Last night, the missus and I trekked out to a fancy local restaurant for dinner. It was definitely one of the trendier places I’d been in a while — many of the really nice eateries screen ‘my kind’ at the door, of course — and made for quite an interesting experience. A few highlights from our Zen dining experience at Om:
Like I always say, ‘When in R(Om)e, eat as the R(Om)ans.’ Or words to that effect. Loosely translated, it means, ‘When faced with an odd and fancy-pantsed menu, order something outlandish — because you’ll be back to white-bread tuna sandwiches and microwave burritos soon enough’. I hopped right in with the appetizer course, and ordered something called the ‘Deconstructed Caesar Salad’.
“If they’d ‘deconstructed’ the thing any further, they’d have driven me out to the farm to harvest the head of lettuce and squeeze the egg out of the chicken. “
Why that starter? Partly because it sounded interesting. Partly because ‘deconstructed’ anywhere on a menu means ‘frou-frou‘, and that’s what I’d just said I was shooting for. But mostly because my wife picked the appetizer I was going to order, and I’m not allowed to get the same thing. Marriage rules, you see. So I had to find another app fast, and this one had the distinct advantages of being both somewhat familiar and reasonably pronouncable. I may have accidentally called it ‘deconvoluted’ or slipped and said ‘Caesarean salad’, but the waiter knew what I meant.
(And thank heaven for that. I hear placenta can make one a mite logy.)
When the dish arrived, it certainly displayed characteristics of a Caesar salad. There was lettuce, and croutons, and crispy little anchovies, and even a poached egg with a little spoon for digging out the goodies and mixing with the dressing. But true to the menu’s word, none of the edible elements were actually touching one another. If they’d ‘deconstructed’ the thing any further, they’d have driven me out to the farm to harvest the head of lettuce and squeeze the egg out of the chicken. Also, there were extra bits of food I wouldn’t normally expect in a Caesar salad — bits of potato, and shaved something-or-other, and some sort of chopped other… thing.
Frankly, I should know what those extra little culinary doohickeys were. Not because I make it a point to learn about every component of every bit of food I stick inside me — who the hell has time for that? Or wants to really know what those McNuggets are made of? No thanks, cookie. Ignorance is bliss — and it’s delicious.
Instead, I should have painstakingly detailed — and near-carnal — knowledge of the ingredients in our dishes because the waiter pointed each of them out and explained them after he delivered the plates. You could see he really enjoyed his job, too — he was in the zone, expounding voraciously on the virtues of our various victuals. The man just loved talking about food. He could describe a demiglaze or wax poetic about waxy beans. I’m not positive, but I think he gave us the daily specials in haiku form. It was impressive.
Sadly, I didn’t listen all that closely, and so I have no idea what the hell it was I ate. The lettuce and the croutons and the crunchy little fishies, I got. After that, it was a blur of foods and preparations and possibly foreign languages that I’d never heard of before. So I did what I was told to do as a small child — I shut up, I ate what was in front of me, and I didn’t ask any questions. No way was I getting sent to my room without dessert this time.
Speaking of dessert, that was an interesting twist — and eerily similar to the appetizer experience.
(In between, we had our entrees. They were both pretty good — lamb for her, pork for me — but frankly nothing to IM home about. The best part of the main course was the snippet of the waiter’s description of my dish that I tuned in for:
‘…and the sweet and sour cabbage, harvested from the north face of a particular mountain in the heart of Nepal. It’s lovingly tended by Buddhist monks, packed and shipped to a secret underground bunker outside of Washington, D.C. There, the sweet and sour glaze is prepared by our chefs, who are sworn to protect the secret recipe and confined to the bunker without any contact with the outside world. The pork shank is sliced with knives that have been blessed by the Dalai Lama himself, and served with a delicate and savory apple moustarda. It’s like mustard, only more pompouser. You’ll like it.‘
Okay, maybe he didn’t say all of that. But he could’ve. And I’m sure the Dalai Lama had something to do with the cabbage, because it was pretty damned tasty.)
For dessert, I ordered the ‘ras malai’.
Did I know what a ‘ras malai’ was? No.
Did I know how to pronounce ‘ras malai’? Not especially, no.
Was I daunted just a bit when the waiter said, ‘Oh, that one’s interesting. It’s sort of like a sponge cake. Only it’s not. It’s cheese.‘? You betcha.
