiter for the YaoiCon Café (not Café Verführen) back in 2007. Being called a “bishounen” feels like a compliment that I can’t properly accept, so I replaced it with something more comfortable.
8. I should bring Kelda another tribute offering of chocolate next year.
9. YaoiCon is always, at the same time, more and less expensive than I thought it would be.
10. …and then Buffy staked Edward. THE END!

Most YaoiCon attendees never visit the third floor of the hotel, unless they have rooms there. I don’t blame them. The con program doesn’t mention the treasure hidden up there. I don’t know whether this is a deliberate snub or one of those complications of printing schedules and hotel management, but it’s a shame either way. The third floor is home to Café Verführen, and I think it’s my favorite event at the con.

Full Disclosure: In the Fan Alley, I wound up exchanging cards with Matta’s real-life alter-ego, and she gave me a button with the Café Verführen logo. I gave her a Tybalt button in return, but take this how you will.

This is a fairly late review, mostly because I kept throwing out my earlier drafts. I don’t like rehashing old reviews, and most of what I said in last year’s writeup still holds true. It seems inadequate, though; there’s something magically captivating about the Café, something hard to pin down and describe. The experience is enchanting, somehow much more than the sum of its parts.

On one level, the Café is just that: a café. In that role, it’s one of the better places to eat at the convention. For about eight dollars, the hotel will hand you two thoroughly mediocre hot dogs from the warming tray, or a high-school-cafeteria hamburger and a bag of chips. For about the same price, the Café will serve you a plate of chicken teriyaki, with steamed vegetables that add color and balance out the softer textures of chicken and rice. Come the inevitable slow, lazy Sunday morning, the hotel will sell you the same hot dogs or hamburger, but the Café staff prepares a special prix-fixe menu, with pastries from a local bakery, tea sandwiches (your choice, salmon, cucumber, or a little of both), and little chocolate-dipped Belgian cookies.

I won’t say that it’s perfect, but its flaws are small and charming. Ryusei admits to a certain chronic tardiness. Hotel management hands down a few restrictions; I think Matta would like more fire in his kitchen. Still, I think my biggest personal complaint comes from the disappearance of mineral water from the dinner menu. It’s an incredibly small thing, totally understandable, but I like mineral water, and I feel compelled to complain about something, just so that this post will not turn into an uninterrupted wall of effusive praise.

In general, though, the Café is a wonderful at-con retreat for those who would prefer to enjoy their food rather than merely to refuel, to dine rather than to feed.

That’s not the magic of Café Verführen, though. Café Verführen is more than just a place to eat.

Give the staff a little bit of your time, and Café Verführen comes alive.

In one of my earlier drafts, I wrote: I get the feeling that neither Matta nor Ryusei would be satisfied with “good enough”. Matta would object, I think, because it would offend his work ethic, Ryusei because it would offend his ego. This says a lot about the staff and their dedication to improving on what they’ve done before, but more importantly, it says a lot about the characters that they’ve created, and the way they’ve led me to relate to them. They have history and motives, endearing quirks and real depth.

When poor Sebastian called in with the mother of all sick excuses, quarantined at Narita under suspicion of carrying H1N1, I had to laugh, because it’s a very clever way to handwave that someone couldn’t make it to the con… but part of me wanted to know that he’d be OK and arrive home soon. Jacob’s dry aura of frustration makes it easy to see why he has long talks with the company counselor, and Nishi’s affectionate concern seems only natural when he promises his friend a ride after work. Faced with such an extreme staff shortage, even Matta was pulled out of the kitchen to wait tables, and I didn’t have to stay afterwards to know that he would be grumbling about it for hours.

Ryusei hung out a Help Wanted sign, attracting the attention of “Bob” (actually another Sebastian, of Kuroshitsuji fame). “Bob” had a little trouble adjusting, but he seemed to get in the spirit of things quickly enough. His various torments and indignities were fun and endearing, and I hope to see “Bob” return in the future, not only because he likes my kitty ears, but because he’s become a part of the Café Verführen story.

That’s the thing that sets Café Verführen apart, the thing that makes me place my reservations the hour the guest list opens, the thing that makes me rewrite my review over and over, trying to do justice to all the people and all the planning involved. Fanservice is easy, but chemistry is hard. Chemistry is more powerful, though, more valuable, and ultimately more fulfilling, and it’s there that the Café really shines. It doesn’t need to take its clothes off to enchant its guests; it can do that with plot and substance, refinement and understated charm. It can pull me into its little dream-world story, and it can make me care.

