ALL ABOUT THE BIRD

For some reason, the conversation among the cigar smokers at the wall today reminded me of the dancing chicken in Stroszek. No, they weren't talking about chickens, nor acting like fowl either.
They did mention pigeons, briefly - our feathered friends are a recurring theme in their world - but there was no discussion of dancing, or of wild music associated with the avian hokey-pokey.

Before we go any further, let me introduce you to the chicken in question.



THAT HOT DISCO MAGIC!

[SOURCE: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IcoqeNdMAfA.   The movie was made by Werner Herzog, who obsesses over chickens. Alcoholism, prostitution, robbery, a frozen turkey, and the bleak prairies of Wisconsin also figure in this exceedingly German film. No one is sure that it's worth watching. But doing so is a life affirming event. Meaningful. German.]



Yes, I realize that my description of the movie is unnecessarily snarky.
And it baffles me why the happy chatter of men with stogies brought that clip to mind. There's just something about them and the subjects they discuss that does that.
I'm a pipe smoker. So I do not understand them.
They're from another planet.

I continued to think about the dancing chicken during lunch, which was a chicken salad sandwich on toasted light rye with a splurt of hotsauce.
The hotsauce (Tương Ớt Sriracha) features a dancing chicken on the label.

I was actually planning to write about empanadas, and the lovely bosom of a person who works at the place where empanadas may be found.
The empanadas I am quite familiar with, but not the bosom.
However, I've got chicken on the brain. As a rule, I would not mind attending to bosoms, but generally speaking it might be considered an imposition, and there are few opportunities to do so. In most social situations detailed examination of bosoms may cause raised eyebrows.
It is probably far better to concentrate purely on the empanadas.
Appealing little dome-shaped pastries that are warm and golden.
Rewarding to know, and exceptionally approachable.
I'm very fond of empanadas, as well as bosoms.
There are marked similarities between the two.
Both, ideally, are not excessive but just right.
And of a dimension pleasing to the hand.
One of them goes with hot sauce.
Go ahead, have two.


I'm still thinking of dancing chickens.


I shall not have any empanadas this weekend.
Perhaps rice noodles in broth with cilantro and chopped scallions.
I've got to stop hanging around with cigar smokers, they're a horrible influence.

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I AM A FEATURE OF THE LANDSCAPE

A young fellow took pains to introduce me to his significant other.
"He speaks several languages, and he knows everything"
And "he's the most intelligent man you'll ever meet."

Hugely flattering.
But incorrect.

I do speak a few languages.  And I can get away with a few more.
But several?

And I really do not know everything.
I wish I did.

I do not actually want to be the feature of the landscape you introduce your girlfriend to.
The very fact that she is YOUR girlfriend already changes the equation.

I do not have a girlfriend. Why are you introducing me to a happy woman?


Dot - dot - dot


This evening I had a wonderful conversation with a young lady with a great personality and lovely frontal parts.  Of course it didn't go anywhere, as I am perhaps too old, (or she too young).
Still, it let a geezer dream.

I'm fairly certain that she left with a positive impression.


Mmmm, nice old git.
Very well-read.
Knows lots.

I know too much. I speak several languages. I'm not what the average young women likes.




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DREAMING WITH TEETH

Earlier today I had this strong desire to go out for lunch with other people.
It's the first time in years that that has happened.

Normally I simply get something from a nearby place, retire to my cubicle, and bend over my computer reading Netherlandish newspapers while pensively shoving stuff into my snapping jaws.
Think of me as a crocodile with only a slight appetite.
It's just a LITTLE cadaver, honest!

Today I had a craving for food at a place in C'town. It's really not a long walk, maybe twelve or fifteen minutes.
The restaurant I had in mind has far too many choices, however, so dragging coworkers there could be problematic. Most of them mentally shut down at the prospect of interesting food.
Or metal chopsticks.

There are only three colleagues who could handle metal chopsticks.
And I don't want to frighten them off.
I like them.

It's interesting seeing how other people hold their chopsticks. White people are notorious for doing the two finger wobble, which sometimes sends slick bits flying.
Little Chinese children have an endearing tight clench with fingers bending flexibly outwards.
Some Japanese women grasp the shafts 'demurely', hard to describe. And well brought up people with exposure to calligraphy maintain a calmly balled basket posture to their fingers, wielding the chopsticks seemingly withouth effort, the sticks extruding from their hand as appendages that they were born with. Eating is an illustration of control, balance, and sound judgment.
Most people, however, do the crab-claw shuffle.
Part of it is leverage, part of it is utilitarian snatch and grab.
The most amusing chop-stick hold resembles a small forest creature who has discovered something incredibly delicious and is clutching it up to his face in rapture.
Mmmm, it's yummy! I found it!

Slithery rice-stick noodles in soup.
Narrow aluminum chopsticks.
Non-chopstick folks.
Disaster.

It's not that I wouldn't want to eat with any of my coworkers, but as I previously mentioned there are only three of them who could handle the stress. So either some people would feel left out, or they might even think that there was something suspicious going on.
One of the chop-stick wielders is female.
Very nicely so.