Did I order it, anyway, instead of a boring old cheesecake or pie dish? Hell, yes. A little spongy cheese never hurt anyone, right?
It turned out to be quite tasty. I might have been a bit happier thinking that the squishy, soggy, doughy things were ‘cakes’, rather than ‘congealed milk’, but I got past the mental image and enjoyed them, anyway. The assortment of extras that came along with them made me wonder if I’d missed a ‘deconstructed’ detail somewhere in the dish description. There were pistachio bits, mint sauce, and a bunch of other add-ons that the waiter must have described after he mentioned the ‘curry ice cream’.
When you hear ‘curry ice cream’, the bits of your body responsible for hearing tend to take a back seat for a few seconds, while the bits of your body responsible for involuntary shuddering and making gagging noises take over. I pondered whether maybe I’d misheard him saying ‘slurry ice cream’ or ‘hurried ice cream’, or even ‘furry ice cream’, which might be tricky to pick out of your teeth, but would still sound marginally more palatable than curry ice cream. That’s the sort of thing I always imagined they force-feed the Iron Chefs as punishment when they lose a match to a challenger.
When he brought the plate, I discovered that it really was curry ice cream. And happily, it was quite tasty, too. Like cinnamon, with an extra earthy kick. It was at least as good as all of the other dollops and pastes whose descriptions I missed while I was making ‘blech!‘ noises at the waiter about the curry ice cream.
Overall, it was a nice dinner. The dishes were a bit of work to assemble — hell, even at 7-11, they’ll put the hot dog into the bun for you — but they were tasty, and it was good to get out of the house for ‘real food’. And how often is dinner a learning experience, with your very own gastronomic guru available to detail what you’re eating? I was almost afraid I should have taken notes, in case there was a test after the dessert course. Luckily, they let it go, and let us find our own path out. How zen of them.
Permalink | 2 CommentsIn the spring, I made the unfortunate decision to join two volleyball teams that played on consecutive (Wednesday and Thursday) nights. I enjoy playing, and like (need) the exercise, but ideally the sessions of flinging myself across a gym and filling my socks with sweat would be spaced out a little more. Like once every equinox, maybe. I’m thirty-six, for crissakes. One of these days, I’ll break a hip out there or sprain a prostate or put out an eye with my walker or something.
Now it’s time for the fall season. And while I’m six months older, I’m apparently just exactly as stupid. Because I just played volleyball for the first time in months on Wednesday night. And for the second time in months last night.
Ow.
“From the wrists down, I feel the burn like I’m training for Clubber Lang. The rest of me would probably lose a pillow fight with Mickey.”
I’d forgotten just how many muscles are used only on the volleyball court. At least in my life; maybe you have one of those jobs where you use muscles a lot, like moving pianos or erecting buildings or juggling chainsaws for spare change at the subway station. Hey, good for you.
(Me, I’m a programmer. I type on a keyboard for ten hours a day. From the wrists down, I feel the burn like I’m training for Clubber Lang. The rest of me would probably lose a pillow fight with Mickey.)
So, for two nights I dusted off those long-dormant muscles used to spike and block and high-five and pull my fat ass off the floor. And today, they’re fighting back. Most of the complaints seem to be coming from the back and arms, with a few angry customers scattered around the rib cage and stomach, too.
(Happily, the legs have abstained from this particular round of soreness. I guess all that walking once a day to and from the keyboard has really paid off. Super.)
Of course, the first week back is always the worst. Soon enough, I’ll be sore on Fridays, but not sore sore. Not so sore that I’ll still think about installing a motorized chair in the house to get up and down the stairs, or finding a way to get to the bathroom in the morning that involves remaining horizontal. Because this morning, if I knew where the hell to order a gurney from, it would’ve been a done deal. I’d have even paid extra for the bedpan attachment. Or an especially helpful nurse.
So now I’m trying to do the smart thing, and keep those volleyball muscles in shape through the week and year-round. At work, I’ll sprint to and from meetings. (But mostly from.) I’ll practice jumping to rinse off my knees in the shower, instead of adjusting the shower head. And at the toll booth, I’ll spike my change into the little basket.
Or at least near the basket. My spiking isn’t all that consistent, unfortunately. I may have to keep a few extra rolls of quarters in the glove box.
Hopefully, with a few little exercises and tricks, I can avoid these start-of-season unpleasantries and walk fully upright and without moaning again. Meanwhile, I’ll try to sit here perfectly motionless for the next three days until the achiness wears off. At least I can still work out my fingers and thumbs. Feel the burn, baby.