Café Verführen’s magic is very simple. It’s summed up in just five words, and as long as it doesn’t change, I’ll keep coming back for years.

Café Verführen makes me believe.

We cannot even blame the economy, because sunshine is free!

This is a very large problem, in need of great consideration. I think it is too big for one small catboy to fix.

Still, that does not mean I cannot try, especially not if I can get some help from all of you. As an exercise in public health, I would like everyone to join me in a little bit of solar appreciation. The next time a day of sunshine comes to your area, please make for yourself a nice lunch. Of course this should be a lunch of healthy, nutritious food, but I think it is best to avoid “diet” food, because I would like this also to be an exercise in public happiness, and “diet” food is usually not very tasty.

Then, take this lunch outside, find a nice place to sit, and eat it. Bring your friends! Bring children if you have them, or just set a good example. Make sure that anyone you bring has made a lunch, too, or bring enough to share.

That is all, really. Take a small step in the right direction.

Always,
~Catboy

( The art is by Jandruff! )

The Plain Dealer has an interview:

Technically, I suppose, it is two Bonks on the Head.

I think everyone can be a little happier knowing that there are such brave and spirited people in the world.

That is, everyone except the bad guys being bonked on the head. That is okay. Maybe next time they will think twice before being so rude.

Always,
~Catboy =^.^=

To visit, I had to leave the frantic, hurried energy of the con; it takes up an inconspicuous, well-furnished suite tucked away on the third floor of the hotel. There was a small line waiting by the door when I arrived, but Café Verführen seats only twenty-two at capacity, which kept the group small and patient. Everyone was seated in short order, more or less on time. I can’t imagine that the two cafés attract substantially different clientele, so I’m left crediting the room’s accoustics for keeping the background noise to a low murmur. The quiet was a very nice touch; even when the evening ran a little behind schedule, the atmosphere stayed relaxed and graciously unhurried.

Having experienced (and enjoyed) the (non-professional) host-café as both server and guest now, I have a hard time expressing how much I admire what Café Verführen has created. Details like that make the difference between a great event and a mediocre one, and the details are where they sweep the field. They’ve created something full of little refinements, tiny considerations of the nuances of their guest experience. Some of them are as simple as sheets of paper; the menus weren’t printed on plain white bond, and they weren’t stack-cut to quarter-sheet. The drinks are served in glass, not Styrofoam. Those sound small, almost inconsequential, and on one level they are, but on another they’re tactile, hardwired directly to the brain, and I felt the difference even through gloves. Those choices have weight, in a very literal way, and even if they weren’t made consciously, weight has meaning; it feels like a natural manifestation of a commitment to do things right.

I felt a sense of pride coming from the staff – not arrogance, just confident, fannish pride, a friendly sort of Look at this wonderful thing we’ve made to share with you – and I think it’s well-justified. Our food came arranged on small, comfortable plates, simple and well-executed. One of my tablemates ordered a cocktail, some beautifully colorful concoction decorated with lemon and cherry, and mentioned that, even half-consumed, it looked like it had come out of some food-porn magazine studio.

N.B.: not all of the cocktails are fancy or proper; one I noticed consisted of a can of soda topped in whipped cream. I’m sure there’s a story behind that. This is almost expected when the sealed packets on the tables are not, in fact, moist towelettes.

As food-centric a person as I can be, though, I have to say that host cafés should not be slightly-pricey at-con restaurants; the hosts should be their star attractions. Again, Café Verführen shines through in the details. Almost by necessity the YaoiCon Café’s boys exist in vacuums, apart from one another, if they step in-character at all; it’s hard to construct a milieu where so many different characters (from so many different worlds and genres) can wait tables side by side. On the other hand, Café Verführen has a unified sense of identity, and it gives the staff room to create not only distinct, in-context personas, but also chemistry.

For example, the chef is temperamental about his kitchen, and he commonly shouts at waiters and underlings who get in his way, even threatening them with bodily harm. Sometimes he even locks horns with his half-brother, the owner; in perfect YaoiCon fashion they manage to kiss and make up once their tempers cool. Even in lower-key moments it’s hard to escape the feeling that these characters have lives that their guests never see; Jacob, one of the servers, is an artist in his off-time, and he can’t resist signing the desserts he serves, or decorating them with flourishes and hearts. In one-off comments, in-jokes, and body-language, the staff suggest that we’re only seeing a few scattered pages out of some longer, cohesive narrative. As much as Jacob likes to sulk and mutter about the drama surrounding him, I think that even he would admit that it’s a pleasure to be drawn in, at least for a little while.