I would not want to embarrass her or set any malicious tongues wagging.
Instead I simply had something quick from across the street.
Gobbled it down while reading news on the internet.
It was my usual solitary feeding frenzy.
I am a swamp carnivore.

"When Bambi came down to the river bank for a sip of water, he didn't notice old mr. Croc lying submerged where the overhanging branches shaded the shallows. He splayed his thin rickety forelegs, and quivered and trembled as he extended his head down to the glistening surface. The moment his tongue touched the water the river erupted upon him - old mr. Croc clenched the little deer's fragile body between his jaws and with a vicious sideways jerk snapped Bambi's backbone, paralyzing the poor beast.
He was not yet dead when the large saurian pulled him under, but choked and gurgled while his lungs filled.  
Mr. Croc wedged Bambi's spasming body under a submerged log to soften over the next two or three days, then glided back to his hiding spot in the shadows, waiting for the next juicy victim.
He grinned to himself...... oh yeah, life was super good."

In a few days I probably won't even recall what I ate.
But I'll remember whom I ate lunch with.
He was scaly and spoke Dutch.

I probably won't have dinner tonight.
Instead I will go to the cigar club for a few pipefulls.
Quietly passing a few hours day-dreaming, perhaps in conversation.

There's absolutely nothing good on television.
I am not presently seeing someone.
So no reason why not.



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LESSONS FROM A HANDBAG

Something a co-worker said recently reminded me of one of the men who frequents the local cigar club.
The word "handbag".

When I was last asked whether one should buy a nice handbag for one's significant other, my reaction was "good heavens no!".
See, the female handbag addiction should NOT be encouraged. Ever.
If allowed to flourish, it only gets worse with time.
It's a disease for which there is no cure.
There are no twelve-step programs.

The person at the cigar club had, several months ago, speculated that he should buy his girlfriend "a nice handbag" for her birthday. Which he had forgotten about.
He had just remembered it that moment, and thought that Macy's was open till nine.
Yeah, a handbag, that would keep the good woman happy.
Bribe her, and keep the love coming.


JUST A HANDBAG

Dude, you should have put her birthday on your calendar, and got her something nice - not necessarily expensive, but it should have been carefully chosen - way in advance.
Arranged a lovely dinner, and made sure that there were flowers and cake.
Waltzing in around ten o'clock, reeking of stogies, with a "handbag" that's wrapped in tacky department store giftpaper, is totally transparent.

If her birthday means so little to you, you probably do not deserve a girlfriend.

No dinner. No flowers. No cake.
And NO believable excuse.
You. Weren't. There.
Total dumbass.

A handbag is not a substitute for your presence, your affection, and your concern for her happiness.
But once you open that door, she might fixate on handbags.
Because she can't rely on you.

That particular man at the cigar club is now single again.
Without even understanding what happened; the relationship petered out.
He no longer enjoys her presence, her affection, or her concern for his happiness.

She's probably taken his bag to the gun range and shot it full of holes.
As well as purchased several expensive replacements.
She knows she can rely on her handbags.
They're always there.
He wasn't.


As a fellow bachelor, I should probably sympathize with him.
But I've got a streak of schadenfreude a mile wide.
I do not mind that other men are single.
At times it's rather amusing.


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LESSON

Follows a little illustration of personal pronouns in Cantonese.


渠炒魷魚。


我頂硬上。


你哋識嘟。


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VOYAGE OF THE GARBAGE SCOW

Sometimes this blogger comes across a bit of sterling prose that must be shared. Such as an incendiary review of a familiar product - one of such quality as to tempt no further personal exposure - that more than brings back memories of why precisely it is so unpleasant, nay evokes even a renewed revulsion in this blogger.

Bear in mind that it is an excellent product, much appreciated by generations of people with bad taste.
Some of whom, no doubt, have gender issues.

Here then, courtesy of a fellow pipe-mayven who sent it to me, is John Offerdahl's take on a certain well-known Dunhill blend.
It is more prolix than any of my own pithy and brevitous reviews of ghastly tobaccos.
Clearly John Offerdahl was traumatized. Severely.
One can only sympathize.


RECONSIDERING ROYAL YACHT
By John Offerdahl
April 7, 2012.

I reviewed this blend some years ago, but have revisited the blend recently. My opinion of it has changed! Here goes:

Upon opening, the eyes are teased with a relatively monochrome presentation of Virginia leaf. %adly, the eyes can't behold the presentation for long; the "aroma" coming from the tin sets them quickly to watering. Or perhaps it is the sight of the maggots dancing among the leaves....

To me, the tobacco is a bit too moist upon opening. This is a tobacco that needs open time to breathe and air. I suggest doing this in a remote area. When I tried to air my tin inside the house my wife complained that the stench filling the house was far, far worse than a dozen cat litter boxes. I didn't take my gas mask off long enough to verify her statement, but my dogs running from the room gave indication. Once dried to a more appropriate level, I resealed the tin for a bit.