Permalink | 1 CommentI’ve found a new way to combat road rage. Not cure it, mind you. The only true cure for road rage would involve the passing of several unpopular new laws, the repossessing of millions upon millions of other peoples’ cars, and prohibitively expensive crosswalk vouchers for pedestrians. Also, murders. Lots and lots of murders.
In the meantime, we have to live in our imperfect world of jaywalking jackasses and nearsighted grandmas clogging up the express lanes. My new method of coping is very simple –from now on, when I feel the urge to scream and rant and shake my little fisticles at some asshole in my way, I’ll do it in the same voice I use to praise my dog.
So far, I’ve gotten some very strange looks. But I’m pretty sure my blood pressure is down, so it seems to be working.
For instance, last night I was on my way home and stopped at a red light. Just as the opposing light turned yellow, a plain-looking young lady chittering on a cell phone stepped off the curb to cross in front of my car. Sloooooooowly. When the light turned green, she was still walking in front of my grill, leaving me and the four cars behind mine to wait her out. Did she get the clue and hustle across? No. If anything, she toddled just a little bit slower, yakking away and oblivious to the roadblock she had become.
“The only true cure for road rage would involve the passing of several unpopular new laws, the repossessing of millions upon millions of other peoples’ cars, and prohibitively expensive crosswalk vouchers for pedestrians.”
This sort of thing irks me to no end. My feeling is, if you’re going to break the rules that society lays out, then at least get the hell out of other peoples’ way when you do it. I’ve got nothing against victimless crimes. You can jaywalk if you want. You can speed, you can make illegal U-turns, you can snort toadstools and drop your pants in the park and make ‘woo-woo-woo!!‘ noises. Knock yourself out. But when it starts affecting other people — like, for instance, me — then we have a problem. That’s when I vote to stuff you in a tutu, throw you in a cell with ‘Mervin the Maimer’, and see how this whole Darwinism thing works.
So normally, I would’ve unleashed an angry, obscenity-laced tirade at the woman shuffling along in front of my car. But as I opened my mouth to vitriolize, I remembered my new policy, and instead waggled a finger at her and said:
‘Oooh, who’s an ignorant widdle bitch, then? It’s you! Yes, you is. You was beaten with the ugwy stick, too, wasn’t you? Oooh, yes you was! Who’s an ugwy widdle ignowamus?‘
She just kept inching through the crosswalk — but as long as I was talking at her like she was a four-legged drooling fuzz-faced moron, it didn’t seem so bad. And as long as nothing I do is going to help the situation, why not sneak in a little ridicule of my fellow man or woman?
I had another chance to practice on the way to work this morning. Some jackhole in the left lane decided that he really needed to swerve in front of me over to the exit on the right. Like, RIGHT NOW! With no warning or turn signal to be seen. But did I honk? Did I flip him the bird, or call into question the legitimacy of his birth, or his mother’s honor, or the relative size of his male ancestors’ genitalia, as I normally would?
No. I simply reached out a hand in his direction, to pretend I was scritching him behind his reckless fuzzy little ears, and I said:
‘There’s my little dumbass, careening through traffic, yes you are. You’re going to die someday soon in fiery widdle crash, aren’t you? Oh my, yes. And the people will come and waugh at your charred wemains, won’t they? Yes, they will! Goodness!‘
I’m liking this idea more and more. I’m calm, I’m peaceful, and I’m at least twenty percent less likely to smash in some idiot’s windshield with a softball bat. And maybe just a little closer to the right frame of mind to finally teach my dog how to drive. Even if she can’t reach the pedals or read the road signs, she’ll be Mutt-io Andretti compared to most of these assbags.
Permalink | 2 CommentsWhy is everything more fun in Mexico?
I’ve been following their recent presidential election aftermath with great interest. I’ve never been interested at all in politics, but what’s not to like? Claims of voting fraud, rioting, a losing candidate saying, ‘Screw your results; I’ll rule from the streets!‘ It’s a veritable soap opera; I feel like I’m watching The OC, with less boobs and more burritos.
“Any politician who can forgo spewing hot air for a full ten minutes while they stuff their gob full of chow is a-okay in my book.”
We had our chance a few years back. There was a close election between that guy twho made up his own words, and the other guy who claimed he invented the cathode ray tube. That came down to six votes or something, but did they riot in the streets? Thumb-wrestle for the job, best two out of three? Stage a dance-off with lithe and limber celebrity partners?
