Behind every learning experience is yet another learning experience. It is a never-ending process.
Yesterday was truly educational. No, not because my apartment mate and her kinfolk went to the Chinese cemetery to clean the family graves and do other things associated with Chingming (清明節 ching ming jit: clear brightness holiday), but because of my own particular white boy cultural observances. I'm a bachelor; I can do that.
Such as heading over to a place where smoking is permitted after dinner.
Dinner had followed returning from the wilds of Marin.
Where restaurants cater to savages.
From the hinterlands.
Of suburbia.
Yes, you read that right: Marin County is as nearly a culinary wasteland as the East-Bay. Albeit with far more pretensions. Is there even ONE half-assed decent Chinese Restaurant in Marin?
But aside from that.
At the 'Oxxy', English Dave wistfully remarked that the view was good, but in all honesty one did not go to a cigar bar expecting to meet suitable women of the opposite gender. In fact, possible dates should be last on the programme when entering the premises. The idea was forlorn and insanely optimistic.
Indeed, I know how he feels. I've long ago given up on the hope that a cute intelligent Cantonese woman half my age will strike up an animated conversation with me there.
That type probably hates tobacco anyway.
One of the things I learned yesterday was that it's just not good planning to smoke seven pipes, a Nicaraguan double corona, and a gigantic penile cigar in one day. Especially inadvisable if using an excess of hot sauce on baby string beans with pork spare ribs over rice (豆仔排骨飯) is also part of the course load.
Doing so may leave your mouth feeling like stressed shoe-leather at some point. Suggestive, even, that something vicious crawled in there and died a violent death.
It was probably the giant phallic cigar. Upon reflection, I realize that it wasn't perfectly rolled, and consequently burned irregularly. A big ring-gauge on a cigar also means that the outside will lose moisture faster than the core, and perhaps they should have used ligero in the centre for uniformity of burning cone formation. Whatever the details, it started shredding half-way through. By the time I put it down it looked like Vikings had tortured it very fiercely.
It was a pre-lunch smoke, and the day simply got stranger from there.
San Andres wrapper leaf, binder & filler both from Nicaragua. 7x70.
Another thing I learned is that my Saturday routine might need some re-planning. Due to the booming economy, a much younger crowd heads into the cigar bar after dinner. Expensive cigars are the new 'hookah'.
Shallow e-yuppies should probably not smoke at all.
They simply go about it all wrong.
No indoor voices.
By the way: One peculiarity about Chingming is that it means someone (阿華) will sneak into the bathroom just ahead of you the next morning to clean trowels, buckets, and brushes in the bathtub, leaving grit everywhere, quite overlooking the fact that the smoker has a bus to catch.
I barely made it on time.
I would have gotten up earlier, but the e-yuppies kept me awake till far after midnight. Should probably have gone to bed much sooner; I had been determined to outlast them.
They finally left.
Animals.
I've been swilling buckets of tea all weekend; I can outlast any number of juveniles.
In consequence of yesterday's reckless adventurism, I held off on filling a pipe till two PM today.
There's probably no logical connection, but on my way home this evening a pigeon skanked on my head. I am, never-the-less, determined to blame the cheroot-huffing e-yuppies.
AFTERWORD
After finishing my string bean spare rib rice I was asked if, by any chance, there was a Chinese name by which I might be appelled. My white name is a bit hard to pronounce in Chinatown. It took me a moment to remember what Ah-Choi and the gang still call me: Ah-Mak: 阿麥。
A nickname, of course, but it's rather pleasing.
Familiarity breeds conversation.
There was a flock of crows wheeling in the sky above the block when I left the restaurant at twilight. Their cawing made me look up.
I'm taking it as an excellent omen.
Seeing as I like crows.
Final educational item: it is possible to trim one's toenails with a dentist's plaster knife late at night, upon discovering that the aforementioned apartment mate has made the last pair of clippers vanish.
I once bought a dozen of them at Walgreens.
Where are they?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, April 06, 2014
TALK TO A REAL LIVE HUMAN
Just zapped over a dozen spam comments. Boys, you're not even trying. If you are going to post a worthless spammatic contribution, please make it worthwhile.
Checklist for commenting:
1) Do you have something relevant to say?
Urls to loansharks and real-estate speculators are not relevant.
2) Can you say it in a human version of English?
French or Japanese just don't count. Sorry.
3) Are you human?
This blogger discriminates against machines. My calculator weeps in the corner, because I don't pay it any attention. It is alone. It feels abandoned. My neglect has given it issues.
Fairly simple, right?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Checklist for commenting:
1) Do you have something relevant to say?
Urls to loansharks and real-estate speculators are not relevant.
2) Can you say it in a human version of English?
French or Japanese just don't count. Sorry.
3) Are you human?
This blogger discriminates against machines. My calculator weeps in the corner, because I don't pay it any attention. It is alone. It feels abandoned. My neglect has given it issues.
Fairly simple, right?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, April 05, 2014
TOBACCO FOR BOYS AND GIRLS
Earlier I mentioned that I started smoking a pipe when I was fourteen years old. And a friend, who is a non-smoking scistoid nutball, asked if teenagers should be allowed to smoke, ever. Well, my parents would nowadays end up in legal trouble, but at the time they didn't forbid it after it was apparent that I had taken the plunge. My mother gave me a long medical lecture, promising all manner of ailments and psychological problems including stunted growth -- she was shorter than me by then -- and threatening dire moral failings as well, but by smoking three Kent Filter Kings during the harangue she unglued her own discourse.
KENT CIGARETTES, WITH THE FAMOUS MICRONITE FILTER
But that begs the question, should juveniles be permitted to use tobacco? To which the answer is, more or less, the same as whether or not they should have rich and fulfilling sex lives: not until they are eighteen.
Smoking, like sex, is allegedly an adult decision.
Eighteen.
The boundary is set in law, even though some might argue that it's arbitrary. Some people shouldn't engage in 'sweaty business' until they are past retirement age, and I really wish the drunken young folks on Polk Street on Saturday nights would put it out of their mind until they lose their jobs and go back to live with mommy. Unfortunately, they engage in all manner of disgusting amorous behaviours while drunk in public, and then go home to facebook till dawn.
Far better they should not drink, not hump legs, and not smoke ciggies.
Never-the-less, once they're eighteen, they can decide for themselves.
Again, I started smoking at age fourteen.
Sex had to wait several more years.
Tobacco alleviates frustration.
It's almost miraculous.
I personally feel that cigarettes are unpleasant, and big cigars far too often a sign of depravity. But pipes and pipe tobacco demonstrate a sound moral compass, and young men and women should all own at least one decent pipe, and have a pouch or tin of high quality tobacco around their digs at all times. Nicotine is good for short-term memory -- perfect for when you have to cram for a test -- and, though a stimulant, it calms you down.
Eighteen.
Cigarettes are too easy and too addictive, much like vapor devices (e-cigs), and cigars deliver an enormous load of the N vitamin, far more than you really need. Besides, there's something suspiciously penile about cigars.
But a pipe inculcates a contemplative mindset and improves the mood.
Once people get into pipes, it trains their aesthetic eye.
They develop good manners and thoughtfulness.
Books are bought, ideas developed.
Eighteen.
Trust me, you really want your daughter to smoke a pipe. If you smell a whisp of Latakia or Perique escaping from underneath her locked bedroom door, she's probably studying, and in any case is not engaged in risky behaviour with the boy next door. She's got her head screwed on right, and instead of dropping out of junior college to raise a brat, she'll go on to graduate school.
That's what you want, isn't it?
Eighteen.
The town where I grew up flourished because of the cigar factories that were founded there in the late nineteenth century, and two of them remained when I was in high school: Hofnar Sigarenfabrieken N.V., and N.V. Willem II Sigaren. Both factories are defunct now.
But at the time, almost all my classmates smoked, and although cigarettes were a social lubricant as well as a mark of rebellion, many of them eventually gravitated toward the local product, albeit not the big fat torpedoes that farmers and factory workers liked, but the elegant half-coronas and senoritas with fine Sumatra wrappers.
The entire town smelled like a humidor.
Pipes were thought a bit unusual.
But not at all uncommon.
I have reason to assume that the majority of my classmates are now fine upstanding citizens of sober habit and sensible conduct.
Except, perhaps, for the cigarette smokers.
They're still a question mark.
I firmly believe that the second they turn eighteen, boys and girls should head over to the nearest quality tobacconist and purchase one or two decent pipes and some tobacco. Their parents should provide them with enough money to make the visit worthwhile, and perhaps accompany them so that they can make good choices.
For the pipes, I would recommend Savinelli.
It's a great smoke even at the low end.
You'll get your money's worth.
From $70.00 to $150.00.
For the tobacco, a few tins of medium to full English blends, meaning products that have between thirty to fifty percent Latakia, some Turkish, and a base of aged Virginias.
Not as subtle, perhaps, as fine flakes and Virginia-Perique compounds, but easier to get the hang of, and very tasty. Turkish and Latakia are naturally low in nicotine, which helps in the beginning. Later on they may wish for something headier, but developing the right smoking rhythms takes time.
Good pipe tobacco costs between fifteen and twenty dollars a tin (1.75 oz, or 50 grammes), depending on the brand. Names to look for are McClelland, G.L. Pease, Stokkebye, Orlik, Dunhill, and Solani.
Samuel Gawith, Gawith Hoggarth, Rattray, Germain & Son.
Also MacBaren, but avoid the aromatics.
English mixtures, Balkan Blends, Orientals.
Besides, if you're going to offpiss the non-smoking tofu-heads (and you will), you might as well go for something that will give them apoplexy.
Anything with heaps of Latakia is guaranteed to do precisely that.
They'll probably huff lots of marijuana to calm down.
Marijuana is both therapeutic and green.
Accepted in Berkeley.
It's Vegan.
Remember, you have to be at least eighteen to purchase tobacco.
By the way, at present I am smoking some very fine spun-cut discs.
Rich, sweet, creamy, and soft; no tongue bite.
Life is good. Trust me, really good.
Except in Berkeley.
Tofu.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
KENT CIGARETTES, WITH THE FAMOUS MICRONITE FILTER
But that begs the question, should juveniles be permitted to use tobacco? To which the answer is, more or less, the same as whether or not they should have rich and fulfilling sex lives: not until they are eighteen.
Smoking, like sex, is allegedly an adult decision.
Eighteen.
The boundary is set in law, even though some might argue that it's arbitrary. Some people shouldn't engage in 'sweaty business' until they are past retirement age, and I really wish the drunken young folks on Polk Street on Saturday nights would put it out of their mind until they lose their jobs and go back to live with mommy. Unfortunately, they engage in all manner of disgusting amorous behaviours while drunk in public, and then go home to facebook till dawn.
Far better they should not drink, not hump legs, and not smoke ciggies.
Never-the-less, once they're eighteen, they can decide for themselves.
Again, I started smoking at age fourteen.
Sex had to wait several more years.
Tobacco alleviates frustration.
It's almost miraculous.
I personally feel that cigarettes are unpleasant, and big cigars far too often a sign of depravity. But pipes and pipe tobacco demonstrate a sound moral compass, and young men and women should all own at least one decent pipe, and have a pouch or tin of high quality tobacco around their digs at all times. Nicotine is good for short-term memory -- perfect for when you have to cram for a test -- and, though a stimulant, it calms you down.
Eighteen.
Cigarettes are too easy and too addictive, much like vapor devices (e-cigs), and cigars deliver an enormous load of the N vitamin, far more than you really need. Besides, there's something suspiciously penile about cigars.
But a pipe inculcates a contemplative mindset and improves the mood.
Once people get into pipes, it trains their aesthetic eye.
They develop good manners and thoughtfulness.
Books are bought, ideas developed.
Eighteen.
Trust me, you really want your daughter to smoke a pipe. If you smell a whisp of Latakia or Perique escaping from underneath her locked bedroom door, she's probably studying, and in any case is not engaged in risky behaviour with the boy next door. She's got her head screwed on right, and instead of dropping out of junior college to raise a brat, she'll go on to graduate school.
That's what you want, isn't it?
Eighteen.
The town where I grew up flourished because of the cigar factories that were founded there in the late nineteenth century, and two of them remained when I was in high school: Hofnar Sigarenfabrieken N.V., and N.V. Willem II Sigaren. Both factories are defunct now.
But at the time, almost all my classmates smoked, and although cigarettes were a social lubricant as well as a mark of rebellion, many of them eventually gravitated toward the local product, albeit not the big fat torpedoes that farmers and factory workers liked, but the elegant half-coronas and senoritas with fine Sumatra wrappers.
The entire town smelled like a humidor.
Pipes were thought a bit unusual.
But not at all uncommon.
I have reason to assume that the majority of my classmates are now fine upstanding citizens of sober habit and sensible conduct.
Except, perhaps, for the cigarette smokers.
They're still a question mark.
I firmly believe that the second they turn eighteen, boys and girls should head over to the nearest quality tobacconist and purchase one or two decent pipes and some tobacco. Their parents should provide them with enough money to make the visit worthwhile, and perhaps accompany them so that they can make good choices.
For the pipes, I would recommend Savinelli.
It's a great smoke even at the low end.
You'll get your money's worth.
From $70.00 to $150.00.