And then came the loading. The ready-rubbed leaf begins to show a bit of coloration, with some lighter and some darker golds and browns. (Here, I should throw in the warning that it is best to handle Royal Yacht while wearing gloves, kind of like when handling Habenero peppers, though the damage done to bare fingers by Habeneros is nothing as painful as from RY!!!) Thus, gloves protecting my hands I carefully stuffed the tobacco into a favorite Dunhill bulldog (which, as it happens, is the only bulldog to ever bite my hand forloading it!).

With the false light came some pretty amazing flavor! I was immediately drawn back into a deep, long-forgotten memory of my childhood. As a boy, I spent summers in Northeast Iowa on my cousins' farm. They raised cows, hogs, sheep and chicken, and the amazing draw of flavors of pigsty and sheep intestine rolled through my pipe and took me back to those now lost days. I could almost see my "Uncle" (really a cousin, but the age of my mother so I called him "Uncle") sitting on that old Ford tractor, the wheels dripping with pig waste, staring down at me as I hauled a bucket of slop to feed the sows, and remember how he used to laugh and say, "So, how's the feedin' comin', City Boy?"

But this is not a tobacco to just sip, as I do with most Virginias. Rather, to appreciate the full experience of Royal Yacht it is necessary to inhale. I mean take draws like you did on that bong 30 years ago in college kind of inhale. Draw the smoke into your lungs like an almost drowned man finally getting his first gasp of fresh air after crawling out of a sinking submarine whose hull ruptured 300 feet below the surface!

And then, after exhaling, it happens:

My first vision was of Satan. He was sitting in a bright red seat of flames, somehow now where, moments before, had been the television, laughing his low, guttural laugh, and telling me that my soul was now his. "NO!", I screamed, as I drew in another puff of this notorious weed. He smiled, and almost immediately was replaced in my vision by 70 dancing, naked virgins. Yet the flesh was not for me - these hags were 80 year-old virgins, having attained their chaste status through years of overeating, not washing, farting, and being just plain hideous! I set the pipe aside, walked to the living room, and poured a double shot of bourbon in hopes of driving the witches away.

Oh, those *itches left all right. And this, sadly, encouraged me to again lift and light the pipe. Once more, the relatively cool stream of smoke drew through the airway and invaded my mouth. Though not hot or acidic, the smoke still somehow burned away about 2 layers of tissue on my tongue. I would liken the experience to drinking a freshly opened bottle of lye, though at least the lye has an acceptable flavor. And with this draw the witches were replaced by diahrettic flying gorillas circling my head, propelled in their flight by the jet propulsion caused by their condition. I watched them circle over me, faster and faster, until they suddenly began hitting me in the head. Their fists were hard as rocks. My head shook. My neck flopped like a broken rubber band. Finally, I was overcome with pain and fear and passed out.

When I awakened, the tobacco, my pipe, and the table on which I had set the pipe, had all burned to a fine, gray ash. I found no dottle at all, though I was a bit troubled by having to clean up the charred hag and gorilla bones.

Highly recommended for Haggis fans, Masochists, and Pipestud.


[SOURCE: http://www.smokersforums.co.uk/showthread.php?t=105118 ]



AFTER THOUGHT

John's review is sufficiently revelatory (and utterly factual) that without a doubt, whole hordes of people with an unreasonable fondness for this dank putrid mess will come after him with pitchforks.
All eight (nota bene 8!) of them.
As well as Pipestud.
Who likes it.

I smoked it years ago. The words 'repulsive', 'nasty', 'horribly bad', 'bleah', and "good god what is that offensive skunk-ointment they sprayed on this?" came to mind. The underlying tobacco has no redeeming features other than a certain Netherlandish stringiness.
Which isn't enough.

But I had the presence of mind at that time to never put up what I really thought for all the world to see, not conceiving a need to rile up the venomous bastards that actually like this stuff.
From all accounts, they are inclined towards violent behaviour.
Vengeful, and probably undomesticated im gonzen.

I like a great many Dunhill tobaccos.
This is not one of them.


Thank you, John, for taking one for the team.
And luring the brutes out of hiding.
We now know who they are.
And are warned.

Ga'verdamme.


TOBACCO INDEX



UPDATE AS OF DECEMBER 11, 2012

Hi Pipestud. Howzit?
-----ATBOTH

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INVITATION TO LUNCH

There are foods you should never eat in public. I learned this years ago. And there are some things you should not, under ANY circumstances, eat while clothed.

In the first category is roast duck from Chinatown, because it’s so good that you’ll bury your face in it, and get duck grease up to your elbows and beyond.
Crabs from Stockton Street exemplify the second category.
Grease, scallion, ginger, and fragments everywhere.
Your clothes will be permanently fishy.
Sticky in surprising places.

I remembered this because of lunch today.
Unfortunately I cannot sit at my desk naked scarfing down yummy things.
My coworkers would object.
They would want some too.

No offense, folks, but I have no desire whatsoever to have you all mobbing my desk in the buff.
That’s my food, and I’m not sharing.
Get your own naked food.


One of the many other things you must only do when utterly unclothed is ream your pipes.
See, if you’re doing it assiduously, you will not immediately notice that the finely powdered carbon which you scraped from the cake (layer of carbon and tobacco ash lining the inside of the chamber) will, no matter how careful you are, deposit itself on your pants. 
And it will be impossible to shake out or wash entirely off.
It will most likely land right in your crotch.
Leaving suggestive black streaks.