All this said, Café Verführen isn’t perfect; for all its polished details, it misses one or two, slipping out of character here and there to remind us of its charming, fannish roots. It might be better that way; I think I might feel exploited afterwards, almost offended, if it were too professional.

I’m gushing a little bit, I know, because it struck a chord with me, something more important than a light dinner and an evening’s entertainment. Last year, after serving, I said that our guests deserved better than what we offered. For this visit, at least, Café Verführen was the better that I hoped we could have given.

10 – Eat food. Not too much. Go out of your way to find some that is tasty and nutritious. Gooey cinnamon rolls are tasty but not very nutritious. Plain chicken breast is nutritious but not very tasty. Fresh fish, well-cooked vegetables, and fruit are both!

9 – People are surprisingly willing to trade all sorts of wonderful things for small green pictures of boring-looking men. Try not to promise to trade someone more pictures than you actually have. Very much sadness comes from thinking that you will get more in the future, and then not actually getting as many as you expected.

8 – All catgirls are pretty, though sometimes this is not obvious until you find the right perspective. This is a good idea to remember and very important, much the way that it is important to walk all the way around a banyan tree, or to take a few steps back and appreciate Kīlauea from a safe and respectful distance.

7 – There is a special kind of tough-pretty catgirl that is especially charming and makes you feel warmer and fuzzier than normal. Be very careful of these, because they are fast on their feet and can hug you with surprising force.

6 – Notice that I have said to be careful, not necessarily to be wary.

5 – Have an appropriate outfit for every occasion, and especially have a distinctive hat if you are a hat-wearing kind of person. Good attire inspires confidence.

4 – Always remember to take breaks for cocoa. Most problems do not feel so bad if you have enough cocoa. If you are allergic to chocolate, take breaks for lemonade instead. Lemonade is tasty both hot and cold, and works much the same way.

3 – Make a special effort to brighten at least one person’s day, every day. It will make your corner of the world a happier place.

2 – Have candy. Offer it freely.

1 – Remember this always: wherever you may wander, there you are.

The scent is called Jacqueline, and I have missed it for far too long.

I don’t know how long I breathe her, only that she holds me just as close, only that she breathes me, too, only that her short, dark hair feels softer than silk against my cheek when she nuzzles at the edge of my jaw. She stands up on tiptoe, bringing my kisses lower, to her nose, to her lips, and her eyes sparkle in amusement, silent laughter at my gentle touch. It’s a challenge, or maybe an invitation; her body presses against me, light as a dream, daring me to pick her up, daring me to catch her against the wall and kiss her hard, daring me to leave her flushed and gasping for breath.

She’s just a little bit too tempting, and I cradle her in my arms, cupping her pert little rear in my hand. “If you keep doing this, one day you’ll lose more than just your breath,” I whisper, and she purrs her contentment back at me.

I feel her nibble on my ear, tracing her tongue around its the edge. “Some nights, you’re ready to lose it all.”

A knife-edged frisson of arousal races up my spine, splintering into a little burst of excitement beneath her tongue. It has a name, and it is Jacqueline. I whisper it against her neck, unable to say any more.

We cuddle on a mess of pillows, feeding one another. The strawberries I dip into confectioner’s sugar, admiring their crystalline sparkle before pressing them between her lips. She makes tangelos open like flowers, spreading their segments like petals, and we pluck them away, one at a time. They burst into flavor as we bite them, full of juice, wetting our lips and fingers. Jacqueline suckles mine clean, and I nip gently at hers, and then at her lips. At first I’m only barely kissing her, tasting the wetness on her lips with a stroke of my tongue, but each time she melts against me, just a little closer, and each time I kiss her just a little more deeply.

Before the second tangelo disappears, I barely even notice the citrus anymore. Something else compels me, something sweeter than any nectar. It is the taste of Jacqueline, Jacqueline and her desire, and even as I taste her, my hunger only grows.

The last bite of fruit is hers, but she shakes her head, smiling as she takes it from the plate. “For you,” she says, squirming beneath me. She bares her neck to me, once she’s comfortable, and bright, golden-orange juice drips from between her fingers. It spatters against her naked skin, pooling against her collarbone, and a single fat droplet begins its long, lonely journey down her body, disappearing beneath her blouse.

“Jacqueline,” I whisper. “Jacqueline. It’s such an honor.”

She answers in her stifled, musical whimpers as I begin to lap the juice away from her throat. Her buttons are clumsy beneath my trembling, excited fingers, but soon I ease away her shirt, and then the bra beneath, enchanted by the milky smooth skin I reveal. I hadn’t dreamed it could be so soft, or her scent so much more feminine. Tiny, pink nipples cap her small, perfect breasts, coming to attention as I circle them with my fingers, coating them in the nectar I’ve stolen from her skin.

