One of the frequent inclusions in a bowl of late night goodness is cubed gelled pig blood, along with fried pork skin. Obviously that ain't gonna work for most of us pale-complected folk. Sure, if we were British, we'd happily eat it -- the English consume such things as black pudding and fried sliced haggis, along with Spam and baked beans in a can, so they're genuinely out there with their own cuisine -- but the overwhelming majority of Wasps worldwide are North Americans. The strangest parts of the pig that we are accustomed to are Vienna Sausage and fake tofu.
Plus surgical sutures, and Spam.
Cart noodles -- chejai min (車仔麵) in Cantonese -- originated in fly-by-night food stands in Hong Kong, and as the authorities over the years strove to raise hygiene standards while simultaneously finding a way to get illicit food-entrepreneurs onto the official tax roles and off the streets, the quality improved and the variety expanded.
The common nickname for their offerings had been 垃圾麵 ('laap-saap min'; garbage noodle), which in the tortuous accents of mainlanders from who-knows where beyond 羅湖 ('lo-wu'; the most traversed border crossing between HK and 'that other place') became 嗱喳麵 ('naa-chaa min'), which doesn't signify anything but is a baby-talkish phoneticisation.
Now it's simply cart noodle.
It's also soul-food.
Classic.
In the fifties and sixties, even as late as the seventies, the food scene in Hong Kong at the lower economic levels often involved small carts, and hardworking gentlemen ready to run like the dickens if the cops showed up to shut them down. Their regular customers knew them, and would warn them if a raid was likely. "Gotta go, return the bowl next time!"
The authorities frowned on free-lance road-side cooking.
Despite having their own favourites locally.
When off work, and at home.
Some of the people who went into the cart-noodle business had doubtful antecedents, and were surprisingly deft with the cleaver. You might not want to know how that came about. Salt of the earth types, trying to make an honest living.
Rice noodles, the fundament of the dish, are easy to prepare; just a hot-water bath for a minute or two and they're tender. Fried weird stuff keeps for a few hours, and strange cullings from the slaughterhouse are always cheap. The people who lived in the jam-packed housing estates and worked in the factories weren't looking for high-cuisine, they just wanted sustenance. But, being Chinese, and more particularly Cantonese (ie.: "zest-obsessed"), they demanded something with oomph. Good oomph. Lay on the flavour!
By no means necessarily nutritious.
Something with texture and taste.
Often lacking in English cuisine.
See aforementioned beans.
Noodles. Broth. Protein.
Toothsomeness.
The kind of thing which you eat while pensively reading the newspaper, or quickly prepare before your favourite fifty part soap-opera with all the weeping women starts.
[Favourite fifty part, weeping women: Chinese soap-operas can be divided into three types: Hong Kong made productions, in which five generations struggle, get married, commit grand larceny, have affairs, and generally carry on with vigour and rambunction.
Taiwanese series: a slice of emotionally unstable life in contemporary times, involving money, cheating spouses (male), mahjong, and strange clothing or make-up. Mainland stories: period costume, vast armies, historical characters or plots, and epic scenery chewing. All three types incorporate righteousness (whether demonstrated or lamentably missing), family drama (that's where the weeping comes in), and food. Weeping and food can be said to be the constants of good entertainment. Everyone likes to see dinner and emotional wreckage.]
You might take a coworker with kissable soft cheeks and dreamy eyes out for a snack, or head over to an eatery with tiddly friends after a night of carousing. Also super-delicious after a long day at work.
Comforting. Casual. Slapdash happy food.
Sik faan, y'all.
LITTLE CART NOODLES -- 車仔麵 CHE JAI MIN
The earliest types combined curried fish balls, pork blood cubes, and fried skin in a simple broth, often with one or two chunks of turnip (蘿蔔 'lo baak') or a stalk or two of vegetable - either Chinese broccoli (芥蘭 'gaai laan') or little white cabbage (小白菜 'siu baak choi').
Competition and an operatic sense of gustativity increased the number of choices. At present, with most of the places that serve quick dishes now located indoors, the variety is enormous.
What might be called meat:
魚丸 'yü yeun'; fish balls.
炸魚蛋 'jaa yü yuen'; fried fish balls.
墨魚丸 'mak yü yuen'; cuttlefish balls.
魚片 'yü pin'; sliced fish.
魷魚 'yau yü'; cuttlefish.
牛丸 'ngau yuen'; beef meatballs.
豬肉丸 (貢丸) 'chü yiuk yuen' ('gung yeun'); pork meatballs.
紅腸 'hong cheung'; cervelaet.
煙肉 'yin yiuk'; bacon.
豬紅 'chü hong'; gelled pork blood.
豬皮 'chü pei'; pork skin.
豬大腸 'chü taai cheung'; pork chittlin.
豬肝 'chü gon'; pork liver.
雞中翼 'gai jung yik'; chicken wing.
雞翼尖 'gai yik jim'; chicken wingtip.
牛柏葉 'ngau baak yip'; beef tripe.
牛腩 'ngau laam'; sliced sirloin.
燒賣 siumai.
雲吞 wonton.
蟹柳 'haai lau'; surimi.
Noodle choices:
河粉 'ho fan'; rice noodles.
公仔麵 'gung jai min'; instant noodles.
粗麵 'chou min'; Shanghai noodles (thick wheat-flour noodles).
伊麵 'yi min'; yee-mien.
烏冬 'wu dung'; udon.
Sauce-additions and soup stock:
沙嗲汁 'saa de jap'; satay sauce.
咖喱汁 'gaa lei jap'; curry sauce.
清湯 'ching tong'; clear stock.
牛腩汁 'ngau laam jap'; beef broth.
酸辣湯 'suen laat tong'; hot and sour soup.
麻辣湯 'maa laat tong'; over the top peppery soup.
Vegetables:
芽菜 'ngaa choi'; bean sprouts.
芥菜 'gaai choi'; mustard green.
芥蘭 'gaai laan'; Chinese broccoli.
小白菜 'siu baak choi'; small bokchoi.
蘿蔔 'lo baak'; Chinese turnip.
冬菇 'dung gu'; black mushroom.
Frequent garnishes:
韭菜 'gau choi'; garlic-chives (almost always added).
芫茜 'yuen sai'; cilantro.
Most of the time customers will have three or four things they want in their noodle soup, a vegetable will often be added on the assumption that you won't mind if the bowl looks a little more full and visually appealing, and there will be a few gratuitous condiments on the table.
If you cannot make a choice, simply go with what the proprietor recommends.
特別 'dak bit'; special, unusual, unique; often the best offerings.
招牌 'jiu paai'; house specialty, or what they're really famous for.
[Thus: 特別粉, 招牌粉 ('dak bit fan', 'jiu paai fan') house special noodles.]
GOT CURRY PASTE?
Casual snack noodles are a way of life. People will make this at home, when they don't feel like cooking. All you need is something rather like stock or broth, rice flour noodles, and take-out (燒味 or 滷味) nearby.
Some fish balls, a few slices of roast duck or pork, maybe something unmentionable in polite society, ginger, and a stalk or two of gailan.
Heat it up, then sit in front of the tube watching trashy teevee.
Later, you might change back into street clothes and go out.
See what the heathens down on Polk Street are up to.
Wander across Nob Hill with a pipe.
Everything tastes better with hotsauce.
Especially wearing pajamas.
Remember that.
ADDENDUM
An explanation of the sauces & stocks used:
沙嗲汁 'saa de jap'; satay sauce. This was invented by the Javanese shortly after both peanuts (from Africa) and New World crops (such as chilies) were introduced by the Portuguese and Dutch four centuries ago. At its simplest, it is toasted or fried peanuts ground fine, mixed with a little sugar and chili, and cooked to a thick gloop. The Chinese know two versions: old-school Chinese satay sauce (usually 沙茶醬 'sa chaa jeung') was brought back by Fujianese (Hokkienese) returning to home, and has a pronounced dry shrimp and fish-paste saveur. Hong Kong has been exposed to that, but what they are more familiar with is the intensely peanutty version introduced by the Hokkien refugees from Indonesia who settled in North Point after the fifties and sixties -- called 沙爹醬 ('sa de jeung'). It's rather similar to what you will find in Holland, but not very much like the anemic Thai interpretation or the shallow Singaporean-Malay style. It can be spicier than other South-East Asian types, which makes it perfect as a cooking ingredient. Note that both 沙茶醬 and 沙爹醬 are pronounced the same in Hokkien ('sa-te cheo'), but not Cantonese. Yet their fundamental sameness despite differences is recognized.
咖喱汁 'gaa lei jap'; curry sauce. Pretty much the same as "Portuguese Sauce" (葡汁 'po jap'; molho português), which is a Maccanese commercial preparation consisting of coconut milk, starch, and curry powder. Chinese curry powder usually contains, in order, the following (among others): chili powder (辣椒粉 'laat jiu fan'), turmeric (薑黃 'geung wong'), star anise (八角 'baat gok'), Chinese cinnamon (cassia, 桂皮 'gwai pei'), dried ginger (乾薑 'gon geung'), Szechuan pepper (花椒 'faa chiu'), and clove (丁香 'ding heung').
清湯 'ching tong'; clear stock. A cooking stock made by first blanching pork and chicken bones, rinsing them, then simmering them in water for a few hours. Blanching and then rinsing yields a clearer cleaner broth, with less or no scum that needs skimming off. Often some roasted dried flounder (左口魚 'jorhau yü', 大地魚 'daaidei yü') or dried shrimp (蝦米 'haa mei') is added for a bit of depth. Sometimes the broth is made entirely from chicken, but that is rare.
牛腩汁 'ngau laam jap'; beef broth. Basically beef bouillon made with lean meat.
酸辣湯 'suen laat tong'; hot and sour soup. A chicken stock zipped up with a splash of vinegar, some Szechuan bean sauce (豆瓣酱 'douban jeung'), a generous amount of white pepper, and a little dry chili.
麻辣湯 'maa laat tong'; over the top peppery soup. Originally a mildly spicy broth, nowadays increasingly often a barely edible liquid that includes diluted hot sauce in copious amount.
Final note: You will have wondered, perhaps, why beancurd is nowhere mentioned as a possible ingredient. That is because Hong Kong people do not consider it a fit inclusion. Happy warm noodle snacks do not contain tofu. Adding it causes nightmares.
Unless you are a vegetarian or a Berkeleyite.
In which case you shouldn't be here.
This post is not for you.
So very sorry.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label Polk Street. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Polk Street. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 02, 2014
Saturday, June 21, 2014
VAMPIRE NIGHT
In one of the x-files episodes, agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully come into conflict with a nerdy teenage vampire pizza delivery boy in a Texas trailer park. Which describes night on Polk Street pretty accurately. But fortunately pizza isn't all that is available. There are also bacon-wrapped hotdogs possibly made of turkey-flavoured gluten or human body parts, delicious with mustard, mayo, ketchup, and pickled peppers.