Best strip to the skin, make yourself comfortable, put an old towel on the chair, and newspapers on the table and the floor.
Then pull out your Savinelli Reamer, and go at it.
Several briars at a time.
Take a bath afterwards.

Not only is this something that requires nudity, it should also ONLY be done when your roommate is NOT likely to disturb you. The sight of a handsome naked male tool-user may be too much to absorb.
At least without comment.

Years ago, when my roommate and I were still a couple, she chanced upon me thus engaged in the teevee room. At first I didn’t notice her, so involved was I in the task at hand. And yes, there were sooty smears all over my lap at that point.


“I never knew you chased cars!”


What? Huh? What are you referring to?

She explained that I had obviously been doing something incredibly nasty involving vehicles. Then she accused me of having a thing for that zesty Chevy Impala parked across the street.
How could I, she asked, and obviously in broad daylight too!
I should have waited till later, when there weren’t any children around to be traumatized.
And no, she refused to believe that I wasn’t taking advantage of the poor automobile, obviously I had poured it full of unleaded first. Evil man!
Chevy Impalas are the dumb blondes of the car world.
She sulked at my intemperance.
Car-loving beast!

Several months later she mentioned conversationally to some mutal friends we were visiting that she once found me mother-naked and striking attitudes, with stripes of tribal war-paint on my gonads. An x-rated version of James Krippendorf, with even worse acting than Richard Dreyfuss was capable of.
Either that or a demented re-interpretation of Colonel Kurtz rising from the water of the Nung river, wrong end first.
No wonder I loved that movie.

NEVER let anyone see you with a streaky crotch. It puts horrible ideas into their heads.
They’ll accuse you of things.

Even though Savage Kitten and I have just been roommates for a long time, there is NO pipe reaming while she is around.
I do it at night, or on days when she’s out of the house.

If there’s EVER going to be another person there while I clean my smoking equipment, she’ll have to be in on it from the very beginning. In fact, I shall insist upon it.
That way she can see for herself that there is absolutely no hanky panky going on.
In no way anything remotely suspicious at all, as you can observe.
Just a naked man handling a piece of wood.
After enjoying duck or crab.


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STARTING THE WEEK WITH GUTTERAL NOISES

One of my regular blogreads posted Springtime Klezmer by the Amsterdam Klezmer Band.
For whom the main singer seems to be Alec Kopyt, an Odessa native.

Odessa has its own sub-cultural place in Russian, Ukranian, and Yiddish.

Here’s a response to E-KVETCHER, as a groissn dank for posting the video.


LIMONCHIKI - LITTLE LEMONS

By VulgarGrad. Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bgzbbdFK-2o. ]

It's about strong-arm robbery, thuggism, and burglary.
Criminal anthems are a fundamental part of everyone's musical upbringing.
They're the last stage before patriotic songs.
Still unspoiled.
Prekrasnyo.



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WARM BATH, COLD CITY

What moves you in the morning? By which I really mean, what gets you out of bed?

Is it the prospect of a slice of pizza heated in the toaster oven?
Or perhaps a steaming bowl of warm chocolate?

You probably look quite charming rubbing those sleepy eyes while warming something up, padding around the silent kitchen in your jammies. A little bit of clanging and banging till the water boils, then rush it over the waiting teabag.
Yes, pizza does sound rather good at that moment. Far better than greasy breakfast food or sweet crunchy muck.
The morning is made for something savoury, something zesty.
Spicy, textural, and meaty.

A quick bite (of pizza), and dawdling over a steaming cup.
You’re fully awake now, and the day seems bright and fresh.
There are things you’d like to do and people you’d like to meet.
It’s time to explore, to avidly discover new faces, tastes, and feelings.

Actually, it’s time to take a long hot bath, with no one to disturb you in the quiet apartment.
Although if the right person bothered you, you wouldn’t at all mind. There’s room to sit on the edge of the tub and someone to talk to.
You’ll happily put down the mystery novel and stretch out in the warm water.
Followed by a thorough rub down with a thick fluffy towel.
Fuzzy warmth all over, tingly feeling.
Smelling very clean.

During the week one has to hurry. Schedules, appointments, and a full day ahead.
It isn’t till several hours later that everything calms down again.
So long till nightfall and pau-hana time!
Evenings are freedom.
And privacy.

Much can happen. Make bold decisions.
Thoughtfully choose the gusto.
Warmth. Wetness.
Nice soap.

When I bathe I twiddle my toes and stare at the ceiling.
Cup of coffee, and small cigars.
It’s ‘me’ time.

Feel free to interrupt.
On weekends I have all the time in the world.
Later, after napping, we’ll go get some of that pizza we’ve been talking about.


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THE NIGHT VISITOR

There were three of us in the parking lot after the tobacco store closed.
Three pairs of spectacles. Three pipes. And about fifteen different subjects that we were discussing.
But I remember two things in particular.

One of them was Indian style pickles.


ACHAR

Indian pickles are made with salt and oil. The simplest pickles are the ones made from sour citrus or green mango, and you may have tried them at one point. If it’s not what you’re used to, the taste can be daunting. Salty. Strong flavoured. Hot. And oily.

