BAD DANCE LITTLE MONKEY

As the 'middle-aged' food and tobacco snob Dutch-American bachelor that I present myself as, what did I eat in the last forty eight hours?


Since waking up Wednesday morning:

An egg custard tart and hot Hong Kong style milk tea.
Reheated salt and pepper fried tofu with curry.
Caramel chocolate ice cream.
Baked lemon bites.
Speculoos.
A blueberry Danish.
Italian cold cuts sandwich.
Mango yoghurt drink.
Slice of pizza (with a bowl of salsa).
Reheated fried bitter melon and chicken river noodles.


This is not high-fallutin' dining, nor Dutch. And although 'middle aged' is a flexible term, it still implies more maturity and gravitas than I actually have. Not yet sixty, but sometimes I don't feel it. I put sambal or hot sauce on almost everything, sometimes act disrespectful to my elders and superiors ('old farts'), prefer to eat on the cheap in Chinatown instead of at "good" restaurants, and I am not what your sister should ever marry.
Or even your maiden aunt.

If I weren't myself I'd look askance at me.

My pipe tobacco is excellent and in good taste.

Smoked ten bowls since Tuesday night.

I am wondering whether I should fill a pipe yet, and I'm eyeing the pecan-chocolate pie in the kitchen as a delaying tactic. Lighting up too soon upon rising strengthens the addictiveness of the nicotine, but the house is empty, there's fresh coffee, it's a day off, and the sun is shining.

Subsequent smokes will be in Chinatown. I enjoy the ambiance there, listening in on conversations, and wandering around while smoking. It is a more comfortable neighborhood than either the Financial District or the shopping streets near Union Square, and there are fewer loonies.
The pretentious hipster quotient is very low.
More children and old people.




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