For the tobacco, a few tins of medium to full English blends, meaning products that have between thirty to fifty percent Latakia, some Turkish, and a base of aged Virginias.
Not as subtle, perhaps, as fine flakes and Virginia-Perique compounds, but easier to get the hang of, and very tasty. Turkish and Latakia are naturally low in nicotine, which helps in the beginning. Later on they may wish for something headier, but developing the right smoking rhythms takes time.
Good pipe tobacco costs between fifteen and twenty dollars a tin (1.75 oz, or 50 grammes), depending on the brand. Names to look for are McClelland, G.L. Pease, Stokkebye, Orlik, Dunhill, and Solani.
Samuel Gawith, Gawith Hoggarth, Rattray, Germain & Son.
Also MacBaren, but avoid the aromatics.
English mixtures, Balkan Blends, Orientals.
Besides, if you're going to offpiss the non-smoking tofu-heads (and you will), you might as well go for something that will give them apoplexy.
Anything with heaps of Latakia is guaranteed to do precisely that.
They'll probably huff lots of marijuana to calm down.
Marijuana is both therapeutic and green.
Accepted in Berkeley.
It's Vegan.
Remember, you have to be at least eighteen to purchase tobacco.
By the way, at present I am smoking some very fine spun-cut discs.
Rich, sweet, creamy, and soft; no tongue bite.
Life is good. Trust me, really good.
Except in Berkeley.
Tofu.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, April 04, 2014
CHICKEN ADOBO WITH COCONUT MILK
The other day a facebook friend whom I also know in real life posted a recipe that was a culture-specific taste of home for Filipinos.
And, quite naturally, many of his friends who are Filipino promptly mouth-watered all over the comments.
As, mentally, I did too.
I've modified it slightly, but in the main, this is his recipe:
ADOBONG MANOK SA GATA
Eight to ten chicken thighs.
Half a cup of soy sauce.
One third cup of cider vinegar.
One and a half cups of coconut milk.
Bay leaves.
One or two sliced shallots.
One Tsp. whole pepper corns.
Eight garlic cloves, minced.
Prick the thighs here and there with a fork, marinate in soy sauce for half an hour. Drain, reserving soy sauce. Brown in a pan, and discard some of the grease. Add the sliced shallot and colour this slightly, then add everything else and simmer for half an hour or so, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking or burning.
Remove bay leaves.
Serve with steamed rice, and a little saucer of crushed garlic in vinegar on the side.
If you want, you can also add whole siling labuyo (wild chili) or siling haba (long chili) to the pan. Siling labuyo is sharper than siling haba.
And note that this type of soy sauce, vinegar, and coconut milk flavouring can also be used for adobo sa liyempo (pork belly adobo), as well as ginataan manok and ginataan hipon -- chicken or shrimp coconut milk stew, with the amount of vinegar reduced severely, even replaced with one or two tablespoons of strong tamarind water. The process is to simmer till the sauce separates. If using shrimp, don't add them till after everything else has been combined and cooked, then put them in to poach in the sauce. Shrimp does not require more than a few minutes of heat.
[To truly bring out the inner Filipino in big gushing buckets, also serve sinigang or sinampalokang alongside: chicken, pork, or seafood with vegetables in a broth made sour with tamarind water. Tamarind can be found in many Asian stores in block or paste form. Just add hot water till it is at the desired tanginess, and use that as the basis of the soup, with sliced onion and garlic, plus tamarind or pepper leaves, beansprouts, kangkong, tomato, scallion, leaf-greens, gourd, ginger, whatever. The protein component mustn't be overcooked, the green stuff should be toothsome.
It isn't complicated, but a sense of timing makes it marvelous. Add a squeeze of lime.
Sinigang is a little more soupy with the ingredients put in the broth to cook, sinampalokang requires that the meat be sautéed with ginger before any liquid is used.]
Adobo has a distinctive aroma, especially the versions that simply combine vinegar and soy sauce, without the coconut milk (water added instead). Usually coconut milk is not used.
Years ago, when visiting a friend several blocks south of here, I knew immediately that there were several Filipinos living in that building.
The fragrance of their cooking lingered in the hallways.
Touches of vinegar and soy.
A hint of bago'ong.
It was a drab and poky apartment complex in the Tenderloin, strictly for the lower income levels. Many of those places are depressing and like prisons, but the adobic vapour-echo countered that marvelously.
If you like adobo, the smell is evocative.
AFTERWORD
As a classic culinary signature of a time and place I could also mention balut late at night in Ermita, but most people will have as little recollection of that as of the estofado kambing (goat stew) that may have started their evening. It's a more localized set of memories, and might have involved copious volumes of San Miguel and Tanduy.
I never got wasted in the Philippines. In a tropical climate, over-indulging in liquor makes you stink ferociously the next morning. Which is not something most Australians, Americans, and Euries realize.
Intoxication is also not endearing to the locals.
Never get drunk where you aren't a native.
It's a question of manners and sense.
I did once try balut, though.
Won't say what I think.
It's... special.
Very.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And, quite naturally, many of his friends who are Filipino promptly mouth-watered all over the comments.
As, mentally, I did too.
I've modified it slightly, but in the main, this is his recipe:
ADOBONG MANOK SA GATA
Eight to ten chicken thighs.
Half a cup of soy sauce.
One third cup of cider vinegar.
One and a half cups of coconut milk.
Bay leaves.
One or two sliced shallots.
One Tsp. whole pepper corns.
Eight garlic cloves, minced.
Prick the thighs here and there with a fork, marinate in soy sauce for half an hour. Drain, reserving soy sauce. Brown in a pan, and discard some of the grease. Add the sliced shallot and colour this slightly, then add everything else and simmer for half an hour or so, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking or burning.
Remove bay leaves.
Serve with steamed rice, and a little saucer of crushed garlic in vinegar on the side.
If you want, you can also add whole siling labuyo (wild chili) or siling haba (long chili) to the pan. Siling labuyo is sharper than siling haba.
And note that this type of soy sauce, vinegar, and coconut milk flavouring can also be used for adobo sa liyempo (pork belly adobo), as well as ginataan manok and ginataan hipon -- chicken or shrimp coconut milk stew, with the amount of vinegar reduced severely, even replaced with one or two tablespoons of strong tamarind water. The process is to simmer till the sauce separates. If using shrimp, don't add them till after everything else has been combined and cooked, then put them in to poach in the sauce. Shrimp does not require more than a few minutes of heat.
[To truly bring out the inner Filipino in big gushing buckets, also serve sinigang or sinampalokang alongside: chicken, pork, or seafood with vegetables in a broth made sour with tamarind water. Tamarind can be found in many Asian stores in block or paste form. Just add hot water till it is at the desired tanginess, and use that as the basis of the soup, with sliced onion and garlic, plus tamarind or pepper leaves, beansprouts, kangkong, tomato, scallion, leaf-greens, gourd, ginger, whatever. The protein component mustn't be overcooked, the green stuff should be toothsome.
It isn't complicated, but a sense of timing makes it marvelous. Add a squeeze of lime.
Sinigang is a little more soupy with the ingredients put in the broth to cook, sinampalokang requires that the meat be sautéed with ginger before any liquid is used.]
Adobo has a distinctive aroma, especially the versions that simply combine vinegar and soy sauce, without the coconut milk (water added instead). Usually coconut milk is not used.
Years ago, when visiting a friend several blocks south of here, I knew immediately that there were several Filipinos living in that building.
The fragrance of their cooking lingered in the hallways.
Touches of vinegar and soy.
A hint of bago'ong.
It was a drab and poky apartment complex in the Tenderloin, strictly for the lower income levels. Many of those places are depressing and like prisons, but the adobic vapour-echo countered that marvelously.
If you like adobo, the smell is evocative.
AFTERWORD
As a classic culinary signature of a time and place I could also mention balut late at night in Ermita, but most people will have as little recollection of that as of the estofado kambing (goat stew) that may have started their evening. It's a more localized set of memories, and might have involved copious volumes of San Miguel and Tanduy.
I never got wasted in the Philippines. In a tropical climate, over-indulging in liquor makes you stink ferociously the next morning. Which is not something most Australians, Americans, and Euries realize.
Intoxication is also not endearing to the locals.
Never get drunk where you aren't a native.
It's a question of manners and sense.
I did once try balut, though.
Won't say what I think.
It's... special.
Very.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, April 03, 2014
DE PERFECTIONE CONCUPISCENTISIMUS HOMINIS
Recent comments on this blog have taken a turn for the worse. My reactive audience appears to have prurient interests, that may or may not intersect with tobacco. Possibly this is because of the rain; some people are cooped up inside with nowhere to go, and naturally their thoughts devolve to prurience and pipe tobacco.
"I hear crackling; it's raining porkskins!"
That was probably wishful thinking. As was the phrase "ngoh seurng sik chyu yiuk, ah, pai gwat!" My apartment mate does not quite understand that everyone in this household speaks Cantonese, and that pork is NOT a dangerously taboo subject, as none of us are Jewish. Or Muslim.
None of me. There are only two of us here.
Neither being Jewish, or Muslim.
Chyu yiuk is fine by us.
By me, fine it is.
Pai gwat.
排骨。
She has no need to hide her appetites.
Given that on the whole they're clean.
But she's the person who made "sausage banana" for breakfast.
I worry about that girl; the weather is making her tense.
Personally I don't eat breakfast until lunchtime.
By which time the rain may clear.
She didn't feel like going to the store recently, what with the inclement weather at night, and the cold. So she ran out of her applewood-smoked thick cut bacon, and was Jonesing for treif.
I left the house twice that evening, to stand in the portico of the grocery store nearby smoking a pipe. No, I couldn't have bought her the oink-strips there, as it closed forever in January. After a quarter of a century or more the owners retired and shut up shop. There is no place nearby with pig.
On the other hand, there are THREE liquor stores.
This neighborhood has priorities.
As I mentioned, her appetites are innocent. As are mine, most of the time. But not always. Not after reading a comment that reminded me of certain things.
A BIG SLICE OF THE NEW VICAR!
(Cut to two ladies taking tea in an Edwardian drawing room.)
First Lady (Carol): Have you seen Lady Windermere's new carriage, dear?
Second Lady (Caron Garden): Absolutely enchanting!
First Lady: Isn't it!
(Chivers the butler enters.)
Chivers (Graham): The new vicar to see you, m'lady.
First Lady: Ah, send him in, Chivers.
Chivers: Certainly, m'lady. (he goes)
(Enter a Swiss mountaineer in Tyrolean hat, lederhosen, haversack, icepick, etc. Followed by two men in evening dress. They look round and exit.)
First Lady: Now, how is your tea, dear? A little more water perhaps?
Second Lady: Thank you. It is delightful as it is.
Chivers: The Reverend Ronald Simms, the Dirty Vicar of St Michael's ... ooh!
(Chivers is obviously goosed from behind by the Dirty Vicar.)
Vicar (Terry Jones): Cor, what a lovely bit of stuff. I'd like to get my fingers around those knockers.
(He pounces upon the second lady, throws her skirt over her head and pushes her over the back of the sofa, then rolls around on top of her.)
First Lady: How do you find the vicarage?
(The vicar stands up from behind the sofa, his shirt open and his hair awry; he reaches over and puts his hand down the first lady's front.)
Vicar: I like tits!
First Lady: Oh vicar! vicar!
(The vicar suddenly pulls back and looks around him as if in the horror of dawning realisation.)
Vicar: Oh my goodness. I do beg your pardon. How dreadful! The first day in my new parish, I completely ... so sorry!
First Lady: (adjusting her dress) Yes. Never mind, never mind. Chivers -- send Mary in with a new gown, will you?
(The second lady struggles to her feet from behind the couch, completely dishevelled. Her own gown completely ripped open.)
Chivers: Certainly, m'lady.
Vicar: (to the second lady) I do beg your pardon ... I must sit down.
First Lady: As I was saying, how do you find the new vicarage?
(They take their seats on the couch.)
Vicar: Oh yes, certainly, yes indeed, I find the grounds delightful, and the servants most attentive and particularly the little serving maid with the great big knockers, and when she gets going...
(He throws himself on the hostess across the tea table, knocking it over and they disappear over the back of the hostess's chair. Grunts etc. Enter Dickie applauding. Also, we hear audience applause.)
[Text from here: http://www.montypython.net/scripts/dirtyvic.php.]
As you know, I have "enjoyed" a saintly and austere life ever since my relationship with another person faded, and I have scarce had thought of challenging female body parts in over three years. I am virtually a saint.
Far be it from me to discourse suggestively on such matters, as, being a single man without any amorous prospects proximally, nor even a shred of intimate possibility on the horizon, there would be no one to speak thus to.
Did I already mention my sainthood?
It's awesome.
There has been NO naughty behaviour in a very long time. Instead, I've stilled passion with pipe tobacco, tea, cookies, copious amounts of hot sauce on snacks at midnight, and rereading De Libero Arbitrio as well as De Bono Coniugali, both by Aurelius Augustinus Hipponensis.
My brilliant cousin is currently writing a tome on the Venerable Bede; when it finally sees light of day, I shall doubtlessly devour that too, with great delight. And avid interest.
No naughty behaviour at all.
I am a man of restraint.