Plus artistic West-Coast sushi, and doughnuts.
It's everything for a balanced diet.
Polk Street after dark is no place for a civilized woman.
The dominant theme seems to be getting drunk quickly, and playing in traffic once that has been accomplished.
Unfortunately, I do not know what IS the place for a civilized woman. After nightfall in San Francisco. Obviously NOT either of the environs where I am likely to be found at that time: in my bed with a book, or in a smoking environment with a pipe. My bed clearly doesn't count, because there is no room for her with all the stuffed animals, books half-finished, dictionaries, miscellaneous papers, tobacco tins, clean laundry, and me.
It's comfortable, but it's also a fortress of solitude.
There isn't enough space there.
None in years.
[Monkey, froad, fat degenerate weasel, a chicken, several assorted crazies of the six inch tall or less pursuasion, and a raccoon who thinks he's German. Damned nazi rodent.]
The civilized woman ain't gonna happen anytime soon, in any case.
Not unless some sweet thing for totally inexplicable reasons decides that she needs to commune with an evil stuffed amphibian and a monkey.
At that point I would have to bail out to another possible place, namely the great frigid outdoors of Nob Hill. Because there is just no room at present for two normal human individuals in my bed.
Especially not with the insane flippery green dude there.
[He's responsible for ninety percent of the mess, I swear. Him and the monkey. They're beasts.]
I could stroll down to Polk Street, but it's noisy and rather densely unclean. Zombies and pizza delivery boys.
Bat country, more or less.
Or, if I catch a bus, I might end up at the cigar bar down in the Financial District, just below Kearny Street. Which is no place for a civilized woman either, unless she's accompanied by her husband Mark.
That's ONE civilized woman. An unusual specimen.
Statistically there have to be more.
Unless they've fled.
Not infrequently I end up at the cigar bar on a Saturday night. Despite there being NO civilized woman on my bed, discretely taking up space while arguing with an obsessive monkey and an unstable amphibian.
On Saturday night, the Occidental on Pine is the perfect sanctuary.
It's a place to smoke, and I like the one civilized woman there.
Along with the limited subset of other civilized people.
She and Mark leave when it gets too crowded.
Before the insane masses can rampage.
Often though, I end up roaming the streets between Polk and Chinatown of an evening, vampire-like. Though not because the occupants of my bed pushed me out and told me to go smoke elsewhere.. The cigar bar is mostly a Saturday thing, not so much weekdays. Despite or because there often being an uncivilized mob of both genders there.
Plus rutting, fetishisms, and whiskey.
Bars tend to be rather noisy.
I am a quiet type.
If I ever end up regularly enjoying the company of a civilized woman of my own, I shall take her there with me. I'm sure she'd like to meet the other civilized woman and her husband, Mark.
They'd shield her from the wankers and unsavoury business types.
As well as all the free-range lawyers, geeks, and jocks.
Just like I'd protect her from the amphibian.
Who is evil, yet so huggably soft.
A fuzzy green psycho.
This world needs more civilized women. Otherwise we will be overrun by crazed green flippery guys and bacon-dog snarfing zombies.
It's a matter of survival.
I am a vampire.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Plus artistic West-Coast sushi, and doughnuts.
It's everything for a balanced diet.
Polk Street after dark is no place for a civilized woman.
The dominant theme seems to be getting drunk quickly, and playing in traffic once that has been accomplished.
Unfortunately, I do not know what IS the place for a civilized woman. After nightfall in San Francisco. Obviously NOT either of the environs where I am likely to be found at that time: in my bed with a book, or in a smoking environment with a pipe. My bed clearly doesn't count, because there is no room for her with all the stuffed animals, books half-finished, dictionaries, miscellaneous papers, tobacco tins, clean laundry, and me.
It's comfortable, but it's also a fortress of solitude.
There isn't enough space there.
None in years.
[Monkey, froad, fat degenerate weasel, a chicken, several assorted crazies of the six inch tall or less pursuasion, and a raccoon who thinks he's German. Damned nazi rodent.]
The civilized woman ain't gonna happen anytime soon, in any case.
Not unless some sweet thing for totally inexplicable reasons decides that she needs to commune with an evil stuffed amphibian and a monkey.
At that point I would have to bail out to another possible place, namely the great frigid outdoors of Nob Hill. Because there is just no room at present for two normal human individuals in my bed.
Especially not with the insane flippery green dude there.
[He's responsible for ninety percent of the mess, I swear. Him and the monkey. They're beasts.]
I could stroll down to Polk Street, but it's noisy and rather densely unclean. Zombies and pizza delivery boys.
Bat country, more or less.
Or, if I catch a bus, I might end up at the cigar bar down in the Financial District, just below Kearny Street. Which is no place for a civilized woman either, unless she's accompanied by her husband Mark.
That's ONE civilized woman. An unusual specimen.
Statistically there have to be more.
Unless they've fled.
Not infrequently I end up at the cigar bar on a Saturday night. Despite there being NO civilized woman on my bed, discretely taking up space while arguing with an obsessive monkey and an unstable amphibian.
On Saturday night, the Occidental on Pine is the perfect sanctuary.
It's a place to smoke, and I like the one civilized woman there.
Along with the limited subset of other civilized people.
She and Mark leave when it gets too crowded.
Before the insane masses can rampage.
Often though, I end up roaming the streets between Polk and Chinatown of an evening, vampire-like. Though not because the occupants of my bed pushed me out and told me to go smoke elsewhere.. The cigar bar is mostly a Saturday thing, not so much weekdays. Despite or because there often being an uncivilized mob of both genders there.
Plus rutting, fetishisms, and whiskey.
Bars tend to be rather noisy.
I am a quiet type.
If I ever end up regularly enjoying the company of a civilized woman of my own, I shall take her there with me. I'm sure she'd like to meet the other civilized woman and her husband, Mark.
They'd shield her from the wankers and unsavoury business types.
As well as all the free-range lawyers, geeks, and jocks.
Just like I'd protect her from the amphibian.
Who is evil, yet so huggably soft.
A fuzzy green psycho.
This world needs more civilized women. Otherwise we will be overrun by crazed green flippery guys and bacon-dog snarfing zombies.
It's a matter of survival.
I am a vampire.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
THE BAT IS IN THE HOUSE
This blogger lives in San Francisco on the backside of Nob Hill, near Polk Street. While I was not paying much attention, Polk Street changed into a lively stretch of eateries, night spots, vile Pakistani dabbas, craft beer joints, pizza, sushi, and hang-outs with Wifi for hipsters.
Younger people moved into the neighborhood.
Some of whom stay up all night long.
Berserkly happy neighbors.
Dance, baby, wee.
For some reason, I cannot stop watching this video.
It seems very Polk-Streetish.
IT'S PARTY TIME!
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ce_v8l4ie0Y&app=desktop.]
Sheer genius.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Younger people moved into the neighborhood.
Some of whom stay up all night long.
Berserkly happy neighbors.
Dance, baby, wee.
For some reason, I cannot stop watching this video.
It seems very Polk-Streetish.
IT'S PARTY TIME!
[Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ce_v8l4ie0Y&app=desktop.]
Sheer genius.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, May 05, 2014
THE TIME FOR SCHNITZELI IS UPON US!
Probably the best and worst advice that I've heard recently is "you really should invite her out for ein wiener schnitzel". Best, because it sounds like a darned good idea. Worst, because I just cannot imagine any young women in San Francisco today wanting wiener schnitzel, or even knowing what it is.
There I'll be, impressing young ladies at the club dancing to house music, representing totally dude, and I'll seductively slink up to a fine intelligent looking specimen and say "would you like a wiener schnitzel?"
I'm quite sure she would react to that.
Perhaps not well.
Which is sad, because a breaded veal cutlet, cooked just right, with lemon, capers, a sardine or two, cucumber salad, and pommes frites or kartoffelsalat, can be both an eye-opener as well as a wonderful romantic experience.
Roll the very thin meat in flour, dip it in beaten egg, then toss it with dry breadcrumbs. Fry it in a pan, moving it around a bit. When it is golden, it is perfectly done. Do no more.
It should never be as thick and as coarse as the typical fried fish, which is an inedible English object. The wiener schnitzel should be knusprig, saftig, und zart.
LEOPOLD'S
A decent place to get a pork schnitzel wiener art (in other words, not a real wiener schnitzel, which is only made with kalbsfleisch) close to my apartment is Leopold's Restaurant, between Union and Filbert Streets on Polk. Only a short walk away.
Whole lotta pork.
It probably isn't a good place for a date, though. Not on a Friday or Saturday night. It's small and cozy, which means that when it's packed, it's loud and super lively.
Plus many people love the beer.
I note that they have neither Riesling nor Elbling.
"Would you like a wiener schnitzel, Fräulein?"
When I was a child, heading south during summer to Switzerland or Austria always meant the prospect of wiener schnitzel. For some reason they never palled. I doubt that it was the crisp white wine (see above), because at that young age my parents would not allow me to have any.
But wine is far more appropriate than beer.
I despair of ever introducing a nice young lady to wiener schitzel.
There really aren't any in the Bay Area.
That I know of.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There I'll be, impressing young ladies at the club dancing to house music, representing totally dude, and I'll seductively slink up to a fine intelligent looking specimen and say "would you like a wiener schnitzel?"
I'm quite sure she would react to that.
Perhaps not well.
Which is sad, because a breaded veal cutlet, cooked just right, with lemon, capers, a sardine or two, cucumber salad, and pommes frites or kartoffelsalat, can be both an eye-opener as well as a wonderful romantic experience.
Roll the very thin meat in flour, dip it in beaten egg, then toss it with dry breadcrumbs. Fry it in a pan, moving it around a bit. When it is golden, it is perfectly done. Do no more.
It should never be as thick and as coarse as the typical fried fish, which is an inedible English object. The wiener schnitzel should be knusprig, saftig, und zart.
LEOPOLD'S
A decent place to get a pork schnitzel wiener art (in other words, not a real wiener schnitzel, which is only made with kalbsfleisch) close to my apartment is Leopold's Restaurant, between Union and Filbert Streets on Polk. Only a short walk away.
Whole lotta pork.
It probably isn't a good place for a date, though. Not on a Friday or Saturday night. It's small and cozy, which means that when it's packed, it's loud and super lively.
Plus many people love the beer.
I note that they have neither Riesling nor Elbling.
"Would you like a wiener schnitzel, Fräulein?"
When I was a child, heading south during summer to Switzerland or Austria always meant the prospect of wiener schnitzel. For some reason they never palled. I doubt that it was the crisp white wine (see above), because at that young age my parents would not allow me to have any.