No. They sat quietly with their legs together and their hands folded on their laps, and took it to the Supreme Court. And the stodgy old coots told everyone to go home and git offa their lawn. Boooooo-ring.
If American politics ever wants to be compelling, to capture the hearts and minds of its people, then there are going to have to be some changes. Here are some improvements I’m proposing for the upcoming election season. Maybe if we practice for a couple of years on the piddly elections, we’ll have it rdown pat when the big one rolls around again.
Town Meeting Dunk Tanks — You know those publicity stunts important dialogues that high-level candidates sometimes stage with paid ringers regular concerned citizens about pre-selected carefully screened topics whatever’s foremost on their minds? Yawn.
But how about this — before the event, go out and pull a panel of nobodies and chuckleheads off the streets, and give them each a box of baseballs. Prop the candidates on a platform over a water tank, and now you’ve got meaningful discourse. You duck a question — you take a bath. Utter a faux pas — bon voyage, baby. Ignore the poor, outrage minorities, or offend women — hope you can swim.
As an added bonus, if you find a candidate who can retain their dignity and electability after pulling themselves cold and dripping out of the water, then you’ve got yourself a bona fide politico. (See Kennedy, Ted.)
Runoff Eating Contests — So you’ve got a bunch of candidates for the same job, and you don’t know how to choose between them fairly. Well, boo fricking hoo. The Nathan’s hot dog people figured it out ninety years ago: have them eat their way into office. Maybe it doesn’t address the hot-button issues or advance their political agenda, but it definitely shows grit, staying power, and most of all, guts. Literally. Any politician who can forgo spewing hot air for a full ten minutes while they stuff their gob full of chow is a-okay in my book.
I wouldn’t recommend hot dogs in the deciding contest, though. It’s too patriotic — the rhetoric before and after would be unbearable. Plus, the winner will have plenty enough time to suck buns once he or she is in office. Instead, I think the hopefuls should hork down slabs of bacon. Canadian bacon. Not only because it’s more challenging to eat, but also for the international perspective it might lend to the proceedings. And they can eat it right out of their very own pork barrels. It’s good practice for later on.
Candidate Roll Call — This would be especially useful in the primary elections, when every schmoe and their grandmother signs up to run for office. Or for the first session of Congress after each election, to introduce the freshman Senators and Representatives. But I’m not interested in some dry, boring name, rank, and political agenda bullshit. I want those boys and girls to do it playground-style. For instance:
“My name’s Santorum. *clap clap*
I’m from the Penn state. *clap clap*
Voters, I adore ’em *clap clap*
I’m here to leg-i-slate.” *clap clap*
Or how about:
Up here on Cap’ Hill. *clap clap*
They call me Obama. *clap clap*
You veto my bill. *clap clap*
And I’ll dis yo’ mama.” *clap clap*
Extra credit if they can chant during a Double Dutch routine with a rapid-fire finale where they say:
‘My. Mother. Told. Me. Taking. Kickbacks. From. Big. Oil. Is. Wrong!‘
Barnum ‘n’ Bailey Democracy — And finally, a new rule for political advertising. In any form of campaign propaganda — TV ads, flyers, radio spots, those billions of crapass lawn signs that sprout up every year — the candidate must be protrayed as a clown. I don’t mean ridiculed for their clearly misguided fiscal policies; I mean they have to appear in full clown makeup and costume. And they must speak in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. If necessary, helium balloons will be provided by a bipartisan committee, for those candidates unable to squeak under their own power.
I figure if nothing else, this measure would keep the opponent-bashing mudslinging ads to a minimum. It’s awfully hard to come down on your rival when you’re wearing a rainbow wig, a big red nose, and the ad includes the credit ‘Candidate’s Wardrobe Provided by Ringling Bros.‘
Now, naysayers might point out that the eventual election winners will have donned the clown getups, too, and so might lose the respect of the electorate. In the worst case, our leaders could even be ridiculed and parodied by the other nations on the world stage.
Right. And your point is?
Hopefully, the powers that be — or more importantly, the powers that want to be — will implement a few of these ideas. At least before the next presidential election. Anything to make the process more palatable to those of us who really don’t give a shit which rich old white guy gets to host the Easter egg hunt on Pennsylvania Avenue. They all look pretty much the same from here.
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