"I like tits!"
Well, yes. That's true. But it's more of an abstract intellectual concept than anything that bears on reality. Perfectly happy indeed to conceive of them, as imagined perfections irrespective of dimension, but there is no practical application.
One or two of my readers, however, disagree.
They connect "tits" with tobacco.
A very novel concept.
I rather wish that a recent commenter had NOT reminded me of Monty Python's Dirty Vicar Sketch. After viewing it on youtube, I found myself muttering with conviction "I like tits" for most of the next day.
It wasn't good for my mental equilibrium.
Because, you see, I do like tits.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"I hear crackling; it's raining porkskins!"
That was probably wishful thinking. As was the phrase "ngoh seurng sik chyu yiuk, ah, pai gwat!" My apartment mate does not quite understand that everyone in this household speaks Cantonese, and that pork is NOT a dangerously taboo subject, as none of us are Jewish. Or Muslim.
None of me. There are only two of us here.
Neither being Jewish, or Muslim.
Chyu yiuk is fine by us.
By me, fine it is.
Pai gwat.
排骨。
She has no need to hide her appetites.
Given that on the whole they're clean.
But she's the person who made "sausage banana" for breakfast.
I worry about that girl; the weather is making her tense.
Personally I don't eat breakfast until lunchtime.
By which time the rain may clear.
She didn't feel like going to the store recently, what with the inclement weather at night, and the cold. So she ran out of her applewood-smoked thick cut bacon, and was Jonesing for treif.
I left the house twice that evening, to stand in the portico of the grocery store nearby smoking a pipe. No, I couldn't have bought her the oink-strips there, as it closed forever in January. After a quarter of a century or more the owners retired and shut up shop. There is no place nearby with pig.
On the other hand, there are THREE liquor stores.
This neighborhood has priorities.
As I mentioned, her appetites are innocent. As are mine, most of the time. But not always. Not after reading a comment that reminded me of certain things.
A BIG SLICE OF THE NEW VICAR!
(Cut to two ladies taking tea in an Edwardian drawing room.)
First Lady (Carol): Have you seen Lady Windermere's new carriage, dear?
Second Lady (Caron Garden): Absolutely enchanting!
First Lady: Isn't it!
(Chivers the butler enters.)
Chivers (Graham): The new vicar to see you, m'lady.
First Lady: Ah, send him in, Chivers.
Chivers: Certainly, m'lady. (he goes)
(Enter a Swiss mountaineer in Tyrolean hat, lederhosen, haversack, icepick, etc. Followed by two men in evening dress. They look round and exit.)
First Lady: Now, how is your tea, dear? A little more water perhaps?
Second Lady: Thank you. It is delightful as it is.
Chivers: The Reverend Ronald Simms, the Dirty Vicar of St Michael's ... ooh!
(Chivers is obviously goosed from behind by the Dirty Vicar.)
Vicar (Terry Jones): Cor, what a lovely bit of stuff. I'd like to get my fingers around those knockers.
(He pounces upon the second lady, throws her skirt over her head and pushes her over the back of the sofa, then rolls around on top of her.)
First Lady: How do you find the vicarage?
(The vicar stands up from behind the sofa, his shirt open and his hair awry; he reaches over and puts his hand down the first lady's front.)
Vicar: I like tits!
First Lady: Oh vicar! vicar!
(The vicar suddenly pulls back and looks around him as if in the horror of dawning realisation.)
Vicar: Oh my goodness. I do beg your pardon. How dreadful! The first day in my new parish, I completely ... so sorry!
First Lady: (adjusting her dress) Yes. Never mind, never mind. Chivers -- send Mary in with a new gown, will you?
(The second lady struggles to her feet from behind the couch, completely dishevelled. Her own gown completely ripped open.)
Chivers: Certainly, m'lady.
Vicar: (to the second lady) I do beg your pardon ... I must sit down.
First Lady: As I was saying, how do you find the new vicarage?
(They take their seats on the couch.)
Vicar: Oh yes, certainly, yes indeed, I find the grounds delightful, and the servants most attentive and particularly the little serving maid with the great big knockers, and when she gets going...
(He throws himself on the hostess across the tea table, knocking it over and they disappear over the back of the hostess's chair. Grunts etc. Enter Dickie applauding. Also, we hear audience applause.)
[Text from here: http://www.montypython.net/scripts/dirtyvic.php.]
As you know, I have "enjoyed" a saintly and austere life ever since my relationship with another person faded, and I have scarce had thought of challenging female body parts in over three years. I am virtually a saint.
Far be it from me to discourse suggestively on such matters, as, being a single man without any amorous prospects proximally, nor even a shred of intimate possibility on the horizon, there would be no one to speak thus to.
Did I already mention my sainthood?
It's awesome.
There has been NO naughty behaviour in a very long time. Instead, I've stilled passion with pipe tobacco, tea, cookies, copious amounts of hot sauce on snacks at midnight, and rereading De Libero Arbitrio as well as De Bono Coniugali, both by Aurelius Augustinus Hipponensis.
My brilliant cousin is currently writing a tome on the Venerable Bede; when it finally sees light of day, I shall doubtlessly devour that too, with great delight. And avid interest.
No naughty behaviour at all.
I am a man of restraint.
"I like tits!"
Well, yes. That's true. But it's more of an abstract intellectual concept than anything that bears on reality. Perfectly happy indeed to conceive of them, as imagined perfections irrespective of dimension, but there is no practical application.
One or two of my readers, however, disagree.
They connect "tits" with tobacco.
A very novel concept.
I rather wish that a recent commenter had NOT reminded me of Monty Python's Dirty Vicar Sketch. After viewing it on youtube, I found myself muttering with conviction "I like tits" for most of the next day.
It wasn't good for my mental equilibrium.
Because, you see, I do like tits.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, April 02, 2014
HAVING HEART: A CANTONESE FOOD THING
There are several eateries in Chinatown that I shall not name, even though I enjoy everything that they do. The reason being that I live in San Francisco, where there are more vicious foodsnobs than anywhere else on the planet; savage, unforgiving, sneering, and superficial know-it-alls with little decency and overweening senses of superiority and entitlement.
The places I like may be too humble for this city.
I've read Yelp; it's a frikking zoo.
Meanspirited.
I am proud to admit that I like small dumpy places which do a damned fine job on simple comfort food, wipe the tables a little less often when they're swamped, eat their own cooking, and offer a more than decent value for five dollars or less.
They take far less pride in their menu than they should.
And cater to an audience which values them.
None of San Francisco's vast herd of foodies would write glowingly about steamed pork patty, which is sometimes exactly what the doctor ordered.
A simple home-style dish, unconsciously beloved. The people who know about it won't order it when they're entertaining guests, honored relatives, or out-of-town visitors. And I seriously doubt Mandarin-speakers or techno-yuppies would even touch it.
Flattened lump of ground meat. Ja choi, haahm yü, or haahm daan on top.
Some shredded ginger. Steamed for ten minutes. No sense of presentation, just plonked onto the table with an extra plate placed underneath so you don't blister your fingers on the hot hot porcelain.
You break it apart with your chopsticks.
Heavenly with hot sauce.
Okay, that last bit is my own preference. I tend toward a fair amount of hot sauce, but most Cantonese will eschew chilies.
Equally unprepossessing is steamed slickened chicken: jing gwat kai. Chicken cut up, rubbed with cornstarch and a little rice wine, steamed till done. You may add softened black mushrooms, a piece of lahp cheung and some ginger, or even diverse flavourful dried ingredients to the steaming plate for extra excitement. Very home style, very good.
Very unsnobbish.
Yes, I suppose you could make it presentable to the culinary whores; some cilantro, a tomato rosette, and an exquisite selection of baby vegetables artfully carved, on a rectangular stoneware platter.
Served in a dining room with a hip colour scheme, ethnic funk in the background, and tablecloths.
If you did that, the yelping classes would wax utterly poetic.
High quality adjectives would be brought into play.
Someone would recall rafting the Ganges.
And state that is was "so real".
Authoritatively.
乜都好食！
Frankly, I much prefer places where I can go dressed all rumpily, greet the aunties who work there, and be asked "ney oi matyeh, ah-suh?" Lunch counters where one demands to know "matyeh dak bit ge?", "go hai san-sin ge ma?", "yau mou fu-gwa?", "geung si lei gei yiuk?"
The type of place that tells you "nei ji-gei jam, hah" when you also order a cup of coffee from the canteen-style machine, in which there is a beverage of industrial origin.
Yiu di lou fo tong?
Obviously, if I named those restaurants, and praised their food effusively, some of the people who see my blog would wonder if I had lost it. Why, there's nothing worthwhile there, it's just a grotty Chinatown dump! The food is below mediocre, especially compared to what we had on a starlit night in Soochow, after visiting the museum! Those chairs are SO ugly!
You know, real Chinese food is far better.
It's an ancient art form.
So meaningful.
Not this.
COLLOQUIPENDUM
Steamed pork patty: 蒸肉餅 jing yiuk beng. Ja choi: 榨菜 spicy pressed mustard stem pickle. Haahm yü: 咸魚 salt fish. Haahm daan: 鹹蛋 salt egg. Shredded ginger: 姜絲 geung si; mispronounced, this sounds the same as 're-animated corpse' (殭屍). Hot sauce: 辣醬 laat jeung. Chilies: 辣椒 laat jiu. Steamed slickened chicken: 蒸滑雞 jing gwat kai. Cornstarch: 玉米淀粉 yuk mai din fan. Rice wine: 米酒 mai jau. Black mushrooms: 冬菇 dong gu. Lahp cheung: 臘腸 dried pork sausage. Ginger: 薑、姜 geung. Home style food: 家鄉菜 gaa heung choi.
Dining room with a hip colour scheme, ethnic funk in the background, and tablecloths: 鬼勢利嘅臭裝飾 gwai sai lei ge chau jong sik.
Ney oi matyeh? 你爱乜嘢？ what would you like? Mat ye dak bit ge? 乜嘢特别嘅？ what is special (today)? Go hai san sin ge maa? 嗰係新鮮嘅嘛？ is that fresh? Yau mou fu gwa? 有冇苦瓜？ got any bitter melon? Geung si lei gei yiuk: 姜絲裡肌肉 marinated pork loin frazzled with shredded ginger and rice wine, very delicious! Nei ji gei jam, hah? 你自己斟，吓？ pour it yourself, okay? Yiu di lou fo tong? 要啲老火湯？ ya wanna bowl of soup (with your meal)?
["Your darn right I want some soup!"]
Nei yau sam.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The places I like may be too humble for this city.
I've read Yelp; it's a frikking zoo.
Meanspirited.
I am proud to admit that I like small dumpy places which do a damned fine job on simple comfort food, wipe the tables a little less often when they're swamped, eat their own cooking, and offer a more than decent value for five dollars or less.
They take far less pride in their menu than they should.
And cater to an audience which values them.
None of San Francisco's vast herd of foodies would write glowingly about steamed pork patty, which is sometimes exactly what the doctor ordered.
A simple home-style dish, unconsciously beloved. The people who know about it won't order it when they're entertaining guests, honored relatives, or out-of-town visitors. And I seriously doubt Mandarin-speakers or techno-yuppies would even touch it.
Flattened lump of ground meat. Ja choi, haahm yü, or haahm daan on top.
Some shredded ginger. Steamed for ten minutes. No sense of presentation, just plonked onto the table with an extra plate placed underneath so you don't blister your fingers on the hot hot porcelain.
You break it apart with your chopsticks.
Heavenly with hot sauce.
Okay, that last bit is my own preference. I tend toward a fair amount of hot sauce, but most Cantonese will eschew chilies.
Equally unprepossessing is steamed slickened chicken: jing gwat kai. Chicken cut up, rubbed with cornstarch and a little rice wine, steamed till done. You may add softened black mushrooms, a piece of lahp cheung and some ginger, or even diverse flavourful dried ingredients to the steaming plate for extra excitement. Very home style, very good.
Very unsnobbish.
Yes, I suppose you could make it presentable to the culinary whores; some cilantro, a tomato rosette, and an exquisite selection of baby vegetables artfully carved, on a rectangular stoneware platter.
Served in a dining room with a hip colour scheme, ethnic funk in the background, and tablecloths.
If you did that, the yelping classes would wax utterly poetic.
High quality adjectives would be brought into play.
Someone would recall rafting the Ganges.
And state that is was "so real".
Authoritatively.
乜都好食！
Frankly, I much prefer places where I can go dressed all rumpily, greet the aunties who work there, and be asked "ney oi matyeh, ah-suh?" Lunch counters where one demands to know "matyeh dak bit ge?", "go hai san-sin ge ma?", "yau mou fu-gwa?", "geung si lei gei yiuk?"
The type of place that tells you "nei ji-gei jam, hah" when you also order a cup of coffee from the canteen-style machine, in which there is a beverage of industrial origin.
Yiu di lou fo tong?
Obviously, if I named those restaurants, and praised their food effusively, some of the people who see my blog would wonder if I had lost it. Why, there's nothing worthwhile there, it's just a grotty Chinatown dump! The food is below mediocre, especially compared to what we had on a starlit night in Soochow, after visiting the museum! Those chairs are SO ugly!
You know, real Chinese food is far better.