But wine is far more appropriate than beer.
I despair of ever introducing a nice young lady to wiener schitzel.
There really aren't any in the Bay Area.
That I know of.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
YUPPIES DON'T EAT
There are three alleged grocery stores within easy walking distance: Whole Foods, Real Foods, and Trader Joe's. None of these three are high on my list of meat and vegetable related emporia. Reason being that all three are overpriced and cater to very bourgeois white people who quite clearly don't know beans about food.
There used to be a much more down to earth food store much closer to the apartment: Big Apple, at the intersection of Polk and Clay. One could buy various dried noodles there, plus condiments, Asian sauces, fresh vegetables, liquor, and various items of an animal protein origin. As well as all the usual groceries that real people who cook real food might require. Nothing nearly as elite and pretentious as the fancy stuff that is sold (with a big serving of snootiness) by Whole Foods, Real Foods, and Trader Joe's.
There was also an ethnic market in between Clay and Washington on Polk, but once the young white dotcommies infested the street, it failed. Now there's a pizza place selling pie to tipsy twenty-somethings late at night.
And it's thriving.
Big Apple closed down a month ago.
The owners had decided to retire.
The neighborhood has changed.
The Korean store shut its doors in the early nineties, Cala Market closed in 2010 or 2011, the place with fresh vegetables in bins outside is now a pizza joint. Many other shops, most of them run by immigrants, have disappeared.
There are over half a dozen places within a three or four block radius where you can get six packs till two in the morning.
Some of them also have frozen pizza.
Or pizza pockets.
I have nothing against scum-sucking yuppie cretins; some of my best friends are scum-sucking yuppie cretins.
But nothing ruins a city like a whole host of them moving in and taking over.
There are three sushi places within two blocks of my digs.
If that isn't a sign of decay, what is?
And, as previously mentioned, not a single store that sells normal food. Unless you count Walgreens. Yet if I walk half a dozen blocks north, I will encounter a fancy coffee chain, coffee shops, several bars, two or three incredibly nouveau-type eateries, pizza, gourmet tacos, and a collection of the cutest little boutiques this side of Paris.
Several bars. I mentioned that.
Head south, and its three times as many bars as eateries, gradually fading into rebel-held territory when you get close to the Tenderloin.
We need a shop that carries rice stick noodles, egg noodles, wheat noodles, Italian noodles, bean thread noodles, soy sauce, fish sauce, peanut sauce, plum sauce, hoisin sauce, hot sauce, plates, bowls, cups, basins, pots and pans, wooden spoons, sieves, tea, whole bean coffee, insta-coffee, bread, buns, rusks, rolls, canned tomato sauces, gherkins, bread and butter pickles, dills, hot dog relish, spicy jalapeno relish, chili paste, miso, canned fish, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, mustard, ketchup, mayo, horseradish, red wine, white wine, cooking sherry, pork chops, lamb chops, beef, chicken, sausages, ground meat, tofu, surimi, fish balls, fish steaks, onions, ginger, garlic, cilantro, parsley, basil, cucumbers, zucchini, carrots, turnips, parsnips, potatoes, yams, bell peppers, butternut squash, melons, baby bokchoi, Shanghai bokchoi, Napa cabbage, mustard greens, chard, Chinese broccoli, bean sprouts, bitter melon, tomatoes, green beans, long beans, red cabbage, lettuce, avocado, apples, oranges, bananas, lemons, limes, other fresh fruit in season as well as juices, and a small selection of salad dressings.
Jalapeño, Serrano, Annaheim, and Mulatto Isleño.
Thai peppers, de arbol, chiltepin.
Plus gallons of ice cream.
All at prices for real people.
No more than two blocks away.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There used to be a much more down to earth food store much closer to the apartment: Big Apple, at the intersection of Polk and Clay. One could buy various dried noodles there, plus condiments, Asian sauces, fresh vegetables, liquor, and various items of an animal protein origin. As well as all the usual groceries that real people who cook real food might require. Nothing nearly as elite and pretentious as the fancy stuff that is sold (with a big serving of snootiness) by Whole Foods, Real Foods, and Trader Joe's.
There was also an ethnic market in between Clay and Washington on Polk, but once the young white dotcommies infested the street, it failed. Now there's a pizza place selling pie to tipsy twenty-somethings late at night.
And it's thriving.
Big Apple closed down a month ago.
The owners had decided to retire.
The neighborhood has changed.
The Korean store shut its doors in the early nineties, Cala Market closed in 2010 or 2011, the place with fresh vegetables in bins outside is now a pizza joint. Many other shops, most of them run by immigrants, have disappeared.
There are over half a dozen places within a three or four block radius where you can get six packs till two in the morning.
Some of them also have frozen pizza.
Or pizza pockets.
I have nothing against scum-sucking yuppie cretins; some of my best friends are scum-sucking yuppie cretins.
But nothing ruins a city like a whole host of them moving in and taking over.
There are three sushi places within two blocks of my digs.
If that isn't a sign of decay, what is?
And, as previously mentioned, not a single store that sells normal food. Unless you count Walgreens. Yet if I walk half a dozen blocks north, I will encounter a fancy coffee chain, coffee shops, several bars, two or three incredibly nouveau-type eateries, pizza, gourmet tacos, and a collection of the cutest little boutiques this side of Paris.
Several bars. I mentioned that.
Head south, and its three times as many bars as eateries, gradually fading into rebel-held territory when you get close to the Tenderloin.
We need a shop that carries rice stick noodles, egg noodles, wheat noodles, Italian noodles, bean thread noodles, soy sauce, fish sauce, peanut sauce, plum sauce, hoisin sauce, hot sauce, plates, bowls, cups, basins, pots and pans, wooden spoons, sieves, tea, whole bean coffee, insta-coffee, bread, buns, rusks, rolls, canned tomato sauces, gherkins, bread and butter pickles, dills, hot dog relish, spicy jalapeno relish, chili paste, miso, canned fish, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, mustard, ketchup, mayo, horseradish, red wine, white wine, cooking sherry, pork chops, lamb chops, beef, chicken, sausages, ground meat, tofu, surimi, fish balls, fish steaks, onions, ginger, garlic, cilantro, parsley, basil, cucumbers, zucchini, carrots, turnips, parsnips, potatoes, yams, bell peppers, butternut squash, melons, baby bokchoi, Shanghai bokchoi, Napa cabbage, mustard greens, chard, Chinese broccoli, bean sprouts, bitter melon, tomatoes, green beans, long beans, red cabbage, lettuce, avocado, apples, oranges, bananas, lemons, limes, other fresh fruit in season as well as juices, and a small selection of salad dressings.
Jalapeño, Serrano, Annaheim, and Mulatto Isleño.
Thai peppers, de arbol, chiltepin.
Plus gallons of ice cream.
All at prices for real people.
No more than two blocks away.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, February 14, 2014
ÉTOUFFÉE
Quite inappropriately for Valentine's Day, some pervert googled "barbide doll naked in a bow" and found my blog. Which is slightly irritating.
I would have wished that they searched for something more high-minded to find me. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, which suggests that it was a purely intellectual quest, motivated by any deep spiritual or scientific thesis.
What he found was this: " a perfectly clean post about two gay men celebrating Mother's Day in San Francisco, involving delicious food, particularly a mildly spiced étouffée, which was mentioned merely as "stew", because the culinary details were not Germane ".
In case you are interested, étouffée is described on Wikipedia as a shellfish or crawdaddy smothered dish, "made with a blonde or brown roux and sometime tomatoes are added".
SUCH LOVELY REAL-LIFE WOMEN
When someone looks for Barbie on Valentine's Day, there is something missing in his life. And conceivably his obsessions are off-target.
Rather than focusing on a biologically inaccurate and mal-dimensioned fluffhead, perhaps he should put on the old trench coat and ride the bus all day. Whether he's a studied old degenerate, or a young inexperienced one with hope and shy optimism still beating in his stifled little heart, he is bound to see any number of real women among his fellow travelers that can excite the eye and prompt the imagination.
It's what I would do if I weren't so bloody clean-minded.
Students, secretaries, nursey-wursies, successful bankers, stockbrokers, rising young venture capitalists, cops, business attorneys.......
And arms, ankles, delicate earlobes, slim fingers.......
Oh!
The other day a young lady was reading her college text-book on the bus. From my angle (standing, because gentlemen do that), I could admire her elegant hands fondling the page in anticipation of a flip, the furrowing of a brow as she pondered the multi-syllabic words strung together like an ant-caravan bearing nuggets of science, the hair that flopped deliciously on a broad clear brow, and even the defined line of a small nose above the upper edge of a finely sculpted lip.
The chin was hinted at, but not revealed; her head was bent over the volume, and as I was looking down (because she was sitting and I was standing), I could not see it.
Women engaged in thought, mentally preoccupied with serious matters, with that abstracted air of pensiveness......
They look sweet when they're like that.
Barbie doesn't look sweet. She looks like a Real Housewife.
Vicious, calculating, superficial.
Plastic.
The best étouffée in the city is down in the Tenderloin.
Brenda’s French Soul Food
652 Polk Street
San Francisco, CA 94102
415-345-8100
It ain't crawdaddy, but chicken. Evenso, excellent.
Their beans and rice, the gumbo, beignettes, shrimp 'n grits, and the oyster po' boy are all worth coming back for. Often far too crowded for a nice cozy dinner for two, and located in an area which is more than a little skeevy after dark, but still exceptionally deserving of your attention, when you and your boyfriend or girlfriend want a lovely meal together.
A first-date spot for two adventurous eaters, or some place to go after you've become comfortable with each other, for more standard souls.
Don't go there by yourself; you need to share.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I would have wished that they searched for something more high-minded to find me. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, which suggests that it was a purely intellectual quest, motivated by any deep spiritual or scientific thesis.
What he found was this: " a perfectly clean post about two gay men celebrating Mother's Day in San Francisco, involving delicious food, particularly a mildly spiced étouffée, which was mentioned merely as "stew", because the culinary details were not Germane ".
In case you are interested, étouffée is described on Wikipedia as a shellfish or crawdaddy smothered dish, "made with a blonde or brown roux and sometime tomatoes are added".
SUCH LOVELY REAL-LIFE WOMEN
When someone looks for Barbie on Valentine's Day, there is something missing in his life. And conceivably his obsessions are off-target.
Rather than focusing on a biologically inaccurate and mal-dimensioned fluffhead, perhaps he should put on the old trench coat and ride the bus all day. Whether he's a studied old degenerate, or a young inexperienced one with hope and shy optimism still beating in his stifled little heart, he is bound to see any number of real women among his fellow travelers that can excite the eye and prompt the imagination.