Lime or lemon is cut into chunks, salted, left to air and lose moisture for a few days, then mixed with hot chili powder, turmeric, and other spices, after which it is covered in mustard oil to age and ‘mellow’.
The salt will have penetrated the rind, softening it and making it toothsome. The hot chili powder will fight the sourness and the salt for top billing. The turmeric helps keep it from ever going bad.
A good nimboo achar lasts longer than an Egyptian mummy.

Achar is also made from green mangoes, cauliflower, carrots, beets, turnips, ber fruit, and various other vegetable substances. Some are more perishable than others, but they are all exciting.

All of this is mentioned merely to interest you in the subject. Go out and buy a jar of green mango pickle.
If you enjoy it with your curry, you can thank me for introducing you to the substance.
On the other hand, if you dislike it intensely, don’t blame me.
I don’t know what you’re talking about. Not a clue.
And I wasn’t trying to corrupt you at all.
Whatever gave you that idea?

While we talked, a large furry eggplant calmly ambled past.  No haste, no circumspectness. The animal was aware of us, but considered us unthreatening entirely.
It headed toward the back door of the store.

One of us speculated that the raccoon wanted to acquire some cigars. Obviously, having no pockets whatsoever in which to keep coins or a credit card, it couldn’t very well go in and purchase them like a normal customer.
Entirely aside from which the only financial company even likely to give a raccoon a credit card is Discover – they’ll extend plastic to darn-near anyone – and the tobacco store only accepts Amex, MC, and Visa.
Raccoons are clever at picking locks. They’re like San Francisco landlords that way.
We assume that Brian doesn't notice when a corona goes missing in the night.

After a little while the humans got into vehicles and headed back to the city.
The raccoon had the parking lot to himself the rest of the night.
Which was probably exactly what he wanted.
He seemed like rather a quiet sort.
Not interested in pickles.


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FROGS AND PIPES

Two sedarim. What that means, dear readers, is that there will NOT be a new post on motzi shabbes.
Nothing new here late tomorrow evening. Regular gibbering will recommence on Sunday.
It’s a holiday.
Tonight will be Pesach with the grownups, tomorrow we’ll be throwing rubber frogs across the dinner table.
And there is nothing wrong with rubber frogs. Flying frogs are a great good.
When I imagine World Peace, I see rubber frogs.
Oh, and very real frogs too.
Ribbit.

From which you may conclude that I like frogs. Which is correct. Very much so.
I also like toads – they’re far less skittish, besides being calm and thoughtful – but frogs have an elegant perky beauty.
All good narratives should include frogs.
Kermit agrees.


I wish all my readers a chag kasher ve sameach.
Or lots of happy hoppy ribbity frogs.
Whichever you prefer.


In other news, I counted my hoard of super-aged tobacco late last night.
Enough thirty year old Balkan Sobranie to last half a year. Mostly white.
Several tins of other stuff that hasn’t been available for decades.
A number of unopened canisters of Drucquer & Sons blends of similar antique age.
Trafalgar. Blend 805. Menlo. Levant. Arcadia. Etcetera.

This pursuant yesterday's monthly get-together of the pipe club.

Today I had some Red Virginia Flake before lunch.
And taunted some of the cigar smokers.
I’ve had a splendid morning.
Life is very good.
Ribbit.



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SMELLING BAD BUT LOOKING INCREDIBLY PRETTY

Tonight I shall be surrounded almost entirely by men.
In a brightly lit place.
Where there might be intoxicating beverages.
Or not.

A gathering of pipe-smokers, doing what we do best.
Given that most of us enjoy blends which contain Latakia, the chances are that all of us will reek like prime beef jerky by the time we get home. Either that or zesty barbecue.
I, for one, intend to end up smelling my edible best.
Mmmmmmmm, it's smoky!
Peaty, even.

The 'looking pretty' refers to one of the half-dozen pipes I shall have with me.
A lovely red flying saucer shape with a very refined bend.
It is a “piss-elegant” little number.

I fully expect rapturous oohs and aahs when I pull it out.
The shape is an Italian re-interpretation of the squat bent bulldog, with a narrow round shank instead of the usual thick diamond, and a mild curve. Only one bead, instead of the customary two.
Yeah, totally piss-elegant.

It’s pretty.

Men like pretty.

Women are allowed at these meetings, they aren’t boys only events.
Problem is, we don’t know any lady pipe smokers.
If we did, we would encourage them.
And be well-behaved.

Men like pretty.

TOBACCO INDEX

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DIM SUM RESTAURANTS IN SAN FRANCISCO

Pursuant the recent post which listed a huge number of dim sum items in Chinese and English it might be worthwhile to also mention some dim sum places in San Francisco that deserve your attention.


多好茶室 DOL HO
808 Pacific Avenue
San Francisco, CA 94133
415-392-2828

Just up from Stockton Street, opposite 'Great Wall Ginseng and Herbs' (長城參茸海味藥材行).