It's an ancient art form.
So meaningful.
Not this.
COLLOQUIPENDUM
Steamed pork patty: 蒸肉餅 jing yiuk beng. Ja choi: 榨菜 spicy pressed mustard stem pickle. Haahm yü: 咸魚 salt fish. Haahm daan: 鹹蛋 salt egg. Shredded ginger: 姜絲 geung si; mispronounced, this sounds the same as 're-animated corpse' (殭屍). Hot sauce: 辣醬 laat jeung. Chilies: 辣椒 laat jiu. Steamed slickened chicken: 蒸滑雞 jing gwat kai. Cornstarch: 玉米淀粉 yuk mai din fan. Rice wine: 米酒 mai jau. Black mushrooms: 冬菇 dong gu. Lahp cheung: 臘腸 dried pork sausage. Ginger: 薑、姜 geung. Home style food: 家鄉菜 gaa heung choi.
Dining room with a hip colour scheme, ethnic funk in the background, and tablecloths: 鬼勢利嘅臭裝飾 gwai sai lei ge chau jong sik.
Ney oi matyeh? 你爱乜嘢？ what would you like? Mat ye dak bit ge? 乜嘢特别嘅？ what is special (today)? Go hai san sin ge maa? 嗰係新鮮嘅嘛？ is that fresh? Yau mou fu gwa? 有冇苦瓜？ got any bitter melon? Geung si lei gei yiuk: 姜絲裡肌肉 marinated pork loin frazzled with shredded ginger and rice wine, very delicious! Nei ji gei jam, hah? 你自己斟，吓？ pour it yourself, okay? Yiu di lou fo tong? 要啲老火湯？ ya wanna bowl of soup (with your meal)?
["Your darn right I want some soup!"]
Nei yau sam.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
WATCHES, ENGAGEMENT RINGS, AND A BULLET
Last Friday two armed men burst into a jewelry shop in Deurne, in North Brabant province. They shot and wounded the owner, whereupon his wife gunned them both down.
[Business: Goldies Juwelen, at Milhezerweg no. 27A.]
Admittedly, this is not business as usual, even in Brabant.
[According to a local person, speaking about the jeweler and his wife, "these people will not give up anything easily, that isn't their nature".]
What makes it all problematic is that the attackers were Moroccans, and the local unemployable Moroccan youths are outraged that it looks like no charges will be filed against the jewelers (Willy and Marina Sanders) for murdering two perfectly harmless armed Moroccans.
It is an outrage!
What, they demand to know, is this world coming to when shopkeepers take the law into their own hands? What is this world coming to?
The parents of one of the dead criminals have hired an attorney to seek justice for their son.
Again, outrageous, and what the world is ever coming to!!!
The local unemployable Moroccan youths (all thirty of them) have staged angry protests, at which police had to separate them from equally angry passers-by (one or two hundred), who spontaneously counter-protested. Things were said that should not have been said.
The police handled it all very well.
I haven't lived in Noord Brabant for a very long time now. So I really don't know what to think of all this. Here in the United States, if a jeweler blasted a robber to the next life, he or she would usually be considered to have acted correctly.
There have been numerous attacks on jewelry stores in the Netherlands by people of Moroccan extraction. There have been dead jewelers in consequence of those attacks.
Perhaps it is best to shoot first, and have tea with the "Marokkaanse buurtvaderen" later. Which is a perfect task for Dutch politicians.
Politicians like having tea with Moroccan neighborhood elders.
It's a strong signal to the "community" that they care.
And it has been extremely effective in the past.
No Moroccan elders have robbed shops.
A few of their sons, however.....
Ah, youth. Passionate.
There is a racial element to all this.
Which displeases some people.
Of Moroccan extraction.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Business: Goldies Juwelen, at Milhezerweg no. 27A.]
Admittedly, this is not business as usual, even in Brabant.
[According to a local person, speaking about the jeweler and his wife, "these people will not give up anything easily, that isn't their nature".]
What makes it all problematic is that the attackers were Moroccans, and the local unemployable Moroccan youths are outraged that it looks like no charges will be filed against the jewelers (Willy and Marina Sanders) for murdering two perfectly harmless armed Moroccans.
It is an outrage!
What, they demand to know, is this world coming to when shopkeepers take the law into their own hands? What is this world coming to?
The parents of one of the dead criminals have hired an attorney to seek justice for their son.
Again, outrageous, and what the world is ever coming to!!!
The local unemployable Moroccan youths (all thirty of them) have staged angry protests, at which police had to separate them from equally angry passers-by (one or two hundred), who spontaneously counter-protested. Things were said that should not have been said.
The police handled it all very well.
I haven't lived in Noord Brabant for a very long time now. So I really don't know what to think of all this. Here in the United States, if a jeweler blasted a robber to the next life, he or she would usually be considered to have acted correctly.
There have been numerous attacks on jewelry stores in the Netherlands by people of Moroccan extraction. There have been dead jewelers in consequence of those attacks.
Perhaps it is best to shoot first, and have tea with the "Marokkaanse buurtvaderen" later. Which is a perfect task for Dutch politicians.
Politicians like having tea with Moroccan neighborhood elders.
It's a strong signal to the "community" that they care.
And it has been extremely effective in the past.
No Moroccan elders have robbed shops.
A few of their sons, however.....
Ah, youth. Passionate.
There is a racial element to all this.
Which displeases some people.
Of Moroccan extraction.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, April 01, 2014
A VERY GOOD HOST!
The cookie supply is replenished! Pecan shortbread.
Ladies, you are welcome.
Don't make me eat them all by myself.
This blogger has a fond, though probably insane, fantasy that all the finest young women LOVE cookies. As if they were influenced by the Cookie Monster when they were still small. Other women may adore Hello Kitty, or deliquesce over handbags and Jimmy Choo, but women of taste and discernment -- intelligent and complete individuals -- will have none of that mundane Barbie Doll sh*t. It is shallow, dull, and vulgar. Valueless.
Instead of tacky merchandise, they want cookies.
Clearly, passionately, and sincerely.
It is the mark of brilliance.
And infinite charm.
And I am, in this imaginary world, the great cookie hunter.
I think more than anything else it probably reflects my own appreciation for cookies. We never bought them when I was growing up, despite living in the Netherlands (where the word 'cookie' comes from), because my mother was convinced that there was no conceivable value in them.
In her own way she was a food Nazi.
Bell peppers, carrots, celery, lettuce. Tomatoes, boiled string beans, potatoes. Olives and gherkins. Peas. Occasionally cucumber and mushrooms, despite their nutritive deficiencies.
Cheese, tinned tomato paste, and spaghetti.
Meat, eggs, chicken. Canned tuna.
Some things for sandwiches.
Condimental scarcity.
Coffee and tea.
Cocoa.
No fresh fish, because the only fishmonger in town was a barbarian, and no other vegetables, because her upbringing had scarred her on that score. White folks cooking from the thirties and forties, feh and ick poo.
Protestantism on a plate.
Occasionally, food from Restaurant Peking at the other side of the market square from our house. It was, arguably, Chinese. Sort of.
No carbonated drinks of any kind, just fruit juice (orange), because of the vitamins. No crispy crunchy snax, no salty peanuts, no heathen pastries.
Once a week a dutch Appeltaart (twixt an apple pie and an apple tart), because that baker was a solid man.
My father and I kept a supply of tasty things in the cellar, down whose dangerously steep and narrow steps she would not venture because of her lumbago. Diverse hotsauces. Soy sauce, both sweet (ketjap manis) and regular. Obscure degenerate pickles and condiments. Tins of sardines. Preserves. Polished rice. The liquor cabinet.
Spices and dried ingredients.
No cookies, however.
It wasn't till I came back to the States that I encountered cookies. "What are these strange things", I must have asked to myself, "and how can I get more of them?" Strong-arm robbing a girl scout, though obvious, was not recommended. Apparently they were also sold in stores.
It was a happy discovery.
I haven't been cookieless more than a day or two since.
Cookies are the greatly comforting snack food.
And I have them! Guests can be fed!
There are also fixings for tea.
As well as a throw rug.
Luxury's lap.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Ladies, you are welcome.
Don't make me eat them all by myself.
This blogger has a fond, though probably insane, fantasy that all the finest young women LOVE cookies. As if they were influenced by the Cookie Monster when they were still small. Other women may adore Hello Kitty, or deliquesce over handbags and Jimmy Choo, but women of taste and discernment -- intelligent and complete individuals -- will have none of that mundane Barbie Doll sh*t. It is shallow, dull, and vulgar. Valueless.
Instead of tacky merchandise, they want cookies.
Clearly, passionately, and sincerely.
It is the mark of brilliance.
And infinite charm.
And I am, in this imaginary world, the great cookie hunter.
I think more than anything else it probably reflects my own appreciation for cookies. We never bought them when I was growing up, despite living in the Netherlands (where the word 'cookie' comes from), because my mother was convinced that there was no conceivable value in them.
In her own way she was a food Nazi.
Bell peppers, carrots, celery, lettuce. Tomatoes, boiled string beans, potatoes. Olives and gherkins. Peas. Occasionally cucumber and mushrooms, despite their nutritive deficiencies.
Cheese, tinned tomato paste, and spaghetti.
Meat, eggs, chicken. Canned tuna.
Some things for sandwiches.
Condimental scarcity.
Coffee and tea.
Cocoa.
No fresh fish, because the only fishmonger in town was a barbarian, and no other vegetables, because her upbringing had scarred her on that score. White folks cooking from the thirties and forties, feh and ick poo.
Protestantism on a plate.
Occasionally, food from Restaurant Peking at the other side of the market square from our house. It was, arguably, Chinese. Sort of.
No carbonated drinks of any kind, just fruit juice (orange), because of the vitamins. No crispy crunchy snax, no salty peanuts, no heathen pastries.
Once a week a dutch Appeltaart (twixt an apple pie and an apple tart), because that baker was a solid man.
My father and I kept a supply of tasty things in the cellar, down whose dangerously steep and narrow steps she would not venture because of her lumbago. Diverse hotsauces. Soy sauce, both sweet (ketjap manis) and regular. Obscure degenerate pickles and condiments. Tins of sardines. Preserves. Polished rice. The liquor cabinet.
Spices and dried ingredients.
No cookies, however.
It wasn't till I came back to the States that I encountered cookies. "What are these strange things", I must have asked to myself, "and how can I get more of them?" Strong-arm robbing a girl scout, though obvious, was not recommended. Apparently they were also sold in stores.
It was a happy discovery.
I haven't been cookieless more than a day or two since.
Cookies are the greatly comforting snack food.
And I have them! Guests can be fed!
There are also fixings for tea.
As well as a throw rug.
Luxury's lap.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 31, 2014
HONG KONG CINEMA IDEAS ABOUT FEMININITY
During the eighties, many young men in Chinatown formed their images of manhood from the examples set in Hong Kong movies. Whether in gangster films, adventure, romance, or comedies, the multifaceted acting of stars such as Chow Yunfat, Andy Law, Hung Kampo, and others provided role models that showed how one should behave (or misbehave) under a variety of circumstances.
In part, this was because of the heroes' relationships to others, and largely how they interacted with the people around them, which naturally included women.
The women may have been "quieter".
But they were fundamental.
曼玉 FABULOUS JADE -- MAGGIE CHEUNG
If Lau Takwah (Andy Law in the role of Wah, 阿華, 華仔) seems like a cold bastard in 'As Tears Go By' (旺角卡門, from director Wong Karwai 王家衛) because of his no-nonsense violence towards other thugs on behalf of his "younger brother" Fly (烏蠅, played by Jackie Cheung 張學友), he is humanized by his consideration for Ngor (阿娥, played by Maggie Cheung 張曼玉). When things head south for Wah and Fly, due to a confrontation with psychopathic gangleader Tony (Alex Man Chi-leung 萬梓良), it is Ngor who is left emotionally holding the bag. Which, perhaps, is a traditional role for women in many movies.
Maggie Cheung is, from all accounts, a strong woman herself. But she has a softness that allows for a number of roles, and her career has included a number of non-Chinese movies.
Though born in Hong Kong, her family has roots elsewhere.
She's a native-speaker of Mandarin and Cantonese.
Fluent in both French and English.
Educated in Britain.
紫瓊 AMETHYST AND JASPER -- JEE KING
Contrasting enormously with that, almost all performances by Michelle Yeoh (楊紫瓊) show her as one tough cookie, capable of holding her own and them some. If you only knew of her from martial arts movies or police stories, it would be an immense surprise to find out that she was actually a beauty queen; pageant hotties are not known for significant skills, let alone a combination of brains, brawn, and dramatic ability.
When she first started working in the Hong Kong movie industry, she could not speak Cantonese. Her parents native language was Hokkien, and she isn't originally from Hong Kong.
She played the only Bond Woman whom James didn't get to bag.
In that movie, Bond was distinctly second fiddle.
Quite a blow to the British ego.
肥肥 FATTY -- FEIFEI
Completely different than both women mentioned above, actress and television personality Lydia Shum ( 沈殿霞) represented a style of womanhood which was brash, forward, loud, and just about full of dynamite. If she ever played a subservient role, it was only to emerge triumphant after engineering the face-egg of the man in the tale. She is best remembered as a likable harpy in numerous roles; mother, girlfriend, wife, and gossipy neighbor. Not, usually, the actual hero of the tale, but always memorable as the dominant personality.