It's what I would do if I weren't so bloody clean-minded.
Students, secretaries, nursey-wursies, successful bankers, stockbrokers, rising young venture capitalists, cops, business attorneys.......
And arms, ankles, delicate earlobes, slim fingers.......
Oh!
The other day a young lady was reading her college text-book on the bus. From my angle (standing, because gentlemen do that), I could admire her elegant hands fondling the page in anticipation of a flip, the furrowing of a brow as she pondered the multi-syllabic words strung together like an ant-caravan bearing nuggets of science, the hair that flopped deliciously on a broad clear brow, and even the defined line of a small nose above the upper edge of a finely sculpted lip.
The chin was hinted at, but not revealed; her head was bent over the volume, and as I was looking down (because she was sitting and I was standing), I could not see it.
Women engaged in thought, mentally preoccupied with serious matters, with that abstracted air of pensiveness......
They look sweet when they're like that.
Barbie doesn't look sweet. She looks like a Real Housewife.
Vicious, calculating, superficial.
Plastic.
The best étouffée in the city is down in the Tenderloin.
Brenda’s French Soul Food
652 Polk Street
San Francisco, CA 94102
415-345-8100
It ain't crawdaddy, but chicken. Evenso, excellent.
Their beans and rice, the gumbo, beignettes, shrimp 'n grits, and the oyster po' boy are all worth coming back for. Often far too crowded for a nice cozy dinner for two, and located in an area which is more than a little skeevy after dark, but still exceptionally deserving of your attention, when you and your boyfriend or girlfriend want a lovely meal together.
A first-date spot for two adventurous eaters, or some place to go after you've become comfortable with each other, for more standard souls.
Don't go there by yourself; you need to share.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, February 10, 2014
WHEN GROWN MEN DREAM OF GOATS
Before going to bed I had way too much coffee, and consequently last night's sleep images were tactile and delicious. As well as detailed. This often happens; I spend too much time in Marin, and consequently wish to make the most of what remains of the day when I return to civilization.
Which means coffee.
Years ago a friend mentioned that she would like to have a goat ranch. To which my instinctive response was "them's good eating", which was mildly horrifying, as she was thinking of cheese, whereas I was fantasizing about meat.
GOAT CURRY
1½ LBS goat, chunk cut.
1 Onion, finely chopped.
1 Thumblength ginger, minced.
3 Cloves garlic, minced.
3 Large tomatoes; peeled, seeded, chopped.
3 TBS curry powder.
6 Whole green chilies; Serrano or jalapeno.
6 Green cardamom pods.
2 Whole cloves.
2 Bay leaves.
½ Cup coconut milk.
1½ Cup water or beer.
½ Tsp. sugar.
½ Tsp. garam masala.
Salt, pepper, oil.
Salt and pepper the meat.
Gild the onion in the pan with plenty oil, add the ginger and garlic halfway through, and add the sugar, which will facilitate browning.
Add the curry powder, cardamom pods, and whole cloves, stir to blend; add the meat, stir to coat. When the meat colours, but before the curry powder scorches, add the tomatoes. Mix.
Pour the liquids in, and add the whole chilies to float on top; their presence will contribute fragrance, but scant heat if left whole. Add the bay leaves. Raise to boil, turn low and simmer for two hours.
Add the garam masala and cook a few minutes longer.
Garnish with chopped cilantro.
Serve with rice.
COCONUT RICE
One onion, chopped.
3 Cups rice; rinsed, drained, aired.
3 Cloves garlic, minced.
A little fresh ginger, ditto.
3 Bay leaves.
1½ Cups coconut milk.
1½ Cups chicken stock.
1½ Cups water.
Pinch salt.
Gild the onions in oil. When starting to brown, stir in the rice and garlic. Cook thus till the fragrance of the garlic is very noticeable. Add the ginger, stir briefly, then add the liquids and the bay leaves, plus the salt. Bring to a simmer, turn heat low and cover. Cook for fifteen to twenty minutes.
Let it rest, covered, for about ten to fifteen minutes.
Fluff it up, and squeeze some lime juice over it.
Indians will object to both of these recipes, because their equivalents are not prepared in this fashion. They'll especially quibble as regards the use of curry powder. No real cook employs such a thing, ALL spices are measured and prepared fresh and individually for each dish!
Nonsense.
It is worth while keeping a small supply of curry powder on hand at all times, for when you need to wing it.
GOAT CURRY POWDER
3½ Tsp. ground coriander.
1½ Tsp. (½ TBS) turmeric.
1½ Tsp. (½ TBS) ground cumin.
1 Tsp. cayenne.
½ Tsp. ground black pepper.
½ Tsp. dry ginger.
½ Tsp. cinnamon powder.
Mix, and use as necessary. This equals the three tablespoons needed for the goat curry.
Finding goat is an issue. They're rare in San Francisco now, but the meat used to be available in my neighborhood, when there was still a Halal butcher shop on Polk Street. The big bearded Yemeni gentleman who hacked the flesh closed when he realized that his Arab customers weren't very finicky, and his Caucasian customers were predominantly Wasps who didn't know anything about cooking at all.
Did he have pizza, they wished to know, or fusion wraps?
I suspect that I was his major customer for goat.
The meat is denser than lamb, more intense.
Goats are huggable, and delicious.
Goat curry powder can also be used for pork.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which means coffee.
Years ago a friend mentioned that she would like to have a goat ranch. To which my instinctive response was "them's good eating", which was mildly horrifying, as she was thinking of cheese, whereas I was fantasizing about meat.
GOAT CURRY
1½ LBS goat, chunk cut.
1 Onion, finely chopped.
1 Thumblength ginger, minced.
3 Cloves garlic, minced.
3 Large tomatoes; peeled, seeded, chopped.
3 TBS curry powder.
6 Whole green chilies; Serrano or jalapeno.
6 Green cardamom pods.
2 Whole cloves.
2 Bay leaves.
½ Cup coconut milk.
1½ Cup water or beer.
½ Tsp. sugar.
½ Tsp. garam masala.
Salt, pepper, oil.
Salt and pepper the meat.
Gild the onion in the pan with plenty oil, add the ginger and garlic halfway through, and add the sugar, which will facilitate browning.
Add the curry powder, cardamom pods, and whole cloves, stir to blend; add the meat, stir to coat. When the meat colours, but before the curry powder scorches, add the tomatoes. Mix.
Pour the liquids in, and add the whole chilies to float on top; their presence will contribute fragrance, but scant heat if left whole. Add the bay leaves. Raise to boil, turn low and simmer for two hours.
Add the garam masala and cook a few minutes longer.
Garnish with chopped cilantro.
Serve with rice.
COCONUT RICE
One onion, chopped.
3 Cups rice; rinsed, drained, aired.
3 Cloves garlic, minced.
A little fresh ginger, ditto.
3 Bay leaves.
1½ Cups coconut milk.
1½ Cups chicken stock.
1½ Cups water.
Pinch salt.
Gild the onions in oil. When starting to brown, stir in the rice and garlic. Cook thus till the fragrance of the garlic is very noticeable. Add the ginger, stir briefly, then add the liquids and the bay leaves, plus the salt. Bring to a simmer, turn heat low and cover. Cook for fifteen to twenty minutes.
Let it rest, covered, for about ten to fifteen minutes.
Fluff it up, and squeeze some lime juice over it.
Indians will object to both of these recipes, because their equivalents are not prepared in this fashion. They'll especially quibble as regards the use of curry powder. No real cook employs such a thing, ALL spices are measured and prepared fresh and individually for each dish!
Nonsense.
It is worth while keeping a small supply of curry powder on hand at all times, for when you need to wing it.
GOAT CURRY POWDER
3½ Tsp. ground coriander.
1½ Tsp. (½ TBS) turmeric.
1½ Tsp. (½ TBS) ground cumin.
1 Tsp. cayenne.
½ Tsp. ground black pepper.
½ Tsp. dry ginger.
½ Tsp. cinnamon powder.
Mix, and use as necessary. This equals the three tablespoons needed for the goat curry.
Finding goat is an issue. They're rare in San Francisco now, but the meat used to be available in my neighborhood, when there was still a Halal butcher shop on Polk Street. The big bearded Yemeni gentleman who hacked the flesh closed when he realized that his Arab customers weren't very finicky, and his Caucasian customers were predominantly Wasps who didn't know anything about cooking at all.
Did he have pizza, they wished to know, or fusion wraps?
I suspect that I was his major customer for goat.
The meat is denser than lamb, more intense.
Goats are huggable, and delicious.
Goat curry powder can also be used for pork.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
POLK STREET, SAN FRANCISCO
Years ago it was the second gayest district of San Francisco, today it is better known for blatant rutting, by twenty-somethings of either sex. The demographics have changed; like many neighborhoods, the charm it once had has been replaced by pretentiousness, over-priced food, and vulgar displays of hormonalism. Largely this is due to the triumph of the repulsive cell-phone generation; they must be doing something right, there are so many of them.
Cell-phones: the indispensable tool for randy male vulgarians texting seduction to highly uncomplex white chicks with big tits.
Good luck boys, don't forget to tip.
Back in the day you couldn't find flavoured vodka in the drinking holes of Polk Street if your life depended on it. The bars catering to queers served a man's drink. Whiskey poured with a stiff hand, or cocktails that could boost a rocket. Now, alas, the chances of finding a salty caramel framboise martini are better than finding Jesus.
Civilized adult beverages have no more than three ingredients.
Not a single one of which is sweet.
I haven't eaten on Polk in years. Not since the last honest Indian place closed down. Oh yes, there are still eateries with Desi khanna on Polk Street; unclean dhabbas staffed by dishonest Delhiwallas and Lahoris. Their offerings are perfect for intoxicated young adults who will eat any swill to fill a hole, then go home with a blonde to sleep-barf.
Well, there IS the Swan Oyster Depot. But it is only open during the day. And the people waiting in line outside would never think of visiting the street at night. It's a different scene, and a better crowd.
There used to be very good pizza and cheap Greek food on Polk Street, French food, fish restaurants, Mexican, and at least three Chinese bakeries. Good honest coffee, too.
Of course, the down side was the huge swarm of teenage boy toys prostituting themselves for drug-money. But once they had scored, they would go to a coffee shop to boast about their conquest, and tell tall tales of pudgy middle-aged business men who paid for the most amazing services.
I rather suspect that they're all Republicans now, and have two dogs and a house on Twin Peaks.
The Noble Frankfurter once served excellent sausage; now there's a bar catering to horny sportsfiends.
The oldest Thai restaurant on the stretch became a yoga parlour with sweaty pudgepots.
Dingo Wong no longer cooks-up stir-frys for late-night drag-queens.
He's retired to Modesto with ulcers and seven grandkids.