This place is one of the Chinatown standards, and is known affectionately as ‘the place with lots of old people’, referring to the customers. They are well-known for pots of black bean spareribs and rice. Their dim sum is good. Fastidious out-of-towners will probably not enter.
I’m fond of the place, probably because I thoroughly enjoy both the food and the bare bones ambiance.
Very affordable.
Go here with a friend and the newspaper. After the rush is over you can dawdle a bit.


城景 CITY VIEW RESTAURANT
662 Commercial Street
San Francisco, CA 94111
415-398-2838

Between Kearny and Montgomery Streets, opposite 'New Hong Kong Menu' (旺角偉記), just around the corner from East West Bank (華美銀行), which is in the old headquarters building of Bank of Canton of California (加州廣東銀行), which was subsumed into United Commercial Bank (聯合銀行).

Close enough to the financial district, yet far enough away from where the suburbanites prefer to eat that you won’t be bothered by some ignoramus acting all petulant. Most of the time. But that’s okay, what they won’t eat, you will.
Good food, good prices. Excellent siu mai and lo mai kai.


香雅茶室 (香雅甜品茶室) HANG AH TEAROOM
1 Hang Ah Alley
San Francisco, CA 94108
415-982-5686

Near the YMCA (基督教青年會) on Sacramento Street, down from Stockton.

One of the oldest dim sum places in Chinatown. Famous, but with a somewhat more limited menu than others, and no trolleys.
Many people remember eating there with their family members when they still lived in the neighborhood. It’s very hometown.
It has some classics, and decent charsiu bau.


羊城茶室 YANK SING
49 Stevenson Street
San Francisco, CA 94105
415-541-4949

Opposite no. 1 Ecker Place, in between Market and Mission Street.

Mention this restaurant and many Chinese will squawk up a storm. Too expensive! Hah, the nerve!
And as ‘expensive’ almost automatically means ‘no good’, some will sneer that the food is not what you want, and that they must cater primarily to white people. Which, during the workweek, is somewhat accurate.
Clean, good service, quality, and hence more expensive than most.
On weekends it is filled with Chinese families.
Except for the occasion when I ate at Yank Sing with white people, when they were on Battery Street back in the eighties, I’ve had no bad experiences here. The food is at times out-standing.
Some of the dim sum at Yank Sing you will not find elsewhere in San Francisco.
Pricewise, it's an excellent choice if your company is paying for lunch.


粵凱海鮮大酒樓 CANTON SEAFOOD & DIM SUM HOUSE
655 Folsom Street
San Francisco, CA 94107
415-495-3064

Right across the street from the U. S. Passport Office.

Decent food. They pride themselves on their fish dishes, so it would be worthwhile to go there for dinner. The daytime dim sum selection sometimes leaves something to be desired, but they have all the standard items, and there is plenty of parking nearby. Which is why families pack this place on weekends.


東江飯店 TON KIANG RESTAURANT
5821 Geary Boulevard
San Francisco, CA 94121.
415-752-4440

Between 22nd Avenue and 23rd Avenue; there's a big religious edifice in the next block opposite.

Dim sum till early afternoon, Hakka food after that. Some people bellyache about the prices. The prices are reasonable, so those people should probably go back to Oakland.
It gets crowded.
Yeah, often it seems like white folks central. But there are an awful lot of them living in the vicinity.


鯉魚門海鮮茶寮 KOI PALACE
365 Gellert Boulevard
Daly City, CA 94015
650-992-9000

In a shopping centre with tons of parking, at Hickey Boulevard and the Junipero Serra Freeway.

Delicious. Unfortunately, it's located in Daly City. Which isn't Chinatown.
New spins on some dishes, but many of the old classics, and super chicken feet.
You will not find me eating here often - too many Philippinos and white people.
I can get happy in C'town for far less, without putting up with any part of Daly City.



AFTER WORD

Many people will complain about the service during peak hours at dim sum places. But realistically, what do you expect?  Teahouses are jampacked from morning till around noon, then it abruptly peters off. When every seat is occupied the service necessarily isn't top notch.
Some people sneer that if there are lots of white folks eating there the food cannot be good. That is, plainly put, quite illogical.  If the place is packed with people scarfing down food, there's something going on that merits your attention.

I'll be the first to admit that a surfeit of Caucasians is suspicious - but in a San Francisco dim sum place?
Have you EVER seen anyone demanding sweet and sour pork or shrimp-fried rice at a teahouse during peak hours?   And do you really think that poor-taste people will flock to a joint where the wait staff have neither the time NOR the linguistic talent to explain the specialties?

The ambiance of a popular teahouse is frenzied - customers flock in desperate for tasty snackipoos before the good stuff runs out, "we need to sit down NOW all fifteen of us, oh look there's a cart coming out of the kitchen let us wave at it frantically", plus there are frazzled staff who are brusque and far too busy to engage in a long conversation. Likely there may also be some old geezers reading their newspaper and stubbornly taking up valuable space, as well as a few children running around uncontrolled.

Really, a good dim sum place will be a madhouse for a few hours.
That's why you're there.



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ROMANTIC GHEE ORGY VERSUS IMPERIAL TOBACCO VIRGINS

Well, those two are tied as far as what a young friend should call his garage band.
I suggested the names based on the all-time most common search terms that pull readers into this blog.