Like Michelle Yeoh, she wasn't native to Hong Kong.
劉嘉玲 TINKLING GEM -- CARINA LAU
A remarkable woman, who despite a lack of education achieved much. Her acting career includes comedy, romance, gangster films, and over the top fantasies. Perhaps more famous for her fabulous life than her acting; many of her film roles have been supportive.
Probably the quintessence of Hong Kong girl.
Even though hailing from Soochow.
刀馬旦 BLADE & HORSE FEMALE-ROLE
At this point, you will have noted that three of the four actresses above are not, in fact, natives of Hong Kong. Yet they represent as good a cross-section of what a Hong Kong woman is either assumed to be, or imagines herself being. The same holds for the three stars in what may very well be the most representative of Hong Kong movies, which showcases slapstick, derring-do, female heroism, baser instincts, idealism, verve, and high drama: Peking Opera Blues.
The movie is set in early revolutionary times (1913), and features three stellar actresses as the foci of the tale, with the male-roles as more or less foils for the actions of the heroines.
Brigitte Lin as the daring tomboy revolutionary;
Cherie Chung as the greedy ingenue;
Sally Yeh as the dreamer.
All three women, as regular cinema goers can attest, are total dynamite. And there are very few movies in which they have not outshone the male stars. Often strongminded, always memorable, and usually possessed of a stubbornness which triumphs over any amount of adversity.
In some of her most famous roles, Brigitte Lin has combined steaming sexuality with a bloodthirsty fierceness that borders on psychopathic (for instance, in Swordsman II, in which her cross-dressing homicidal eunuchoid performance defies description), whereas Cherie Chung exudes a softer sensuality coupled with independent-mindedness (notable film: 秋天的童話 An Autumn's Tale) ). Sally Yeh, whose acting and singing career spans three decades, often plays the total sex-bombe, yet in her most memorable roles shows both innocence and courage; no one can forget her as the pretty wife in the lighthearted romp Diary of a Big Man (大丈夫日記) in which Chow Yunfat through a series of misunderstandings marries two women and heads towards an inevitable breakdown.
Only Cherie Chung is from Hong Kong, though of Hakka (northern) ancestry rather than Cantonese.
Both Brigitte Lin and Sally Yeh are originally Taiwanese.
After reading about these ladies, the almost inevitable conclusion is that the ideal or typical Hong Kong woman is most likely Joey Wong (王祖賢) from Taiwan, country-girl Chingmy Yau (邱淑貞), or Anita Mui (梅艷芳).
Soft as butter, ultra-feminine, and from somewhere else.
Or brass-balled, determined, and full of beans.
And in any case not a push-over.
Probably loud, too.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In part, this was because of the heroes' relationships to others, and largely how they interacted with the people around them, which naturally included women.
The women may have been "quieter".
But they were fundamental.
曼玉 FABULOUS JADE -- MAGGIE CHEUNG
If Lau Takwah (Andy Law in the role of Wah, 阿華, 華仔) seems like a cold bastard in 'As Tears Go By' (旺角卡門, from director Wong Karwai 王家衛) because of his no-nonsense violence towards other thugs on behalf of his "younger brother" Fly (烏蠅, played by Jackie Cheung 張學友), he is humanized by his consideration for Ngor (阿娥, played by Maggie Cheung 張曼玉). When things head south for Wah and Fly, due to a confrontation with psychopathic gangleader Tony (Alex Man Chi-leung 萬梓良), it is Ngor who is left emotionally holding the bag. Which, perhaps, is a traditional role for women in many movies.
Maggie Cheung is, from all accounts, a strong woman herself. But she has a softness that allows for a number of roles, and her career has included a number of non-Chinese movies.
Though born in Hong Kong, her family has roots elsewhere.
She's a native-speaker of Mandarin and Cantonese.
Fluent in both French and English.
Educated in Britain.
紫瓊 AMETHYST AND JASPER -- JEE KING
Contrasting enormously with that, almost all performances by Michelle Yeoh (楊紫瓊) show her as one tough cookie, capable of holding her own and them some. If you only knew of her from martial arts movies or police stories, it would be an immense surprise to find out that she was actually a beauty queen; pageant hotties are not known for significant skills, let alone a combination of brains, brawn, and dramatic ability.
When she first started working in the Hong Kong movie industry, she could not speak Cantonese. Her parents native language was Hokkien, and she isn't originally from Hong Kong.
She played the only Bond Woman whom James didn't get to bag.
In that movie, Bond was distinctly second fiddle.
Quite a blow to the British ego.
肥肥 FATTY -- FEIFEI
Completely different than both women mentioned above, actress and television personality Lydia Shum ( 沈殿霞) represented a style of womanhood which was brash, forward, loud, and just about full of dynamite. If she ever played a subservient role, it was only to emerge triumphant after engineering the face-egg of the man in the tale. She is best remembered as a likable harpy in numerous roles; mother, girlfriend, wife, and gossipy neighbor. Not, usually, the actual hero of the tale, but always memorable as the dominant personality.
Like Michelle Yeoh, she wasn't native to Hong Kong.
劉嘉玲 TINKLING GEM -- CARINA LAU
A remarkable woman, who despite a lack of education achieved much. Her acting career includes comedy, romance, gangster films, and over the top fantasies. Perhaps more famous for her fabulous life than her acting; many of her film roles have been supportive.
Probably the quintessence of Hong Kong girl.
Even though hailing from Soochow.
刀馬旦 BLADE & HORSE FEMALE-ROLE
At this point, you will have noted that three of the four actresses above are not, in fact, natives of Hong Kong. Yet they represent as good a cross-section of what a Hong Kong woman is either assumed to be, or imagines herself being. The same holds for the three stars in what may very well be the most representative of Hong Kong movies, which showcases slapstick, derring-do, female heroism, baser instincts, idealism, verve, and high drama: Peking Opera Blues.
The movie is set in early revolutionary times (1913), and features three stellar actresses as the foci of the tale, with the male-roles as more or less foils for the actions of the heroines.
Brigitte Lin as the daring tomboy revolutionary;
Cherie Chung as the greedy ingenue;
Sally Yeh as the dreamer.
All three women, as regular cinema goers can attest, are total dynamite. And there are very few movies in which they have not outshone the male stars. Often strongminded, always memorable, and usually possessed of a stubbornness which triumphs over any amount of adversity.
In some of her most famous roles, Brigitte Lin has combined steaming sexuality with a bloodthirsty fierceness that borders on psychopathic (for instance, in Swordsman II, in which her cross-dressing homicidal eunuchoid performance defies description), whereas Cherie Chung exudes a softer sensuality coupled with independent-mindedness (notable film: 秋天的童話 An Autumn's Tale) ). Sally Yeh, whose acting and singing career spans three decades, often plays the total sex-bombe, yet in her most memorable roles shows both innocence and courage; no one can forget her as the pretty wife in the lighthearted romp Diary of a Big Man (大丈夫日記) in which Chow Yunfat through a series of misunderstandings marries two women and heads towards an inevitable breakdown.
Only Cherie Chung is from Hong Kong, though of Hakka (northern) ancestry rather than Cantonese.
Both Brigitte Lin and Sally Yeh are originally Taiwanese.
After reading about these ladies, the almost inevitable conclusion is that the ideal or typical Hong Kong woman is most likely Joey Wong (王祖賢) from Taiwan, country-girl Chingmy Yau (邱淑貞), or Anita Mui (梅艷芳).
Soft as butter, ultra-feminine, and from somewhere else.
Or brass-balled, determined, and full of beans.
And in any case not a push-over.
Probably loud, too.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 30, 2014
DINNER AT THE BUND
The people within easy view were, mostly, not Chinese. Which was not at all surprising seeing as the restaurant was in the middle of Chinatown; one does not expect a flock of Cantonese folks settling down for family dinner in a Shanghainese place. Which made it absolutely perfect for the three or four interracial couples present -- it gave them a greater likelihood of privacy and confidentiality -- and the delicious novelty of SHANGHAINESE (!) food had doubtlessly pulled in several of the other customers who were there.
Novelty will only go so far; the cooking is actually pretty darn good.
Enough variety that even Midwesterners might be happy.
Some Shanghainese dishes, and soup dumplings.
Soup dumplings are extremely Shanghai.
Plus other excellent things.
I got what I always get there: a plate of steamed dumplings. Not the soup dumplings (小籠包), but a very lovely version of the standard jiaoze which Cantonese people never make.
韭菜豬肉水餃
Nope, hardly a clue what those are called in the Wu dialects; we call them gau choi chü yiuk soei gaau. Chives and pork meat water dumplings. They're absolutely great fresh and hot, with shredded ginger black vinegar, and a sploodge of hot sauce. The typical Shanghainese will not add that latter condiment, but I'm a barbarian so I can get away with it.
And, given that I ordered in Cantonese, might as well leave them with a weird impression of other Chinese....... which, as a white guy, I'm obviously not. Life should be surreal; I do my bit to make it so.
A man has got to have his dumplings; sometimes one wants won ton (雲吞), sometimes it has to be Northern style soei gaau (水餃).
Dumplings are perfect for a single diner.
Everything else requires multiple people at the same table, or truly piggish appetites. Chinese restaurant kitchens are not quite capable of keeping the solitary beast in mind, so almost everything on the menu will presume that a large bunch of happy people will share everything ordered.
And Chinese people are largely social eaters.
Mature white bachelors -- especially bachelors who did not used to be bachelors -- are not fit company. We eat alone. On a bad day we will bury our faces deep in a plate of bacon and cheese lobster, and crack the shell with our teeth, sucking down the greasy richness with growling sounds.
Or we'll snap at a juicy steak like a dog chivying a squirrel, till at last we've wrestled it from the plate on which it was hiding, like the wuss that it was,
to a corner of the floor, where we rip it to shreds with our fangs.
There is naught refined, or even sentient, about our eating.
We scratch at fleas and chase away other predators.
And we blink and bark and slobber.
Doberman diner.
In the years of our bitter solitude we've gotten used to frightening children and little old ladies. Happy families cover their eyes and veer tremblingly away. Civilians and other delicate spirits flee in horror.
But once in a while we put on clothing, and venture to a place where some damned fine dumplings may be had. With restrained good manners, and unconscious dexterity, we dip the juicy morsel into the shredded ginger black vinegar, then into the hot sauce. Delicately, without spilling a single drop, we move it to our mouth, and take a bite.
Mmmm, so good.
A perfect dumpling reminds us that we used to be civilized.
It also fills the gaping holes in the soul.
And, of course, it hits the spot.
It rained yesterday morning. I got drenched. All day long I thought about dumplings. Once I got back to the city, I went straight to Jackson Street. Ten steamed dumplings and a full pot of jasmine tea for less than nine dollars. Courteous staff, considerate service; they're used to exiles wandering in by themselves for a taste of something familiar.
I left a generous tip, and lit up my pipe after I left.
The evening felt new, even after a full day.
First head east, then turn south.
Towards company.
Smoke
The pipe tobacco was Old Gowrie, which is a pleasant partially broken brown Virginia flake by Rattrays of Perth. Nothing extraordinary, just a sturdy, decent, and reliable smoke. It is surprising how fast one can go through a tin once opened. Sweet, suggestive, and slightly spicy.
It speaks of golden ages, quietness, and civilized living.
And of jasmine tea and steamed dumplings.
But that could just be me.
I recommend it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Novelty will only go so far; the cooking is actually pretty darn good.
Enough variety that even Midwesterners might be happy.
Some Shanghainese dishes, and soup dumplings.
Soup dumplings are extremely Shanghai.
Plus other excellent things.
I got what I always get there: a plate of steamed dumplings. Not the soup dumplings (小籠包), but a very lovely version of the standard jiaoze which Cantonese people never make.
韭菜豬肉水餃
Nope, hardly a clue what those are called in the Wu dialects; we call them gau choi chü yiuk soei gaau. Chives and pork meat water dumplings. They're absolutely great fresh and hot, with shredded ginger black vinegar, and a sploodge of hot sauce. The typical Shanghainese will not add that latter condiment, but I'm a barbarian so I can get away with it.
And, given that I ordered in Cantonese, might as well leave them with a weird impression of other Chinese....... which, as a white guy, I'm obviously not. Life should be surreal; I do my bit to make it so.
A man has got to have his dumplings; sometimes one wants won ton (雲吞), sometimes it has to be Northern style soei gaau (水餃).
Dumplings are perfect for a single diner.
Everything else requires multiple people at the same table, or truly piggish appetites. Chinese restaurant kitchens are not quite capable of keeping the solitary beast in mind, so almost everything on the menu will presume that a large bunch of happy people will share everything ordered.
And Chinese people are largely social eaters.
Mature white bachelors -- especially bachelors who did not used to be bachelors -- are not fit company. We eat alone. On a bad day we will bury our faces deep in a plate of bacon and cheese lobster, and crack the shell with our teeth, sucking down the greasy richness with growling sounds.
Or we'll snap at a juicy steak like a dog chivying a squirrel, till at last we've wrestled it from the plate on which it was hiding, like the wuss that it was,
to a corner of the floor, where we rip it to shreds with our fangs.