In turn I nurse from each one, bathing them with my tongue and slow, suckling kisses. I draw no milk from her, only low, gasping moans, and she curls her fingers into my hair, holding me close. “Jacqueline,” I whisper, teasing her skin with the warm caress of air. “So very perfect.”

I creep downwards, exploring the long, taut muscles of her belly, my sweet, liquid guide fading into the faint, natural taste of her skin. My kisses are careful, barely an inch apart, and long enough to feel her grow hot beneath my lips and hands. A shiver runs up her spine as I come to the low rise of her jeans, lingering there a moment longer.

“Jacqueline?” I look up to her, unsure of how much further she wants to go. My heart pounds against the wall of my chest. She swallows hard and nods, hooking my fingers into her waistband.

The buttons on her fly open as I pull them apart, counting their slow, inevitable pops, counting one… two… three. She gasps as I peel the denim from her hips, twisting away from me in a playful, reflexive tease. A warm, appreciative growl escapes my throat, and I wrestle her back, holding her close, under my weight. Her panties are cotton, boy-cut and snug around her hips, the worn, soft black edged in pink. I hadn’t imagined her wearing these, not under those practical tomboy clothes, but suddenly I can’t think of her any other way.

I can feel her through the fabric, and taste her, too, when I guide her legs apart and lean downwards for the kiss. It makes her blush, exactly the way she did the first time I held her, exactly the same way she did when we slept together, still dressed but closer than we’d ever felt before. A harder kiss makes her blush a little more, but it’s the tentative brush of my tongue that makes her squeal. It’s the tart little hint of dampness I find that shakes my control, that reminds me of how painfully much I’ve wanted her, and for how very long.

The months of waiting come down hard, her scent and her taste and her warm tenderness too close, too much to resist. My world dissolves into Jacqueline. It dissolves into her nails digging into my skin, into the cold night air I feel as she pulls my shirt over my head. It dissolves into the soft rough denim and the smooth muscled thighs, into those impossibly perfect tan legs, writhing against the jeans left around her ankles. Most of all it dissolves into her voice, into her sweet little yelp as I nip her through her panties, her panting, babbling encouragement as I take the fabric in my teeth, and then her low, feral moan as I slide them down her thighs and creep back up, lapping at her warm, newly-naked skin. I’ve never wanted anyone so badly in my life.

I want to enjoy her a little longer, to nuzzle into her neat little delta of soft, dark-chocolate fuzz, but she pulls me up into a kiss, squeezing me closer as she tastes herself on my lips. “I’m ready now,” she purrs.

Suddenly I remember how tiny she feels in my arms, how delicate she seems sometimes. “This is forever, you know.”

“Yes.” She bites at the corner of her lip, considering. For a moment she looks up at me through her lashes, and I almost expect her to stop me. We’ve stopped before. She loves to tease.

This isn’t a tease, though, not this time, not tonight, not after the year we’ve been together. I feel her hands drift down my sides, long-fingered, gently eager as they undo my pants, pushing them down, over my hips.

She leans up, her voice just barely a purr against my ear, a breath of agony, a whisper of release. “That’s why it’s with you.” I feel her squeeze me close again, and she settles back against the pillows, her eyes glittering with silent anticipation.

And so the night begins, of course, with a kiss.

I don’t actually remember very much about him; I was five when I saw him last and he was buried thirteen years ago. He was a giant for a Chinese man, six feet tall even in his old age, and from stories I believe he was a kind and dignified man, if distant and bound by tradition. My mother tells me that he never held any of his grandchildren that came before me, only rarely held those after, and that I must have been his favorite from the way he indulged me when I came to visit.

I don’t remember this, though, because all adults are giants to five-year-olds and by the earliest I remember my cousins were already (I think) getting too big to hold. More than anything I remember that he smoked quite a lot, what brand I never knew, and that he kept a can of peanuts at his desk. It was always the blue Planters can, honey-roasted to give them that crunchy, candy-like shell. In Hong Kong this is not a small thing; they are not very easy to find. I remember never having them before, but I liked them when he shared, and I buy a can once in a while even today.

That’s all. He was distant to my cousins and my sister doesn’t remember him at all. In fifty years, the best first-hand memories of my Gung Gung will be the blue Planters can of honey-roasted peanuts. In a hundred there will be none at all.

I didn’t have very much to say to him, so I brought a can to leave beside the incense and oranges. That seemed like the only thing to do.