Live at the Roxy, one night only!

ROMANTIC GHEE ORGY

and

IMPERIAL TOBACCO VIRGINS

You know you want to tickets to that event. Heck, you would even camp out overnight at the box-office.
Just make sure you have bail money, as it's likely to be a madhouse.
The riot-squad is standing by.


NOTES

1. One must always - ALWAYS - encourage artistic expression in the young. It's a mitzva.

2. I live in a neighborhood comprised of older apartment buildings, which have ONE garage each, filled with the landlords' various cars. So I have no vested interest in the style of music they play, they aren't practicing anywhere near me. But I have advised them to combine heavy metal and glam-rock, and to give the audience both a spectacle and an educational experience.

3. Blow the fuses, dude. Amp it up. Everything sounds better at night.

4. Practice a lot on Sunday morning. Please.

5. Honestly, I have no clue what moves new readers who find my blog.
But I aim to please. That's why this site is romantic, ghee filled, orgiastically happy, frequently about tobacco and how use of that substance can improve your life and your short-term memory, and positively virginal in every way.
I am not an imperialist. Sorry.



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GOOD SENSE

Bad decisions will be made. This is especially so when it comes to food and love.
Which became clear this morning.

As it turns out, a lovely hot meal that includes spinach, noodles, and cheese, is not improved by the addition of more cheese.  Much more cheese.
As well as hot sauce.
And cream.
And miscellaneous meats, including spicy linguiça.
And crunchy bits.
Soy sauce.
Plus tomatoes, chilies, and capers.
Salt, pepper, curry paste, and a touch of horse radish.

It tasted wonderful, though. I ate all of it.
Appropriate term: "single man kibble".
Alternatively: "big bowl of muck".

No, there was no love involved.
The term love refers in this case to the mature couple I observed yesterday evening while having a quiet smoke at the Occidental, and their bad decision.
It did not involve food.
For her, the decision was probably worse than for him.
Liquor had far more to do with it, for both of them, than appetite or "hunger".

However, their flamboyant behaviour with each other last night was quite as misguided as what I did with the contents of the pantry when I got home, and just as likely both of them woke up with profound regrets, too.

In retrospect, my kitchen activities were also obscene.
My internal organs are still chastising me.
But it was very delicious!
Sinfully so.

Heck, after six bowls of tobacco, anything strong flavoured tastes fine.
Burnt tire dipped in cod liver oil and cayenne? Dee-lish!
Something similar probably informed their spur of the moment courtship at the Occidental – they were both on their third or fourth cigar when they left, and one suspects that their sense of smell and their common sense had been effectively neutralized by Caribbean leaf at that point.
He ponged of cheap aftershave, she reeked of floral perfume, both stank of stogies.
All three are the common characteristics of cigar afficionadoes.
Quite unlike civilized pipe-smokers.
We’re calmer, too.


All I really want is a peaceful place where I can smoke and have a cup of tea in the evenings.
No one makes bad decisions following a pipe and a cup of tea.
It’s just not possible.


I'm going straight home after work today. Planning on having a cup of tea or two while smoking in the kitchen. One bowl of a matured Virginia, one of a sooty English blend.
It will be an evening marked by good sense and good taste.
Without cigar smokers.


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WHAT'S ON TELEVISION?

My effect on other people is staggering. That is to say, there are people out there who cannot hide their revulsion.
Truly.

Part of that, no doubt, has to do with lunch.
Today I had a tuna salad sandwich, and consequently one of the people in the elevator turned positively green.
It reeks, apparently. Some people just cannot deal with tuna fish karma.

Approximately an hour before I had finished a pipe, and immediately after eating I smoked a cigar.
But I really should have avoided the odorous fishy material on a dark toasted roll.
She held her coat up against her nose and nearly passed out.
The cumulative effect of a mild personal aroma and SEAFOOD was too much for her.
Wonder what she’d do if I had lox and a shmear?
Probably start whimpering.


My piles bleed for her.

Real people are much more entertaining than what’s on teevee.



For years my favourite shows were ‘Kids In The Hall’, ‘Arrested Development’, and ‘The X Files’.
Two comedies and an angst-filled geek opera.

The first episode I ever saw of The X Files was the Arkansas chicken-ranch cannibal story.
But many of the zanier broadcasts are far more relevant.
Digestive juices? Trailer park vampires? Evil twin in the chest cavity?
Oh, I know – the story about the pineal gland parasite!
Plus lovable aliens exuding black slime.

Wonder what the woman in the elevator would have done if I had mentioned Walter Chaco's Chickens.
Or leered at her suggestively and talked about poetry?


I think tomorrow I will feast upon some lovely smoked salmon.

With lots of capers and raw onions.

In between my pipe and the post-lunch cigar.

Then wait at the elevators till she shows up.


There’s nothing entertaining on TV these days anyway.
Food fights and Kardashians.
Fish love.



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RICE PORRIDGE: COMFORT FOOD, GOOD FOR THE SOUL

There are times when the singular man craves rice porridge, nothing else will do.
Today I had a big bowl of rice porridge with salted egg and pork, plus a yautiu.
Happy and filled for four bucks. Can't beat that.