There is naught refined, or even sentient, about our eating.
We scratch at fleas and chase away other predators.
And we blink and bark and slobber.
Doberman diner.
In the years of our bitter solitude we've gotten used to frightening children and little old ladies. Happy families cover their eyes and veer tremblingly away. Civilians and other delicate spirits flee in horror.
But once in a while we put on clothing, and venture to a place where some damned fine dumplings may be had. With restrained good manners, and unconscious dexterity, we dip the juicy morsel into the shredded ginger black vinegar, then into the hot sauce. Delicately, without spilling a single drop, we move it to our mouth, and take a bite.
Mmmm, so good.
A perfect dumpling reminds us that we used to be civilized.
It also fills the gaping holes in the soul.
And, of course, it hits the spot.
It rained yesterday morning. I got drenched. All day long I thought about dumplings. Once I got back to the city, I went straight to Jackson Street. Ten steamed dumplings and a full pot of jasmine tea for less than nine dollars. Courteous staff, considerate service; they're used to exiles wandering in by themselves for a taste of something familiar.
I left a generous tip, and lit up my pipe after I left.
The evening felt new, even after a full day.
First head east, then turn south.
Towards company.
Smoke
The pipe tobacco was Old Gowrie, which is a pleasant partially broken brown Virginia flake by Rattrays of Perth. Nothing extraordinary, just a sturdy, decent, and reliable smoke. It is surprising how fast one can go through a tin once opened. Sweet, suggestive, and slightly spicy.
It speaks of golden ages, quietness, and civilized living.
And of jasmine tea and steamed dumplings.
But that could just be me.
I recommend it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 29, 2014
THE QUIET END OF WAVERLY
It was early twilight when the young couple crossed the road. They were possibly too self-conscious to hold hands, but it is likely that they really wanted to. It's such an innocent yet intimate thing to do. As they passed, the fellow said: "nice pipe". It took a moment before it registered, then I told him 'thank you'.
What I did not volunteer was where he could have acquired a similar item. That being John's Pipe Shop, located at 524 & 524½ South Spring Street in Los Angeles, which was still extant in the early eighties but no longer exists. Their pipes were made by Comoys at one point, and were an extraordinarily good value. The exemplar which I was smoking was shape number 129, a large smooth apple with a slightly longer shank than normal.
[Many respected pipe stores had their pipes made for them by Comoys - here in San Francisco, among others both Grants and Pinecrest proudly featured such, with their own nomenclature stamped on one side of the shaft, and the characteristic round imprint of the actual manufacturer on the opposite side. Now there are no actual pipe-stores left in San Francisco. Some places do sell pipes; they're largely run by ignoramuses and swine.]
Comoys (founded in London circa 1879) as it was no longer exists either.
Cadogan Investments Ltd swallowed it entirely in the early eighties, and judging by the crap that has been produced since then seems determined to permanently ruin the reputation of British pipes, much like Dunhill and their ghastly evisceration of Charatan, Parker, and Hardcastle.
I was quietly lurking outside the First Chinese Baptist Church at the corner of Waverly and Sacramento after dinner. No particular reason, but it's a pleasant tree-shaded stretch where the hubbub does not reach, and the only sounds usually come from the basketball court upside the hill, or the playground around the corner. It's one of my regular spots for a smoke, not a week goes by that I do not end up there at some point.
It's good for people watching, as the only ones observable are usually not tourists. It's too far uphill from Grant (half a block), and there are no neat-o-keen boutiques selling fabulous San Francisco tee-shirts and coffee mugs. They cannot see the point of the trudge. Not a single place with sweet and sour pork either, oh woe.
I guess they seldom visit the Szechuan place at the other end of the block. The clientele there seems to consist mostly of young Mandarin-speakers.
Earlier I had been down at the Washington Bakery and Restaurant just below Grant. For such a brightly lit place, it is easy to hide in the corner, and like the alleyways and off-track streets of Chinatown, it is perfect for people watching.
Young couple happily devouring fish and a claypot special at one table. Two ladies gossiping over dinner at another, near a table with two high school boys sharing a meal. At the far end of the room a man was neglecting both his wife and the steamed fish while reading his text messages; she didn't mind, she happily made off with most of the meal, and definitely most of the fish. She was very cute, but if he keeps paying attention to his cell-phone she may get pudgy (and she'll still be cute).
Four people had a fine time a few rows over, which included bubble drinks and sweeties.
A family of six came in and were welcomed warmly. They're probably regulars.
Two Caucasians timorously stared in from the street, then went across to the fake Szechuanese joint to get stiffed. A gentleman from Latin America enjoyed some fine pastries near the bakery counter.
Something chicken over rice. You don't need to know the details. And a cup of Hong Kong style milk-tea. I may have overdone the hotsauce.
You never know; sometimes too much is not enough.
Outside on the corner the women handing out menus of a restaurant that caters to tourists were busily roping in victims. Did I mention the fake Szechuanese joint? It is positively thriving. Kitch décor and full-colour photos of someone else's food are a recipe for success.
Once you get away from Grant Avenue, the quiet returns. The only people are the locals, who do not gawk, or stop in the middle of the sidewalk to point and exclaim. There are no souvenir stores where the neighborhood shops, but if you want tonic herbs, you have several choices.
Occasionally an echo of incense drifts across your nostrils, an infant yells piercingly and joyously, an old lady passes with a grandchild on her back, and a mom with a full bag of groceries heads home. It smells of durian somewhere, and there is a clanging of cooking implements audible from the open back-door of a restaurant. People enter apartment buildings, or exit social clubs.
A young couple cross the street, and, in passing, admire a pipe.
Fine briar, with the patina of age and much fond use.
It really is a lovely piece of wood.
Not common any more.
Light fades.
Dusk.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
What I did not volunteer was where he could have acquired a similar item. That being John's Pipe Shop, located at 524 & 524½ South Spring Street in Los Angeles, which was still extant in the early eighties but no longer exists. Their pipes were made by Comoys at one point, and were an extraordinarily good value. The exemplar which I was smoking was shape number 129, a large smooth apple with a slightly longer shank than normal.
[Many respected pipe stores had their pipes made for them by Comoys - here in San Francisco, among others both Grants and Pinecrest proudly featured such, with their own nomenclature stamped on one side of the shaft, and the characteristic round imprint of the actual manufacturer on the opposite side. Now there are no actual pipe-stores left in San Francisco. Some places do sell pipes; they're largely run by ignoramuses and swine.]
Comoys (founded in London circa 1879) as it was no longer exists either.
Cadogan Investments Ltd swallowed it entirely in the early eighties, and judging by the crap that has been produced since then seems determined to permanently ruin the reputation of British pipes, much like Dunhill and their ghastly evisceration of Charatan, Parker, and Hardcastle.
I was quietly lurking outside the First Chinese Baptist Church at the corner of Waverly and Sacramento after dinner. No particular reason, but it's a pleasant tree-shaded stretch where the hubbub does not reach, and the only sounds usually come from the basketball court upside the hill, or the playground around the corner. It's one of my regular spots for a smoke, not a week goes by that I do not end up there at some point.
It's good for people watching, as the only ones observable are usually not tourists. It's too far uphill from Grant (half a block), and there are no neat-o-keen boutiques selling fabulous San Francisco tee-shirts and coffee mugs. They cannot see the point of the trudge. Not a single place with sweet and sour pork either, oh woe.
I guess they seldom visit the Szechuan place at the other end of the block. The clientele there seems to consist mostly of young Mandarin-speakers.
Earlier I had been down at the Washington Bakery and Restaurant just below Grant. For such a brightly lit place, it is easy to hide in the corner, and like the alleyways and off-track streets of Chinatown, it is perfect for people watching.
Young couple happily devouring fish and a claypot special at one table. Two ladies gossiping over dinner at another, near a table with two high school boys sharing a meal. At the far end of the room a man was neglecting both his wife and the steamed fish while reading his text messages; she didn't mind, she happily made off with most of the meal, and definitely most of the fish. She was very cute, but if he keeps paying attention to his cell-phone she may get pudgy (and she'll still be cute).
Four people had a fine time a few rows over, which included bubble drinks and sweeties.
A family of six came in and were welcomed warmly. They're probably regulars.
Two Caucasians timorously stared in from the street, then went across to the fake Szechuanese joint to get stiffed. A gentleman from Latin America enjoyed some fine pastries near the bakery counter.
Something chicken over rice. You don't need to know the details. And a cup of Hong Kong style milk-tea. I may have overdone the hotsauce.
You never know; sometimes too much is not enough.
Outside on the corner the women handing out menus of a restaurant that caters to tourists were busily roping in victims. Did I mention the fake Szechuanese joint? It is positively thriving. Kitch décor and full-colour photos of someone else's food are a recipe for success.
Once you get away from Grant Avenue, the quiet returns. The only people are the locals, who do not gawk, or stop in the middle of the sidewalk to point and exclaim. There are no souvenir stores where the neighborhood shops, but if you want tonic herbs, you have several choices.
Occasionally an echo of incense drifts across your nostrils, an infant yells piercingly and joyously, an old lady passes with a grandchild on her back, and a mom with a full bag of groceries heads home. It smells of durian somewhere, and there is a clanging of cooking implements audible from the open back-door of a restaurant. People enter apartment buildings, or exit social clubs.
A young couple cross the street, and, in passing, admire a pipe.
Fine briar, with the patina of age and much fond use.
It really is a lovely piece of wood.
Not common any more.
Light fades.
Dusk.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 28, 2014
WHY ARE YOU STILL SINGLE?
Conversations about being unattached often stumble over the painful misconceptions of others. This became apparent several times recently when I mentioned that indeed I would like to eventually end up in a fulfilling relationship again, but did not see it happening anytime really soon. And that I envied some couples, because they seemed so suited to each other.
Men suggested that I do things differently.
Women advised me to change and reform.
Neither gender picked up on the one crucial flaw in their arguments, namely that I have no intention of drastically changing what I do or who I am. Which is as it should be. It would be an exercise in dishonesty otherwise, venturing deep into opportunistic territory.
No, I have no intention of hanging around on the Berkeley campus in hopes that a charming female historian or language professor will eventually speak to me about a book I'm holding, which may possibly lead to sharing coffee, and then perhaps at a future time dinner together (male suggestion).
And equally no, I shall not quit smoking, shave off my goatee, and join a gym (female suggestion).
The only overlap between the two types of not-exactly-welcome advice seemed to be tweed and dogs. Both men and women believe that I should wear tweed. And dogs, according to both sides, are a real "chick magnet".
Clearly, Harris herringbone and a hound are the way to go. This would qualify as both "self-improvement", and "doing things differently".
It should be just as clear that that isn't going to happen.
BLITHELY OVERLOOKING REALITY
It is dangerous to mention in public that one is single, and not entirely satisfied with that situation. Listeners will fixate on their own fantasies of otherness to invent alternate paths, which usually reflect their own lives.
The subject is like a bone thrown into a dog pile; it is the one thing that they will not stop analyzing and ripping into detailed shreds. The bachelor existence is the unmarked slate onto which many people can't resist projecting their own preconceptions.
So, to state it simply:
I am single.
I am not very happy about it.
But I'm not going to fake a damned thing.
I am not desperate enough to pretend interests or partake in pointless activities, nor waste any time pursuing superficial hook-ups. It is extremely unlikely that I will ever be that desperate.
And, given that I would far rather not go to extreme measures in the search for a suitable soul mate, it is quite doubtful that I will be in a relationship in the near future, if ever at all.
One can be quite happy in life, while still being disenchanted with solitude.
I do not see myself prowling college campii wearing tweed with a dog.
Nor trotting on a treadmill at the gym, glowing and shaven.
I have no urge to put on a false face.
Equally not part of the programme: accounting courses for secretaries, basketry, intro to third-world lit, singles nights, hiking clubs, tango lessons, paragliding, sky-diving, happy hour at the Red Room, meetings of the Upper Tenderloin philatelic society, yoga, bridge, trivia night, Christian social clubs, joining a congregation at any random synagogue - church - or gurdwara, study sessions for Buddhist scriptures, chamber music, rock concerts, mixers sponsored by match dot com, hanging around the student union wearing sunglasses, meaningful European movies, Justin Bieber, watching sports with friends, cooking classes, walking around with an artistic attitude, saving the planet at all times, volunteering at a random charity, or attending events of a snooty "cultural" nature.
Colour me between apathetic and pig-ass stubborn.
Twirling frantically would be just silly.
On the other hand, what will attract me like a buzz-fly to horse manure, is someone with a keen insight into or interest in history, languages, odd literature, and a liking for cheap snackipoos and cups of milk-tea.
If the smell of a pipe doesn't offend her, so much the better.
I do have a tweedy coat; I just don't wear it often.
I like dogs, but do not own one.
And, crucially, I am not a dick.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Men suggested that I do things differently.
Women advised me to change and reform.
Neither gender picked up on the one crucial flaw in their arguments, namely that I have no intention of drastically changing what I do or who I am. Which is as it should be. It would be an exercise in dishonesty otherwise, venturing deep into opportunistic territory.