Heck, there even used to be bookstores on Polk.
Many such! Both good AND dirty.
Just two remain.
[There are now also TWO churches on Polk Street. One of them was where they sold good cheap wine and bottles of single malt for nearly half of normal retail, the other served the best damned Palestinian shwarma, mezze, and Turkish coffee you could find. Like any half-assed Jewishly-inclined person, given a choice between Christian preaching and Arab food, I would vastly prefer the food. No one needs a priest in a singles mecca.]
This blogger misses the self-confident, gallant, and joyously depraved aspect of San Francisco, before the place turned so suburban and mediocre.
Cell-phone users. Blyat.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Cell-phones: the indispensable tool for randy male vulgarians texting seduction to highly uncomplex white chicks with big tits.
Good luck boys, don't forget to tip.
Back in the day you couldn't find flavoured vodka in the drinking holes of Polk Street if your life depended on it. The bars catering to queers served a man's drink. Whiskey poured with a stiff hand, or cocktails that could boost a rocket. Now, alas, the chances of finding a salty caramel framboise martini are better than finding Jesus.
Civilized adult beverages have no more than three ingredients.
Not a single one of which is sweet.
I haven't eaten on Polk in years. Not since the last honest Indian place closed down. Oh yes, there are still eateries with Desi khanna on Polk Street; unclean dhabbas staffed by dishonest Delhiwallas and Lahoris. Their offerings are perfect for intoxicated young adults who will eat any swill to fill a hole, then go home with a blonde to sleep-barf.
Well, there IS the Swan Oyster Depot. But it is only open during the day. And the people waiting in line outside would never think of visiting the street at night. It's a different scene, and a better crowd.
There used to be very good pizza and cheap Greek food on Polk Street, French food, fish restaurants, Mexican, and at least three Chinese bakeries. Good honest coffee, too.
Of course, the down side was the huge swarm of teenage boy toys prostituting themselves for drug-money. But once they had scored, they would go to a coffee shop to boast about their conquest, and tell tall tales of pudgy middle-aged business men who paid for the most amazing services.
I rather suspect that they're all Republicans now, and have two dogs and a house on Twin Peaks.
The Noble Frankfurter once served excellent sausage; now there's a bar catering to horny sportsfiends.
The oldest Thai restaurant on the stretch became a yoga parlour with sweaty pudgepots.
Dingo Wong no longer cooks-up stir-frys for late-night drag-queens.
He's retired to Modesto with ulcers and seven grandkids.
Heck, there even used to be bookstores on Polk.
Many such! Both good AND dirty.
Just two remain.
[There are now also TWO churches on Polk Street. One of them was where they sold good cheap wine and bottles of single malt for nearly half of normal retail, the other served the best damned Palestinian shwarma, mezze, and Turkish coffee you could find. Like any half-assed Jewishly-inclined person, given a choice between Christian preaching and Arab food, I would vastly prefer the food. No one needs a priest in a singles mecca.]
This blogger misses the self-confident, gallant, and joyously depraved aspect of San Francisco, before the place turned so suburban and mediocre.
Cell-phone users. Blyat.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, February 08, 2013
MR. BADGER HAS A TANTRUM
You've probably already noticed that this blogger occasionally refers to himself in the third-person, as either 'the badger', or 'mr. Badger'.
It's a comfortable persona, as it allows me to disavow all-too-human characteristics. Normal humans do not swill tea, or smoke pipes.
This is the modern age, and homo erectus now consumes zero-fat high-energy-drinks, and only smokes pot, because it's therapeutic.
And, it is universally believed, marijuana is lovingly produced by sincere nature-children who are altruistically into green technology and sustainable agriculture.
As well as supporting the rain-forest.
Mr. Badger takes exception to that life-style.
And that idiotic point-of-view.
Zero-fat high-energy drinks induce berserk behaviour, and pot leads directly to madness. If you persist in either of those despicable habits you will become a scrawny whacked-out zombie with a spongy brain. Pot is the emerald road to ruin.
No, the badger does not accept the claim that pot is medicinal.
Get off your self-indulgent high horse.
Unlike tobacco, pot is grown by hardened criminals getting rich from the self-destructive delusional urges of the most cocked-up navel-gazing generation in this planet's history, and zero-fat high-energy drinks are little more than a legal form of speed with a smirking priggish feel-good overlay.
This badger gets hepped-up the old-fashioned way: oolong.
And uses pipe-fulls of tobacco to sharpen the mind.
Which is why on Friday and Saturday evenings he usually avoids the crowd of loud drunken partyers that flock along middle Polk Street. For one thing, they aren't his style and he has scant use for them, and for another, they perfectly epitomize everything wrong with America since trust-funds were invented.
They should be sitting at home with a good book and a hot cup of tea.
Perhaps Dickens, or Somerset Maugham, or Evelyn Waugh.
With a bit of Bach playing on the Victrola.
And also, a tin of very fine pipe tobacco on the little table to their immediate right, where the lamp and the ashtray are. Candidates for a jolly good smoke include 'Old Joe Kranz', 'Haunted Bookshop', 'Old Hollywood' (all three are Burley compounds from Cornell & Diehl); 'Best Brown Flake', 'Hall O'The Wynd', and 'Dunbar' (fine Virginias from various manufacturers); plus 'Westminster', 'Lagonda', 'Three Oaks', and 'Wilderness' (those being four stellar full-English, with sheer oodles of Oriental and Latakia).
That is what they SHOULD be doing. It's clean living, is what it is.
Beneficial to the mind, good for the soul. Healthy!
Instead of puking their spoiled rotten twenty-something guts out further down the block. Undoubtedly from too much zero-fat high-energy swill, medical grade ganja, and fruity drinks made with flavoured vodka.
My god, they're all blonde!
Mr. Badger is thoroughly disgusted.
* * * * * *
By the way, I have all the tobaccos I mentioned. They're pretty darn good.
Plus several teapots of various sizes. If you promise not to apall me with your sickening beverages, and have been pot-free for the past ten years, I'll be happy to let you in to sample them. Burley blends tend toward a musty old-fashioned flavour and must be merely puffed, Virginias are sweet on the tip of the tongue, somewhat floral at times, and have to be smoked slowly, sipped almost, and English blends (also called Balkan Mixtures) are full-bodied, zesty, tarry, and earthy. These last can be fumed at a more lively pace, and will likely leave your tweed coat or lady-like cardigan smelling profoundly autumnal.
Your parents or roommates might well wonder when you return whether unbeknownst to them you've been rolling around in a pile of fine leather.
If you're worried, I can probably get some Febreze.
There might even be a spot of sherry afterwards.
I've also got books, and a comfy place to sit.
Mr. Badger cares about your well-being.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It's a comfortable persona, as it allows me to disavow all-too-human characteristics. Normal humans do not swill tea, or smoke pipes.
This is the modern age, and homo erectus now consumes zero-fat high-energy-drinks, and only smokes pot, because it's therapeutic.
And, it is universally believed, marijuana is lovingly produced by sincere nature-children who are altruistically into green technology and sustainable agriculture.
As well as supporting the rain-forest.
Mr. Badger takes exception to that life-style.
And that idiotic point-of-view.
Zero-fat high-energy drinks induce berserk behaviour, and pot leads directly to madness. If you persist in either of those despicable habits you will become a scrawny whacked-out zombie with a spongy brain. Pot is the emerald road to ruin.
No, the badger does not accept the claim that pot is medicinal.
Get off your self-indulgent high horse.
Unlike tobacco, pot is grown by hardened criminals getting rich from the self-destructive delusional urges of the most cocked-up navel-gazing generation in this planet's history, and zero-fat high-energy drinks are little more than a legal form of speed with a smirking priggish feel-good overlay.
This badger gets hepped-up the old-fashioned way: oolong.
And uses pipe-fulls of tobacco to sharpen the mind.
Which is why on Friday and Saturday evenings he usually avoids the crowd of loud drunken partyers that flock along middle Polk Street. For one thing, they aren't his style and he has scant use for them, and for another, they perfectly epitomize everything wrong with America since trust-funds were invented.
They should be sitting at home with a good book and a hot cup of tea.
Perhaps Dickens, or Somerset Maugham, or Evelyn Waugh.
With a bit of Bach playing on the Victrola.
And also, a tin of very fine pipe tobacco on the little table to their immediate right, where the lamp and the ashtray are. Candidates for a jolly good smoke include 'Old Joe Kranz', 'Haunted Bookshop', 'Old Hollywood' (all three are Burley compounds from Cornell & Diehl); 'Best Brown Flake', 'Hall O'The Wynd', and 'Dunbar' (fine Virginias from various manufacturers); plus 'Westminster', 'Lagonda', 'Three Oaks', and 'Wilderness' (those being four stellar full-English, with sheer oodles of Oriental and Latakia).
That is what they SHOULD be doing. It's clean living, is what it is.
Beneficial to the mind, good for the soul. Healthy!
Instead of puking their spoiled rotten twenty-something guts out further down the block. Undoubtedly from too much zero-fat high-energy swill, medical grade ganja, and fruity drinks made with flavoured vodka.
My god, they're all blonde!
Mr. Badger is thoroughly disgusted.
* * * * * *
By the way, I have all the tobaccos I mentioned. They're pretty darn good.
Plus several teapots of various sizes. If you promise not to apall me with your sickening beverages, and have been pot-free for the past ten years, I'll be happy to let you in to sample them. Burley blends tend toward a musty old-fashioned flavour and must be merely puffed, Virginias are sweet on the tip of the tongue, somewhat floral at times, and have to be smoked slowly, sipped almost, and English blends (also called Balkan Mixtures) are full-bodied, zesty, tarry, and earthy. These last can be fumed at a more lively pace, and will likely leave your tweed coat or lady-like cardigan smelling profoundly autumnal.
Your parents or roommates might well wonder when you return whether unbeknownst to them you've been rolling around in a pile of fine leather.
If you're worried, I can probably get some Febreze.
There might even be a spot of sherry afterwards.
I've also got books, and a comfy place to sit.
Mr. Badger cares about your well-being.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 17, 2012
LAMENTING THE DEPRAVITY OF ELVES
This past Saturday was SantaCon, a yearly bacchanal that involves several thousand individuals dressing up as Santa or one of his elves, or even as festive moose, reindeer, and rabbits with red caps, and getting riotously stinko. It was all rather distressingly Belgian.
I participated, but only vicariously.
By avoiding the crowds.
Some people got a head-start on Friday night. The majority did not begin drinking till breakfast time on Saturday, which showed remarkable restraint. A few hardy souls continued untill Sunday afternoon, finally falling asleep in alleyways and behind comfortable garbage cans.