Rice porridge (jook) is one of those things that movie-goers associate with late night snacking (食宵夜) in Hong Kong.  Taiwanese and northerners often have jook for breakfast, and Cantonese people will eat it whenever it seems right to do so.
It's simple, nourishing, very satisfying.

There are of course different types. Some far more high-fallutin' than others.
Not all places that do jook will have an extensive variety, and often what is offered is plain white jook (白粥) and two or three other kinds.
Still, enough places serve jook that one should never be far from a warm happy feeling.


TYPES OF JOOK

柴魚花生粥 tsai-yu faa-sang juk: dried fish and fried peanuts rice porridge.
火鴨粥 fo ngaap juk: rice porridge with roast duck.
爽滑肉丸粥) song gwat yiuk yuen juk: rice porridge with pork meat balls.
猪肝粥 chu gon juk: pork liver rice porridge.
生滾肉片粥 sang gwan yiuk pien juk: jook with sliced pork cooked by the heat of the porridge.
生滾蝦球粥 sang gwan ha kau juk: jook with fresh shrimp cooked by the heat of the porridge.
皮蛋瘦肉粥 pei dan sau yiuk juk: preserved egg and lean pork rice porridge. [A personal favourite.]
碎牛粥 sui ngau juk: rice porridge with minced beef.
艇仔粥 tang chai juk: rice porridge with squid, fried pork skin, ground meat, peanuts, crispy noodle bits.
蠔豉瘦肉粥 ho si sau yiuk juk: dried oysters and lean pork rice porridge.
豬紅粥 chu hong juk: rice porridge with cubes of gelled pig's blood.
雞球粥 kai kau juk: chicken rice porridge.
香菇肉鬆粥 heung gu ngau song juk: black mushrooms and pork floss rice porridge.
魚片粥 yu pin juk: fish curls rice porridge.
鮑魚滑雞粥 bao yu kwat kai juk: abalone and chicken rice porridge.
鮑魚粥 bau yu juk: abalone rice porridge.


One type of jook which is strictly home-style, and only in the United States, is 火雞粥 (foh-kai juk): rice porridge with left-over turkey from Thanksgiving, and precisely like the roast turkey itself and football, too much will make you sleepy.
It's a very American Chinese dish; elsewhere in the world turkey is hardly eaten, seldom loved.


[油條 (yau tiu) is a long strip of puffy dough deep fried, very light and airy, that goes well with rice porridge. 生滾 (sang gwan), means 'fresh boiled', indicating that whatever was added to the piping hot rice porridge is poached in the heat thereof.  艇仔 (tang chai) is a small boat or sampan, such as Ratty and Mole used on the river in Wind in the Willows.]



Why did I need jook?
Einfach; my apartment mate stayed at home today with a severe nose-cold. She's grumpy when sick, and what cheers her up is chatting on the phone with her boy friend. No sane man wants to listen to that. It simply highlights that some of us do not have anyone special in our life, and hearing the love in her voice while she talks to him is both depressing and nauseating.
Whereas witnessing someone at a restaurant on Stockton street fiercely coughing while scarfing down the rice-plate special, along with others happily ordering one more serving of something cheap and scrumptious if you please - heck, the entire ambiance of happy people NOT talking to their lovers - is an immense improvement.


Note, by the way, that the post about dimsum which contains the names in Chinese with their pronunciation has been updated.
Dimsum is also comfort food, but far better eaten in company.
Jook is solitary.



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A DAY OF VARYING HUE

Got back to the office just in time yesterday evening.  The wind had picked up and it was starting to rain.  Forest critters, hobbits, badgers, and middle aged gentlemen strolling after a late lunch or early dinner in Chinatown do not like rain.
One cannot smoke in a downpour.  Water gets into the bowls of our pipes.
Unless, of course, we have ourselves an umbrella.
Which we do. Back at the office.

I was wired to the eyebrows at that point, and spent several more hours reading Wikipedia, rather than going back out into the wet.

Started yesterday with coffee.  Had another one before my roommate left the house.
Then a cup of tea. Then went to the financial district, and a second cup of tea.
When I got to the restaurant for a bite to eat, tea was brought.
Had a Vietnamese ice-coffee after dinner.
I don't have much of a social life, but I'm full of vigour.
Lonely at times, but perky perky perky.
Lively and vibrant, too.
Caffeine.

Good thing that coffee and tea are chock-full of antoxidants, and good for the system.  That means that I can keep this up for probably several more decades.
Along with research that shows nicotine to be good for short-term memory, and also beneficial to that segment of the elderly who are losing their marbles, life conceivably could turn out pretty entertaining.
I think I'll learn a new subject this year.

My roommate stayed all day at her boyfriend's place.
But I probably had a more stimulating time by far.
Hot beverages, tobacco, and reading material.
Not doing too badly for a single grumpus.

Didn't see any hobbits, forest critters, elves, orcs, badgers, butterflies, ghostly apparitions, or mythological beings about when I finally got home again.
I must be the only one in my neck of the woods.
Sometimes it's a bit empty out here.



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