No, I have no intention of hanging around on the Berkeley campus in hopes that a charming female historian or language professor will eventually speak to me about a book I'm holding, which may possibly lead to sharing coffee, and then perhaps at a future time dinner together (male suggestion).
And equally no, I shall not quit smoking, shave off my goatee, and join a gym (female suggestion).
The only overlap between the two types of not-exactly-welcome advice seemed to be tweed and dogs. Both men and women believe that I should wear tweed. And dogs, according to both sides, are a real "chick magnet".
Clearly, Harris herringbone and a hound are the way to go. This would qualify as both "self-improvement", and "doing things differently".
It should be just as clear that that isn't going to happen.
BLITHELY OVERLOOKING REALITY
It is dangerous to mention in public that one is single, and not entirely satisfied with that situation. Listeners will fixate on their own fantasies of otherness to invent alternate paths, which usually reflect their own lives.
The subject is like a bone thrown into a dog pile; it is the one thing that they will not stop analyzing and ripping into detailed shreds. The bachelor existence is the unmarked slate onto which many people can't resist projecting their own preconceptions.
So, to state it simply:
I am single.
I am not very happy about it.
But I'm not going to fake a damned thing.
I am not desperate enough to pretend interests or partake in pointless activities, nor waste any time pursuing superficial hook-ups. It is extremely unlikely that I will ever be that desperate.
And, given that I would far rather not go to extreme measures in the search for a suitable soul mate, it is quite doubtful that I will be in a relationship in the near future, if ever at all.
One can be quite happy in life, while still being disenchanted with solitude.
I do not see myself prowling college campii wearing tweed with a dog.
Nor trotting on a treadmill at the gym, glowing and shaven.
I have no urge to put on a false face.
Equally not part of the programme: accounting courses for secretaries, basketry, intro to third-world lit, singles nights, hiking clubs, tango lessons, paragliding, sky-diving, happy hour at the Red Room, meetings of the Upper Tenderloin philatelic society, yoga, bridge, trivia night, Christian social clubs, joining a congregation at any random synagogue - church - or gurdwara, study sessions for Buddhist scriptures, chamber music, rock concerts, mixers sponsored by match dot com, hanging around the student union wearing sunglasses, meaningful European movies, Justin Bieber, watching sports with friends, cooking classes, walking around with an artistic attitude, saving the planet at all times, volunteering at a random charity, or attending events of a snooty "cultural" nature.
Colour me between apathetic and pig-ass stubborn.
Twirling frantically would be just silly.
On the other hand, what will attract me like a buzz-fly to horse manure, is someone with a keen insight into or interest in history, languages, odd literature, and a liking for cheap snackipoos and cups of milk-tea.
If the smell of a pipe doesn't offend her, so much the better.
I do have a tweedy coat; I just don't wear it often.
I like dogs, but do not own one.
And, crucially, I am not a dick.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 27, 2014
A DIRTY MINDED MAN
The ideal day off (which tomorrow likely will be) starts with coffee or tea, followed by doing laundry. Now, you might not think that doing laundry would be part of the equation. It is, after all, an ideal day off.
But you would be wrong. Clean clothing, it has become apparent, is a great and wondrous good.
I would have done my laundry sooner -- much much sooner -- but I was being lazy. As a single man I really don't have to cater to the delicate sensitivities of girlies, and, as a middle aged man to boot, who the hell am I kidding?
Ladies, just be glad I don't sing at the bus stop.
And still step off the curb to light up.
I am considerate of your nose.
Which objects to men.
It's not that any of the clothes are unspeakable. But, having delayed so long, I'm not wearing the first-ranked players. Strictly not major leagues. Some of these items haven't seen light of day in a while, and the word "style plate" is not applicable. We're talking old soldiers in the reserves, creaky veterans, and venerable antiques.
Clean, but unmatched.
Like myself.
For the past week I haven't been wearing the 'please-seduce-me' garb, nor even the 'hey clean me up and take me home to mama' ranks. I'm scared at how well some of this stuff fits; I must have lost the excess poundage much earlier than I thought.
My baggies are indeed baggy; very nice.
I may have to buy a new belt, though.
At its tightest, this one is too loose.
Twixt collegiate, and wiry old git.
What we can conclude from this is that massive quantities of tea and chili peppers constitute the perfect diet for the middle-aged man. It keeps him trim, makes his hair and hide glossy, and his limbs and joints limber.
No, he won't go chasing after balls, young ladies, or buses -- running is SO undignified -- but nothing creaks, several parts are wiry, and there is a bounce to his step. Plus his clothes fit without any unsightly bumps or bulges.
I don't look like your father.
I look like your father's wicked co-worker.
Uncle Unsuitable, debonair with that devilish flair.
And for days now I look like I could use some fashion pointers.
GOOD AFTERNOON, LADIES!
Feel free to seduce me AFTER mid-morning tomorrow, if you see me.
Once I've got some clean front-line troops again, I'm changing.
May even put on my straw boater and the striped seersucker sportscoat, grab the Malacca cane, and go out promenading. Flaunting, so to speak.
Drape my rangy form over a cane chair, and have an ice tea.
Light up an expensive panatellas for a lazy smoke.
Shoe polish? A manicure?
Perhaps!
Despite the weather elsewhere in the country, here in San Francisco it is almost summer. Warmish, and balmy in early afternoon.
Your pervert uncle is ready for it, watch out.
Boulevarding is planned!
Yes.
Actually, to be completely honest, after doing my laundry I'm probably going to go down to Chinatown to have jook and a yau tiu on Stockton Street, then wander over to the quiet end of Tin Hau Miu Kai to smoke my pipe. One can hear birds and children from the playground behind the buildings, and observe buses and elderly aunties laboriously trundling uphill. Or, once finished, head over to Hang Fook for a beng and a hot cup of naaicha.
It's much more civilized than poncing around in seersucker.
Mellow Virginia flake instead of the panatella.
Restrained, and pensive.
Still wicked.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But you would be wrong. Clean clothing, it has become apparent, is a great and wondrous good.
I would have done my laundry sooner -- much much sooner -- but I was being lazy. As a single man I really don't have to cater to the delicate sensitivities of girlies, and, as a middle aged man to boot, who the hell am I kidding?
Ladies, just be glad I don't sing at the bus stop.
And still step off the curb to light up.
I am considerate of your nose.
Which objects to men.
It's not that any of the clothes are unspeakable. But, having delayed so long, I'm not wearing the first-ranked players. Strictly not major leagues. Some of these items haven't seen light of day in a while, and the word "style plate" is not applicable. We're talking old soldiers in the reserves, creaky veterans, and venerable antiques.
Clean, but unmatched.
Like myself.
For the past week I haven't been wearing the 'please-seduce-me' garb, nor even the 'hey clean me up and take me home to mama' ranks. I'm scared at how well some of this stuff fits; I must have lost the excess poundage much earlier than I thought.
My baggies are indeed baggy; very nice.
I may have to buy a new belt, though.
At its tightest, this one is too loose.
Twixt collegiate, and wiry old git.
What we can conclude from this is that massive quantities of tea and chili peppers constitute the perfect diet for the middle-aged man. It keeps him trim, makes his hair and hide glossy, and his limbs and joints limber.
No, he won't go chasing after balls, young ladies, or buses -- running is SO undignified -- but nothing creaks, several parts are wiry, and there is a bounce to his step. Plus his clothes fit without any unsightly bumps or bulges.
I don't look like your father.
I look like your father's wicked co-worker.
Uncle Unsuitable, debonair with that devilish flair.
And for days now I look like I could use some fashion pointers.
GOOD AFTERNOON, LADIES!
Feel free to seduce me AFTER mid-morning tomorrow, if you see me.
Once I've got some clean front-line troops again, I'm changing.
May even put on my straw boater and the striped seersucker sportscoat, grab the Malacca cane, and go out promenading. Flaunting, so to speak.
Drape my rangy form over a cane chair, and have an ice tea.
Light up an expensive panatellas for a lazy smoke.
Shoe polish? A manicure?
Perhaps!
Despite the weather elsewhere in the country, here in San Francisco it is almost summer. Warmish, and balmy in early afternoon.
Your pervert uncle is ready for it, watch out.
Boulevarding is planned!
Yes.
Actually, to be completely honest, after doing my laundry I'm probably going to go down to Chinatown to have jook and a yau tiu on Stockton Street, then wander over to the quiet end of Tin Hau Miu Kai to smoke my pipe. One can hear birds and children from the playground behind the buildings, and observe buses and elderly aunties laboriously trundling uphill. Or, once finished, head over to Hang Fook for a beng and a hot cup of naaicha.
It's much more civilized than poncing around in seersucker.
Mellow Virginia flake instead of the panatella.
Restrained, and pensive.
Still wicked.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
COHIBA, HOYO DE MONTERREY, LFD, MONTECRISTO, PARTAGAS, ROMEO Y JULIETA
Overhearing cigar-smokers discussing the dating scene is educational. Given that, vermin-like, they have a certain odour-spectrum which is so much more than mildly off-putting that their obstacles are higher than everyone else's, it is a remarkable wonder that they breed at all.
"Why are they not extinct" you might ask, "especially in California, where the only acceptable smells are tofu, marijuana, and recycling?"
I am as baffled as you are.
Yet the other day I had half an ear cocked sideways as several of them were discussing the dating sites of the world. On which some of the younger ones are a constant presence.
Apparently.
[Courtesy of e-kvetcher.]
What really makes cigar-smoker love-lives such a profound mystery -- other than their obsession with vegetal phallicism -- is that they largely manifest themselves only in the presence of others of their kind.
We pipe-smokers are not like that. We are at times the solitary lone wolf roaming the galaxies of urban America, wandering over San Francisco hills, or lurking in well-lit Tenderloin doorways wearing stylish trenchcoats and fedoras. But we are marked by bonhomie, social polish, and intellectual brilliance during those times when we come down from Olympus to mingle with the vibrant juicy mortals.
Darn it all, we are just so personable.
Cigar smokers aren't.
As, no doubt, you have yourself ascertained.
On your own. Upon investigation.
Intellectual curiosity.
Consequently, it may surprise you to know that sometimes, when I'm feeling totally degenerate, I also indulge in cigars. Not just the regular small cigarillos which function as my nicotine-delivery system of choice when time prevents enjoyment of a pipe, nor the strawberry or vanilla flavoured reeksticks marketed to teenagers and pot-smoking deviants (or trailertrash), but actual real cigars.
[One brand of such perfumed monstrosities is drenched in mango chocolate mint ice cream essence, others have bing cherry, licorice, peach, rum, toffee, or watermelon disguises. Recently I smelled excressence of grape from a deviant in a local park.
Don't go there.]
I too on occasion pong of Caribbean leaf. It's a character flaw.
My humidors are quite overflowing at present.
Double coronas, perfectos, toros.
Maduro, corojo, shade.
No candelas.
Later on this evening, however, I shall smoke small cigarillos while in a karaoke bar. Once a week, as has been the custom for nearly a quarter of a century, I visit the lower depths with a bookseller, as we explore the fascinating late night anthropology of San Francisco. Bad wine will be drunk in moderation, followed by good beer, then excellent whiskey. Songs will be sung (not by us), and strange events observed.
Cigar-smoker-like there will be no women in our vicinity.
Excepting the staff of certain establishments.
A man needs time to be a beast.
There will be no smokers of large cigars either.
We're not crazy; their conversation lags.
All they can talk about is sex.
And why it is missing from their lives.
Tomorrow we shall be sane and lovable again. Hello ladies, you may now pay attention please. But they will still be cigar smokers.
Alone and howling in the canyons.
This post is loveingly dedicated to Bob, Buck, Charlie, Dave, Jeff, Itzy, Lennie, Marvin, Mike, Nick, Patricio, Quentin, Rich, Simon, Tom, Urquhart, Vinnie, Winston, and Yamil, et alios quosdam similes.
As well as Fat P, who is unspeakable.
Neener neener neener.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
"Why are they not extinct" you might ask, "especially in California, where the only acceptable smells are tofu, marijuana, and recycling?"
I am as baffled as you are.
Yet the other day I had half an ear cocked sideways as several of them were discussing the dating sites of the world. On which some of the younger ones are a constant presence.
Apparently.
When they say "tell me about yourself", make it very clear that you are not a lizard or a newt. Say it firmly: "I am human, just like the rest of you", avoiding any sudden tongue movements.
[Courtesy of e-kvetcher.]
What really makes cigar-smoker love-lives such a profound mystery -- other than their obsession with vegetal phallicism -- is that they largely manifest themselves only in the presence of others of their kind.
We pipe-smokers are not like that. We are at times the solitary lone wolf roaming the galaxies of urban America, wandering over San Francisco hills, or lurking in well-lit Tenderloin doorways wearing stylish trenchcoats and fedoras. But we are marked by bonhomie, social polish, and intellectual brilliance during those times when we come down from Olympus to mingle with the vibrant juicy mortals.
Darn it all, we are just so personable.
Cigar smokers aren't.
As, no doubt, you have yourself ascertained.
On your own. Upon investigation.
Intellectual curiosity.
Consequently, it may surprise you to know that sometimes, when I'm feeling totally degenerate, I also indulge in cigars. Not just the regular small cigarillos which function as my nicotine-delivery system of choice when time prevents enjoyment of a pipe, nor the strawberry or vanilla flavoured reeksticks marketed to teenagers and pot-smoking deviants (or trailertrash), but actual real cigars.