I woke up Saturday morning to the sounds of early boister from Polk Street, as well as a constant rise and fall of police sirens and emergency vehicles in the background, which maintained throughout the day.
For your information, I live on the slope, Polk Street is downhill. The noise of mass revelry travelled.
Including the dulcet tone of somebody retching.
Which was probably Santa.
Or an elf.
If you saw the event, you will have finally realized that Santa is a horrid degenerate who should not be allowed anywhere near your kids. Ever, even sober. After seeing him throw-up on a policeman, the little dears are traumatized, probably for life.
Two Santas attempting procreativity in a convenient doorway may have given your children the wrong idea about Christmas. You have some explaining to do.
Good luck claryfing the role of the third participant.
And no, please do not teach them all the words to that disgusting song 'Clam Chowder'. There are just some things no one needs to know. The repulsive lyrics are still echoing in my head as I type this. Quite catchy, good rhymes.
Your young ones will likely learn it in school anyway.
I'm sure some of the elves sincerely regret their behaviour.
Or at least, I hope they do.
Disrobing and inviting over a dozen strapping Santas to "get jiggy" in the bus shelter showed an unhealthy enthusiasm for naturalism. Especially in the rain. Vodka (or was it gin?) does indeed lower your body temperature, and makes the cold far more bearable. But it WAS cold, dearie, and you risked hypothermia and possibly pneumonia.
Although the fat may have provided some insulation.
Good thing the bus driver did not allow you on in your state of undress. And inebriation. Those Chinatown grannies were desperate to keep you at arms length.
At all times. A very long arm.
On second thought, I wish the bus driver HAD let you on. The vehicle would have promptly emptied out, and there would have been seats for some of the old people.
I think I might have heard the Clam Chowder song three more times that day.
But maybe that was just the wind.
As I returned home last night, a discarded Santa brassiere was being tossed about by the breeze at Hyde Street. I thought of picking it up, but then I realized that I did not know where it had been.
And a man carrying a fur-trimmed naughty garment looks suspect.
Not just at midnight, but at any time of day.
Somewhere an elf is bare.
Cold, too.
I feel for her.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I participated, but only vicariously.
By avoiding the crowds.
Some people got a head-start on Friday night. The majority did not begin drinking till breakfast time on Saturday, which showed remarkable restraint. A few hardy souls continued untill Sunday afternoon, finally falling asleep in alleyways and behind comfortable garbage cans.
I woke up Saturday morning to the sounds of early boister from Polk Street, as well as a constant rise and fall of police sirens and emergency vehicles in the background, which maintained throughout the day.
For your information, I live on the slope, Polk Street is downhill. The noise of mass revelry travelled.
Including the dulcet tone of somebody retching.
Which was probably Santa.
Or an elf.
If you saw the event, you will have finally realized that Santa is a horrid degenerate who should not be allowed anywhere near your kids. Ever, even sober. After seeing him throw-up on a policeman, the little dears are traumatized, probably for life.
Two Santas attempting procreativity in a convenient doorway may have given your children the wrong idea about Christmas. You have some explaining to do.
Good luck claryfing the role of the third participant.
And no, please do not teach them all the words to that disgusting song 'Clam Chowder'. There are just some things no one needs to know. The repulsive lyrics are still echoing in my head as I type this. Quite catchy, good rhymes.
Your young ones will likely learn it in school anyway.
I'm sure some of the elves sincerely regret their behaviour.
Or at least, I hope they do.
Disrobing and inviting over a dozen strapping Santas to "get jiggy" in the bus shelter showed an unhealthy enthusiasm for naturalism. Especially in the rain. Vodka (or was it gin?) does indeed lower your body temperature, and makes the cold far more bearable. But it WAS cold, dearie, and you risked hypothermia and possibly pneumonia.
Although the fat may have provided some insulation.
Good thing the bus driver did not allow you on in your state of undress. And inebriation. Those Chinatown grannies were desperate to keep you at arms length.
At all times. A very long arm.
On second thought, I wish the bus driver HAD let you on. The vehicle would have promptly emptied out, and there would have been seats for some of the old people.
I think I might have heard the Clam Chowder song three more times that day.
But maybe that was just the wind.
As I returned home last night, a discarded Santa brassiere was being tossed about by the breeze at Hyde Street. I thought of picking it up, but then I realized that I did not know where it had been.
And a man carrying a fur-trimmed naughty garment looks suspect.
Not just at midnight, but at any time of day.
Somewhere an elf is bare.
Cold, too.
I feel for her.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, October 28, 2012
DONUTS AT CLOSING TIME
Yesterday after a few snoots of pipe tobacco at the cigar bar, I headed over to Polk Street near my house. Seeing as it's Halloween Weekend in San Francisco, Polk was a veritable feast for the eye.
For some reason young people are exhibitionistic at certain times of the year, and this blogger can only applaud that.
I myself was dressed-up as a perfectly normal and discreet street-corner dirty old man. Everyday garb, nothing suspect, nothing risqué.
Clean slacks, clean shirt, neat hair, spectacles.
Smelling mildly of cheroots.
While drinking in the ambulatory zoo, a friend spotted me. We hung out together while watching. He was amazed at all the young ladies with huge amounts of their real estate showing (gratuitous Monty Python reference), and I enjoyed the wonderful curvy thighs on display.
I did say perfectly normal street-corner D.O.M, did I not?
A mermaid with pendulous bosoms wobbled past, and a young zombie with a gaping bullet hole above a rosy nipple nearly crashed into her.
I observed to my friend that high heels were certainly not sensible footwear when you're out of water or have just been shot. There are times when you should think about comfort, correct posture, and your lower back, and this really seemed like one of those times. Irrespective of breast size.
Two young ladies nearby negotiated with a limo driver to get back to Oakland. It would cost them eighty dollars. Which is exorbitant, but who wants to be stranded overnight in the wrong city after Bay Area Rapid Transit has stopped running?
Especially while wearing nearly nothing?
This is very much the wrong city.
For such a mode of dress.
I'm sure their parents had not vetted the costumes.
They looked ... remarkable.
Surely they could've found a friend who would let them crash overnight? They had cell-phones, though I'm not sure where they stashed those while not in use.
"LET THEM SLEEP ON YOUR FLOOR!"
Well, that is a mighty attractive concept, but firstly I am not acquainted with them, and for all I know they could be psychopaths who would love nothing better than to slice up a middle-aged man and feed the lean meaty scraps to the sharks in the bay. And secondly, you do realize that my roommate would be more than a little bit disturbed to find two curvaceous and extremely young Goth bunny-rabbits huddled on my floor tomorrow morning?
She would suspect me of perversion.
Even if nothing had happened.
"Suspect you of perversion? You mean after all these years she still hasn't figured you out yet?!?"
Thank you for your vote of confidence.
And no, she hasn't. I was a gentleman while we were an item, and I've remained a gentleman. The filth is purely internal.
"Crap she's innocent!!!"
No, she was a gentleman too. Remarkable for someone of her gender.
"You should've offered those two cutey-pies your floor, and just told your roommate that you were discussing religion with them all night."
I'm certain she wouldn't believe that. I've never discussed theology with her, and she knows how my mind works. She'd rightly suspect me of ulterior motives in extending the invite, as would they.
"Still, you need the excitement in your life. Imagine if, in a fit of drunken insanity, both of them decided to jump your hot middle-aged body and bang you silly. It could happen, don't laugh! But if you refuse to approach people, it ain't ever gonna happen. Live a little,man, I know I would in your position. Be giddy sometime! You're too frustrated."
Somehow he doesn't understand that frustration is infinitely better than regret.
"What regret? What possible regret could there be?!?"
Well, what if they were actually very nice girls, liable to suffer emotionally afterwards? You know, sweet and intelligent, and likely to get hurt by an unsuitable relationship?
"Dude, you always overthink sex, stop being such a friggin' intellectual - you'll never get any that way!"
Probably true, but at my age thinking about sex always means 'overthinking'.
It's something I'm very good at, as I am a thoughtful man.
"You're an idiot!!!"
I really don't know what is going through my friend's mind. I'm dispassionately observing natives wearing colourful costumes while they're engaged in a fascinating cultural manifestation, he's audibly drooling, muttering things like "wouldya look at those...", "ooh, wow, man", and "yes, it IS too warm to wear a bra ... on your head".
I am not like that at all.
Cool, and even somewhat apathetic.
Perhaps a maelstrom inside, but externally mellow.
"So, describe your ideal woman"
The inquiry came out of the blue. Without thinking I flapped out "smaller than me, petite, considerably younger, round-faced and dark-haired, and significantly more intelligent".
After a moment I added "with glasses".
"Why glasses?"
Because "wise men make passes at girls who wear glasses".
It's good advice, and words to live by.
"That's just wrong, dude. It's "DON'T make passes" at them."
I'm sure he misremembers. Poetry would not lead us astray.
He was momentarily distracted by a cluster of naughty schoolgirls swishing their little frilly skirts, as well as two buff gentlemen wielding tennis racquets. Only one of whom had a skirt. But is was very fetching. White, and pleated.
While a trio of musclemen wearing 'panty emergency patrol' teeshirts went up the street, he resumed the conversation.
"So, why more intelligent than you? That's crazy. Wouldn't it be much better to find someone a bit less intelligent? Not only easier by far, but she'd never see entirely through you, unlike the rest of us."
Of course she has to be more intelligent! Someone needs to be the sensible one in this relationship, and it sure as heck ain't gonna be me!
Several more young ladies walked by, showing off between them precisely all the right parts, as well as several interesting angles. Being technically inclined, and as a former mechanical draughtsman, I know all about the benefits of cut-away views.
A lime green thong looks better coming than going, if you ask me, but differences of opinion regarding that are inevitable.
Degustibus non disputandem est, as they say.
My friend is not single.
What he saw was not good for his mental well-being.
Nor, and I'm just guessing here, for his relationship with his partner.
Who will probably slap him severely when he brings home an "evening gown" for her with hardly any actual material, but lots of glittery straps and tassels.
Which, after my sincere encouragement he has decided to do.
I am a mature man. Sort of the wise elder.
Perspective, and insight.
Trust me.
At around bar closing time, when the flocking had reached a frenzy, he asked me if I saw anything I liked. Surely one would have to be virtually dead to not take advantage of all the heat?
If you can't catch something during a street orgy, you just ain't trying!
"Yeah, that one over there who just came out of Bob's Donuts. She looks demure and sober, she's dressed properly, and she probably still lives at home; her parents would never let her out of the house at this hour if she didn't look decent. Very sweet."
"Dude, what kind of parents would let their daughter out of the house at all at two o'clock in the friggin' morning?!?"
Parents who had a sudden urge for donuts.
It makes sense to me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
For some reason young people are exhibitionistic at certain times of the year, and this blogger can only applaud that.
I myself was dressed-up as a perfectly normal and discreet street-corner dirty old man. Everyday garb, nothing suspect, nothing risqué.
Clean slacks, clean shirt, neat hair, spectacles.
Smelling mildly of cheroots.
While drinking in the ambulatory zoo, a friend spotted me. We hung out together while watching. He was amazed at all the young ladies with huge amounts of their real estate showing (gratuitous Monty Python reference), and I enjoyed the wonderful curvy thighs on display.
I did say perfectly normal street-corner D.O.M, did I not?
A mermaid with pendulous bosoms wobbled past, and a young zombie with a gaping bullet hole above a rosy nipple nearly crashed into her.
I observed to my friend that high heels were certainly not sensible footwear when you're out of water or have just been shot. There are times when you should think about comfort, correct posture, and your lower back, and this really seemed like one of those times. Irrespective of breast size.
Two young ladies nearby negotiated with a limo driver to get back to Oakland. It would cost them eighty dollars. Which is exorbitant, but who wants to be stranded overnight in the wrong city after Bay Area Rapid Transit has stopped running?
Especially while wearing nearly nothing?
This is very much the wrong city.
For such a mode of dress.
I'm sure their parents had not vetted the costumes.
They looked ... remarkable.
Surely they could've found a friend who would let them crash overnight? They had cell-phones, though I'm not sure where they stashed those while not in use.
"LET THEM SLEEP ON YOUR FLOOR!"
Well, that is a mighty attractive concept, but firstly I am not acquainted with them, and for all I know they could be psychopaths who would love nothing better than to slice up a middle-aged man and feed the lean meaty scraps to the sharks in the bay. And secondly, you do realize that my roommate would be more than a little bit disturbed to find two curvaceous and extremely young Goth bunny-rabbits huddled on my floor tomorrow morning?
She would suspect me of perversion.
Even if nothing had happened.
"Suspect you of perversion? You mean after all these years she still hasn't figured you out yet?!?"
Thank you for your vote of confidence.
And no, she hasn't. I was a gentleman while we were an item, and I've remained a gentleman. The filth is purely internal.
"Crap she's innocent!!!"
No, she was a gentleman too. Remarkable for someone of her gender.
"You should've offered those two cutey-pies your floor, and just told your roommate that you were discussing religion with them all night."
I'm certain she wouldn't believe that. I've never discussed theology with her, and she knows how my mind works. She'd rightly suspect me of ulterior motives in extending the invite, as would they.
"Still, you need the excitement in your life. Imagine if, in a fit of drunken insanity, both of them decided to jump your hot middle-aged body and bang you silly. It could happen, don't laugh! But if you refuse to approach people, it ain't ever gonna happen. Live a little,man, I know I would in your position. Be giddy sometime! You're too frustrated."
Somehow he doesn't understand that frustration is infinitely better than regret.
"What regret? What possible regret could there be?!?"
Well, what if they were actually very nice girls, liable to suffer emotionally afterwards? You know, sweet and intelligent, and likely to get hurt by an unsuitable relationship?
"Dude, you always overthink sex, stop being such a friggin' intellectual - you'll never get any that way!"
Probably true, but at my age thinking about sex always means 'overthinking'.
It's something I'm very good at, as I am a thoughtful man.
"You're an idiot!!!"
I really don't know what is going through my friend's mind. I'm dispassionately observing natives wearing colourful costumes while they're engaged in a fascinating cultural manifestation, he's audibly drooling, muttering things like "wouldya look at those...", "ooh, wow, man", and "yes, it IS too warm to wear a bra ... on your head".
I am not like that at all.
Cool, and even somewhat apathetic.
Perhaps a maelstrom inside, but externally mellow.
"So, describe your ideal woman"
The inquiry came out of the blue. Without thinking I flapped out "smaller than me, petite, considerably younger, round-faced and dark-haired, and significantly more intelligent".
After a moment I added "with glasses".
"Why glasses?"
Because "wise men make passes at girls who wear glasses".
It's good advice, and words to live by.
"That's just wrong, dude. It's "DON'T make passes" at them."
I'm sure he misremembers. Poetry would not lead us astray.
He was momentarily distracted by a cluster of naughty schoolgirls swishing their little frilly skirts, as well as two buff gentlemen wielding tennis racquets. Only one of whom had a skirt. But is was very fetching. White, and pleated.
While a trio of musclemen wearing 'panty emergency patrol' teeshirts went up the street, he resumed the conversation.
"So, why more intelligent than you? That's crazy. Wouldn't it be much better to find someone a bit less intelligent? Not only easier by far, but she'd never see entirely through you, unlike the rest of us."
Of course she has to be more intelligent! Someone needs to be the sensible one in this relationship, and it sure as heck ain't gonna be me!
Several more young ladies walked by, showing off between them precisely all the right parts, as well as several interesting angles. Being technically inclined, and as a former mechanical draughtsman, I know all about the benefits of cut-away views.
A lime green thong looks better coming than going, if you ask me, but differences of opinion regarding that are inevitable.
Degustibus non disputandem est, as they say.
My friend is not single.
What he saw was not good for his mental well-being.
Nor, and I'm just guessing here, for his relationship with his partner.
Who will probably slap him severely when he brings home an "evening gown" for her with hardly any actual material, but lots of glittery straps and tassels.
Which, after my sincere encouragement he has decided to do.
I am a mature man. Sort of the wise elder.
Perspective, and insight.
Trust me.
At around bar closing time, when the flocking had reached a frenzy, he asked me if I saw anything I liked. Surely one would have to be virtually dead to not take advantage of all the heat?
If you can't catch something during a street orgy, you just ain't trying!
"Yeah, that one over there who just came out of Bob's Donuts. She looks demure and sober, she's dressed properly, and she probably still lives at home; her parents would never let her out of the house at this hour if she didn't look decent. Very sweet."
"Dude, what kind of parents would let their daughter out of the house at all at two o'clock in the friggin' morning?!?"
Parents who had a sudden urge for donuts.
It makes sense to me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
A CELEBRATION FOR TURKEYS
He had been in the city for several days now, and he was getting seriously paranoid. Someone would discover him and then it would be over. Walking down the street he would withdraw into his overcoat and pull his fedora down. He tried to be as unnoticeable as possible, and avoided eye to eye contact. Fortunately, being rather short, not many people looked at his face. He resembled almost any other pedestrian, and most passers-by were too busy to give him more than a passing glance.
Still, he worried. And with good reason.
It was less than a week since his escape.
Surely the authorities were mounting a search?
He walked along Clay Street, under the Gingko trees. One tree had all yellow leaves, so glorious, so beautiful. It reminded him of the California hills in early summer, when he was still young and lived on the farm. All golden in the sun.
Life, then, had been wonderful. Warm carefree days, cool evenings, lots of friends.
But that had changed. Those last few days down at the farm had been truly nightmarish.
Why did none of the others understand?
Why didn't they get it? Fools!
Their giddy optimism and complete blindness to evil frightened him, why were they so cheerfully and simple-mindedly upbeat?
Were they after all just turkeys?
He shook his wattles irritatedly - of course they were! They had been promised by the farmer that they were going to a feast, and so they happily scuttled into the truck that would bring them there. The silly birds hadn't even questioned why they were being transported in a vehicle boasting "Johnson's Poultry - we put the gobble gobble in holidays".
Only he stayed behind, hiding in a dark corner of the barn. He had tried to warn them, but no one had listened. They didn't want to hear his gloomy theories, why should they fear anything from the farmer? Hadn't the farmer taken care of them, fed them, housed them in a nice warm coop?
The farmer was a good man, and there was going to be a wonderful party.
They were looking forward to some serious fun.
Them and their state of denial.
Hmmph, feather brained idiots!
That evening, after darkness fell, he snuck out and headed for the open road. A kindly driver gave him a lift to Richmond, and told him where to get on B.A.R.T. He was determined to go to San Francisco, feeling that he would stand out far less in a big city.
But it wasn't easy to get used to this place.
He had only known the farm.
He was preparing to sleep in the bushes next to a church, on his first evening in the city, but after he saw some raccoons shaking down a seagull he got scared. The hobo behind the next shrub over mumbled that those animals were nothing but thugs, man, worse than the cops. And nobody says anything about that! Nobody does anything about those black-hearted furballs!
He spent the rest of the night at a twenty-four hour donut place, finally stumbling out at dawn, wired and jangly from too much coffee. He wandered around for hours till the caffeine and sugar wore off.
That evening he was kicked out of the main library at closing time - "yo, dude, you can't sleep here, go to the shelter at Polk and Geary, they'll put you up for the night."
He had taken one look at that place and decided against it. Several people there looked carnivorous, and quite a number of the others were missing either their wings or their drumsticks. That alone would have been suspicious, but what really freaked him out was that there were pictures of HIS kind on the walls. Some turkeys were illustrated in pilgrim clothes. Others were shown surrounded by all the fixings. He felt sure that if he stayed there, he would be fingered and roasted. No way man, he didn't plan on getting caught! And he sure wasn't going to let them harvest his limbs one by one, like they were doing to some of these people.
He nearly got run over by a wheelchair on the way out.
He spent most of the night sitting on the bus-stop bench at Jackson and Polk. Occasionally a squad car would roll by, and he'd remain as motionless as possible, desperately hoping that the police wouldn't see him. Sometimes people would come out of the bar for a cigarette, and one or two of them asked him for a light. He told them he didn't smoke.
Long after closing time, a drunk sat down next to him and started talking about the Grateful Dead - that really freaked him out. He tried to explain to the fellow that Thanksgiving just wasn't a good time for his kind please don't make insensetive jokes about 'gratitude', but the man started screaming about his plump meaty thighs so he fled.
He spent the next several hours in an unlit doorway on Larkin Street. Just before dawn a raccoon ambled past and glared at him, but was obviously too tired from strenuous illegal activities elsewhere to make any trouble. He resolved to avoid Larkin Street at night, too many furry criminal types. Yeah, he realized he was stereotyping, but better safe than sorry.
He hadn't realized that city living could be so dangerous. The city is not a gentle place, if you are short, feathered, and wearing only an overcoat and a fedora.
One significant problem was that the ATM machines were all far too high up, altogether NOT turkey accessible.
And bank tellers insisted on seeing a photo id.
For obvious reasons, he didn't plan to go to the DMV to have his picture taken until after December 25th. Just too risky before then.
During the holiday season, he was a marked man.
Bird. Marked bird.
He'd simply have to pile boxes in front of an ATM when no-one was looking, but it was hard.
Short wings do not give one much leverage.
On the plus side, he got to ride the busses for free, provided he acted like the nearest adult was with him. And if it was too crowded he could always scoot under the seats for safety. He had seen what happened to a pigeon that wasn't smart enough to do so and tried standing in the aisle with the tall people. The crowd of office workers heading down to the financial district had crushed the poor bird, and thrown its carcass out on Montgomery Street.
They had utterly NO respect for feathered Americans! Brutes!
San Francisco can be a cold and heartless place.
Whatever you do, don't make eye-contact.
When other people stare at you, leave.
Especially with wattles trembling.
Never let them see your fear.
He spent most of the time exhausted from lack of sleep, wandering the streets trying to stay out of trouble and out of sight.
Once he witnessed an accident, but ran away because he couldn't risk being a witness. Not only no id, but no fixed address either! He was sure the cops would give him the stink-eye at the very least. They might even take him down to the station, and he'd disappear into the system forever. They ate people like him there!
No way was he going to be imprisoned again.
A crazed addict in the Tenderloin tried to steal his wallet, but he pecked her fiercely and fled down an alley, then hid for several hours underneath a parked van while she roamed up and down the sidewalk howling, howling, howling. That had been a close call, but there aren't many places in the downtown where a turkey can walk down the street without being in danger.
There were other incidents.
He nearly got mobbed by parrots several times. Such rude birds!
And they kept importuning him for beer money or cigarettes, too!
A large shaggy dog had leered suggestively, and followed him for several blocks. He finally lost his amorous pursuer when a passing fire hydrant called out "why hello sailor, doing anything tonight?" At that the canine delightedly licked his chops and grinned. Wow, free sex!
In Chinatown it was made plain that he looked different, when a little tyke pointed at him and happily exclaimed 'wah, fogey, fogey!'
The mother shushed the child, and looked at him with mute apology, but it still hurt.
It was only a matter of time. He was sure of it.
He was keenly aware how vulnerable he was.
The combination of sheer exhaustion, fear, and far too much coffee had a demoralizing effect.
An excess of tryptophan, adrenaline, and caffeine made him jittery, and it twisted the mind.
He knew that he was no longer seeing things straight, but he had to stay alert.
Except at the public library. When nobody was watching, one could scoot behind the encyclopedias and sleep.
He liked the encyclopedias. Warm, tall enough to hide him from view, and so smooth.
Encyclopedias were very nice. More books should be like that.
Clean, comforting, and hardly ever touched.
Finally, on the fifth day in the city, he had a stroke of luck.
He was reading the San Francisco Chronicle in the library when a small boy asked for his assistance at the computer. The youngster was doing his homework, and needed a helping hand.
Helping wing.
Whatever.
The boy's mother came by later to pick him up, and asked "who is your little friend?"
The kid introduced him, and explained how kind he had been.
When she found out that he was new to the city, and had no plans for the holiday, she invited him over - "we're vegetarians, Tom, I hope you don't mind....."
It was quite the nicest thing he had heard in his life.
He went home with the two of them, and was introduced to the rest of the family.
Then they all sat down to a sumptuous supper of borsht with sour cream, tofu and spinach casserole, and lentil-stuffed cabbage rolls.
With red tomato sauce.
It was all so VERY delicious!
This was the best Thanksgiving ever!
And he had never slept in a real bed before.
***
Have a happy Thanksgiving.
火雞節快樂!
Fo-guy jit fai-loh!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Still, he worried. And with good reason.
It was less than a week since his escape.
Surely the authorities were mounting a search?
He walked along Clay Street, under the Gingko trees. One tree had all yellow leaves, so glorious, so beautiful. It reminded him of the California hills in early summer, when he was still young and lived on the farm. All golden in the sun.
Life, then, had been wonderful. Warm carefree days, cool evenings, lots of friends.
But that had changed. Those last few days down at the farm had been truly nightmarish.
Why did none of the others understand?
Why didn't they get it? Fools!
Their giddy optimism and complete blindness to evil frightened him, why were they so cheerfully and simple-mindedly upbeat?
Were they after all just turkeys?
He shook his wattles irritatedly - of course they were! They had been promised by the farmer that they were going to a feast, and so they happily scuttled into the truck that would bring them there. The silly birds hadn't even questioned why they were being transported in a vehicle boasting "Johnson's Poultry - we put the gobble gobble in holidays".
Only he stayed behind, hiding in a dark corner of the barn. He had tried to warn them, but no one had listened. They didn't want to hear his gloomy theories, why should they fear anything from the farmer? Hadn't the farmer taken care of them, fed them, housed them in a nice warm coop?
The farmer was a good man, and there was going to be a wonderful party.
They were looking forward to some serious fun.
Them and their state of denial.
Hmmph, feather brained idiots!
That evening, after darkness fell, he snuck out and headed for the open road. A kindly driver gave him a lift to Richmond, and told him where to get on B.A.R.T. He was determined to go to San Francisco, feeling that he would stand out far less in a big city.
But it wasn't easy to get used to this place.
He had only known the farm.
He was preparing to sleep in the bushes next to a church, on his first evening in the city, but after he saw some raccoons shaking down a seagull he got scared. The hobo behind the next shrub over mumbled that those animals were nothing but thugs, man, worse than the cops. And nobody says anything about that! Nobody does anything about those black-hearted furballs!
He spent the rest of the night at a twenty-four hour donut place, finally stumbling out at dawn, wired and jangly from too much coffee. He wandered around for hours till the caffeine and sugar wore off.
That evening he was kicked out of the main library at closing time - "yo, dude, you can't sleep here, go to the shelter at Polk and Geary, they'll put you up for the night."
He had taken one look at that place and decided against it. Several people there looked carnivorous, and quite a number of the others were missing either their wings or their drumsticks. That alone would have been suspicious, but what really freaked him out was that there were pictures of HIS kind on the walls. Some turkeys were illustrated in pilgrim clothes. Others were shown surrounded by all the fixings. He felt sure that if he stayed there, he would be fingered and roasted. No way man, he didn't plan on getting caught! And he sure wasn't going to let them harvest his limbs one by one, like they were doing to some of these people.
He nearly got run over by a wheelchair on the way out.
He spent most of the night sitting on the bus-stop bench at Jackson and Polk. Occasionally a squad car would roll by, and he'd remain as motionless as possible, desperately hoping that the police wouldn't see him. Sometimes people would come out of the bar for a cigarette, and one or two of them asked him for a light. He told them he didn't smoke.
Long after closing time, a drunk sat down next to him and started talking about the Grateful Dead - that really freaked him out. He tried to explain to the fellow that Thanksgiving just wasn't a good time for his kind please don't make insensetive jokes about 'gratitude', but the man started screaming about his plump meaty thighs so he fled.
He spent the next several hours in an unlit doorway on Larkin Street. Just before dawn a raccoon ambled past and glared at him, but was obviously too tired from strenuous illegal activities elsewhere to make any trouble. He resolved to avoid Larkin Street at night, too many furry criminal types. Yeah, he realized he was stereotyping, but better safe than sorry.
He hadn't realized that city living could be so dangerous. The city is not a gentle place, if you are short, feathered, and wearing only an overcoat and a fedora.
One significant problem was that the ATM machines were all far too high up, altogether NOT turkey accessible.
And bank tellers insisted on seeing a photo id.
For obvious reasons, he didn't plan to go to the DMV to have his picture taken until after December 25th. Just too risky before then.
During the holiday season, he was a marked man.
Bird. Marked bird.
He'd simply have to pile boxes in front of an ATM when no-one was looking, but it was hard.
Short wings do not give one much leverage.
On the plus side, he got to ride the busses for free, provided he acted like the nearest adult was with him. And if it was too crowded he could always scoot under the seats for safety. He had seen what happened to a pigeon that wasn't smart enough to do so and tried standing in the aisle with the tall people. The crowd of office workers heading down to the financial district had crushed the poor bird, and thrown its carcass out on Montgomery Street.
They had utterly NO respect for feathered Americans! Brutes!
San Francisco can be a cold and heartless place.
Whatever you do, don't make eye-contact.
When other people stare at you, leave.
Especially with wattles trembling.
Never let them see your fear.
He spent most of the time exhausted from lack of sleep, wandering the streets trying to stay out of trouble and out of sight.
Once he witnessed an accident, but ran away because he couldn't risk being a witness. Not only no id, but no fixed address either! He was sure the cops would give him the stink-eye at the very least. They might even take him down to the station, and he'd disappear into the system forever. They ate people like him there!
No way was he going to be imprisoned again.
A crazed addict in the Tenderloin tried to steal his wallet, but he pecked her fiercely and fled down an alley, then hid for several hours underneath a parked van while she roamed up and down the sidewalk howling, howling, howling. That had been a close call, but there aren't many places in the downtown where a turkey can walk down the street without being in danger.
There were other incidents.
He nearly got mobbed by parrots several times. Such rude birds!
And they kept importuning him for beer money or cigarettes, too!
A large shaggy dog had leered suggestively, and followed him for several blocks. He finally lost his amorous pursuer when a passing fire hydrant called out "why hello sailor, doing anything tonight?" At that the canine delightedly licked his chops and grinned. Wow, free sex!
In Chinatown it was made plain that he looked different, when a little tyke pointed at him and happily exclaimed 'wah, fogey, fogey!'
The mother shushed the child, and looked at him with mute apology, but it still hurt.
It was only a matter of time. He was sure of it.
He was keenly aware how vulnerable he was.
The combination of sheer exhaustion, fear, and far too much coffee had a demoralizing effect.
An excess of tryptophan, adrenaline, and caffeine made him jittery, and it twisted the mind.
He knew that he was no longer seeing things straight, but he had to stay alert.
Except at the public library. When nobody was watching, one could scoot behind the encyclopedias and sleep.
He liked the encyclopedias. Warm, tall enough to hide him from view, and so smooth.
Encyclopedias were very nice. More books should be like that.
Clean, comforting, and hardly ever touched.
Finally, on the fifth day in the city, he had a stroke of luck.
He was reading the San Francisco Chronicle in the library when a small boy asked for his assistance at the computer. The youngster was doing his homework, and needed a helping hand.
Helping wing.
Whatever.
The boy's mother came by later to pick him up, and asked "who is your little friend?"
The kid introduced him, and explained how kind he had been.
When she found out that he was new to the city, and had no plans for the holiday, she invited him over - "we're vegetarians, Tom, I hope you don't mind....."
It was quite the nicest thing he had heard in his life.
He went home with the two of them, and was introduced to the rest of the family.
Then they all sat down to a sumptuous supper of borsht with sour cream, tofu and spinach casserole, and lentil-stuffed cabbage rolls.
With red tomato sauce.
It was all so VERY delicious!
This was the best Thanksgiving ever!
And he had never slept in a real bed before.
***
Have a happy Thanksgiving.
火雞節快樂!
Fo-guy jit fai-loh!
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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