[One brand of such perfumed monstrosities is drenched in mango chocolate mint ice cream essence, others have bing cherry, licorice, peach, rum, toffee, or watermelon disguises. Recently I smelled excressence of grape from a deviant in a local park.
Don't go there.]
I too on occasion pong of Caribbean leaf. It's a character flaw.
My humidors are quite overflowing at present.
Double coronas, perfectos, toros.
Maduro, corojo, shade.
No candelas.
Later on this evening, however, I shall smoke small cigarillos while in a karaoke bar. Once a week, as has been the custom for nearly a quarter of a century, I visit the lower depths with a bookseller, as we explore the fascinating late night anthropology of San Francisco. Bad wine will be drunk in moderation, followed by good beer, then excellent whiskey. Songs will be sung (not by us), and strange events observed.
Cigar-smoker-like there will be no women in our vicinity.
Excepting the staff of certain establishments.
A man needs time to be a beast.
There will be no smokers of large cigars either.
We're not crazy; their conversation lags.
All they can talk about is sex.
And why it is missing from their lives.
Tomorrow we shall be sane and lovable again. Hello ladies, you may now pay attention please. But they will still be cigar smokers.
Alone and howling in the canyons.
This post is loveingly dedicated to Bob, Buck, Charlie, Dave, Jeff, Itzy, Lennie, Marvin, Mike, Nick, Patricio, Quentin, Rich, Simon, Tom, Urquhart, Vinnie, Winston, and Yamil, et alios quosdam similes.
As well as Fat P, who is unspeakable.
Neener neener neener.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
VAST SCADS OF PORK SHOULDER
I've always had a soft spot for pork. What other meat is so delightfully fatty and degenerate with eggs and tofu? And some parts of the pig make truly splendid chile verde.
Chile verde is the very nectar of the gods.
The amrit with which to drench.
Sustenance of the soul.
Prasadam.
The ONLY way to make chile verde is to forget about tomatillos. That's NOT what makes a chile verde green. The chilies do.
Because my circle includes people of a somewhat waspy hue (i.e.: so white they glow in the dark, as well as a number of Cantonese people), I employ a selection of green peppers from mild (bell pepper) to incendiary (unripe chile de arbol, even green habanero), with a preponderance of New Mexico chilies, jalapeños, and mulatto isleño.
Roast and peel a sufficient quantity to fill a bucket.
Cube an amount of semi-fatty pork to match.
One or two onions, and some garlic.
A few cups meat stock.
Fresh lime.
The vegetable matter should be chopped or minced as appropriate, the onion and garlic seethed to glaze in a little olive oil. Add the meat and colour slightly. Add the green chilies, inundate with stock, stir, squeeze the lime over, and simmer for a couple of hours on low, checking occasionally. The liquid should reduce, the chilies pulpify, and the meat become fork-tender. It should be twixt soupy and stew-thickness.
Add water, or reduce. As necessary.
Smoky, sweet, and hot.
NO TOMATILLOES!
Bring it to a party and serve with steamed rice, and tortillas de harina. Bring beans for the Texans who cannot live without them, and cheese for all the East-Coasters, who think everything needs cheese.
Watch it disappear before you have any.
POUND UPON POUND OF PORK SHOULDER
All this came to mind this morning because of the crap that spambots keep dumping into my letterbox.
I've been receiving a lot of Japanese stuff lately. With links to handbags, smut sites, pills, and payday loans I do not wish to explore. These contributions get deep-sixed immediately.
However, two brainiac English-speaking spambots keep dumping messages in there that are mildly amusing.
One compliments me on my truly superior sense of rhythm and wishes to watch while I amend something (is this sexual?), and the other one tells me the discussion is fascinating, and the subject that was ellucidated totally entranced them, nay, enthralled them to the point of wonder.
They were wet-eyed after reading, and can I do more?
And by the way, how can they contact me?
There is much they wish to say.
Poor spambots!
I'd offer you both some chile verde, but you might end up bathing in it and getting eaten.
The letterbox exists so that people who desperately wish to get a hold of me, or folks who may have forgotten my actual e-mail address, may establish contact. Additionally, young women who think that I would be a fabulous coffee companion (followed by a cigar, either a corona or Sumatra panalito, from Hajenius), as well as not likely to upset the societal apple cart or too eccentric for words, can send out feelers.
Spam, and other pork shoulder products, should be food only.
Not long baffling missives and epistles.
Or short goofy crap.
With HTML.
Please write.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Chile verde is the very nectar of the gods.
The amrit with which to drench.
Sustenance of the soul.
Prasadam.
The ONLY way to make chile verde is to forget about tomatillos. That's NOT what makes a chile verde green. The chilies do.
Because my circle includes people of a somewhat waspy hue (i.e.: so white they glow in the dark, as well as a number of Cantonese people), I employ a selection of green peppers from mild (bell pepper) to incendiary (unripe chile de arbol, even green habanero), with a preponderance of New Mexico chilies, jalapeños, and mulatto isleño.
Roast and peel a sufficient quantity to fill a bucket.
Cube an amount of semi-fatty pork to match.
One or two onions, and some garlic.
A few cups meat stock.
Fresh lime.
The vegetable matter should be chopped or minced as appropriate, the onion and garlic seethed to glaze in a little olive oil. Add the meat and colour slightly. Add the green chilies, inundate with stock, stir, squeeze the lime over, and simmer for a couple of hours on low, checking occasionally. The liquid should reduce, the chilies pulpify, and the meat become fork-tender. It should be twixt soupy and stew-thickness.
Add water, or reduce. As necessary.
Smoky, sweet, and hot.
NO TOMATILLOES!
Bring it to a party and serve with steamed rice, and tortillas de harina. Bring beans for the Texans who cannot live without them, and cheese for all the East-Coasters, who think everything needs cheese.
Watch it disappear before you have any.
POUND UPON POUND OF PORK SHOULDER
All this came to mind this morning because of the crap that spambots keep dumping into my letterbox.
I've been receiving a lot of Japanese stuff lately. With links to handbags, smut sites, pills, and payday loans I do not wish to explore. These contributions get deep-sixed immediately.
However, two brainiac English-speaking spambots keep dumping messages in there that are mildly amusing.
One compliments me on my truly superior sense of rhythm and wishes to watch while I amend something (is this sexual?), and the other one tells me the discussion is fascinating, and the subject that was ellucidated totally entranced them, nay, enthralled them to the point of wonder.
They were wet-eyed after reading, and can I do more?
And by the way, how can they contact me?
There is much they wish to say.
Poor spambots!
I'd offer you both some chile verde, but you might end up bathing in it and getting eaten.
The letterbox exists so that people who desperately wish to get a hold of me, or folks who may have forgotten my actual e-mail address, may establish contact. Additionally, young women who think that I would be a fabulous coffee companion (followed by a cigar, either a corona or Sumatra panalito, from Hajenius), as well as not likely to upset the societal apple cart or too eccentric for words, can send out feelers.
Spam, and other pork shoulder products, should be food only.
Not long baffling missives and epistles.
Or short goofy crap.
With HTML.
Please write.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
WHO SHALL I BLAME IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT?
Chopped tomatoes. Chopped jalapeño chilies. Chopped pepperoncini. Garlic. Ginger. Minced mystery meat (no kidding; I have no idea what that was). Fatty pork. A habanero. Cup of Sriracha. Olive oil. Pepper.
A mashed anchovy, and two tablespoons of a spicy African chutney.
Stirfried till crusty. Cup of yoghurt stirred-in afterwards.
Glob more Sriracha to improve the flavour.
Several slices of toasted French bread as the starch.
Nimboo achar in lieu of any condiments.
The whole washed down with tea.
It was mighty tasty.
But what the hell was it?
I dumped it on a thali and ate it with my hands. So it must be Indian.
The hot-hot chai afterwards confirms the surmise.
Should've also had papad.
Pakwan, yaar.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A mashed anchovy, and two tablespoons of a spicy African chutney.
Stirfried till crusty. Cup of yoghurt stirred-in afterwards.
Glob more Sriracha to improve the flavour.
[The garlic was from a jar which contained, in this order: garlic, habanero, salt, vinegar, water, and lactic acid. That last presumably as a preservative. But note that according to Wikipedia, "although glucose is usually assumed to be the main energy source for living tissues, there are some indications that it is lactate, and not glucose, that is preferentially metabolized by neurons in the brain of several mammals species (the notable ones being mice, rats, and humans). According to the lactate-shuttling hypothesis, glial cells are responsible for transforming glucose into lactate, and for providing lactate to the neurons. Because of this local metabolic activity of glial cells, the extracellular fluid immediately surrounding neurons strongly differs in composition from the blood or cerebro-spinal fluid, being much richer with lactate, as it was found in microdialysis studies." End quote. In short, it's brain food.]
Several slices of toasted French bread as the starch.
Nimboo achar in lieu of any condiments.
The whole washed down with tea.
It was mighty tasty.
But what the hell was it?
I dumped it on a thali and ate it with my hands. So it must be Indian.
The hot-hot chai afterwards confirms the surmise.
Should've also had papad.
Pakwan, yaar.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A GIRL WITH A MACHETE
It has become apparent that I am out of touch with popular culture. Possibly because there is so little on television that I would want to watch. Ever since Arrested Development got axed, and the X-Files ended, it has been grim boob-tubing.
Actually, the last great series was Cow & Chicken.
And I'll admit I that obsess over the hot hot hot neurotic shiksas on Bob's Burgers. Louise will grow up to be a stick of dynamite, and Tina is one dysfunctional sex-obsessed mama.
Who doesn't like twisted juveniles with attention deficit disorder, gender role confusion, and psychotic tendencies?
All the other ladies, especially the adults, are whacked too.
"Hey, it's almost like music!"
I realized all this when I overheard cigar-smokers talking. Yes, there was a lot about the Real Housewives -- especial the witch craft practitioner in Southern California and the one-legged ego maniac in New York -- but the most interesting scrap was "the guy with the turtle terrified me". Unfortunately I do not know which show that was. Perhaps the one that featured a girl with a machete, but that could just as easily be "The Shahs of Sunset Boulevard", which I believe features a bunch of Gujaratis from just north of Bombay. Shahs are mercantile, and fairly close caste-kin of Patels. Sahukari ('Shah') means a banker or money lender, just like Patindar ('Patel') marks the maintainer of monetary and tax records.
I've never seen the show, but I can't imagine that a series about a group of irritating Desi kalamkaris can be really worth watching. Perhaps it's about flashy jewelry; both Shahs and Patels have a history of being gold-dealers.
Still, I cannot figure out how the turtle fits into this.
Or why a turtle, or tortoise, terrifies.
They aren't the same, btw.
Chelonians can be divided into sea-going (turtles) and land dwellers (tortoises). In Spanish, both are the same: Tortuga.
The only thing I know about turtles is that Lady Curzon Soup makes good use of their edible nature.
LADY CURZON SOUP
Four cups turtle broth.
Half a cup cream.
Half a cup of whipping cream.
Half a cup sherry.
Half a cup turtle scraps.
Two Tsp. Madras curry powder.
Pinch of mace.
Mix everything except the whipping cream over low heat, taking care that it does not boil. Then beat the bejazus out of the whipping cream, apportion the liquid over several small bowls or cups, and add whipping cream on top.
Nowadays it is usually made with mussel broth, as even the English have become averse to greenish-hued mysteries and chelonitoxism.
More complex recipes use two egg yolks beaten into the cream to make a richer experience. Add a little soup to this mixture, then increase the amount gradually to a full cup worth. This will ease the subsequent addition of the cream and yolk mixture to the rest of the soup.
So no, I do not know what current television show the cigar smokers so avidly discussed. The bits I heard indicated that it was much more violent and depraved than football, but had an internal logic and cohesion quite foreign to American sports.
I remain curious.
Not enough to join their conversation or watch their teevee shows, however. Life is too short for crap.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Actually, the last great series was Cow & Chicken.
And I'll admit I that obsess over the hot hot hot neurotic shiksas on Bob's Burgers. Louise will grow up to be a stick of dynamite, and Tina is one dysfunctional sex-obsessed mama.
Who doesn't like twisted juveniles with attention deficit disorder, gender role confusion, and psychotic tendencies?
All the other ladies, especially the adults, are whacked too.
"Hey, it's almost like music!"
I realized all this when I overheard cigar-smokers talking. Yes, there was a lot about the Real Housewives -- especial the witch craft practitioner in Southern California and the one-legged ego maniac in New York -- but the most interesting scrap was "the guy with the turtle terrified me". Unfortunately I do not know which show that was. Perhaps the one that featured a girl with a machete, but that could just as easily be "The Shahs of Sunset Boulevard", which I believe features a bunch of Gujaratis from just north of Bombay. Shahs are mercantile, and fairly close caste-kin of Patels. Sahukari ('Shah') means a banker or money lender, just like Patindar ('Patel') marks the maintainer of monetary and tax records.
I've never seen the show, but I can't imagine that a series about a group of irritating Desi kalamkaris can be really worth watching. Perhaps it's about flashy jewelry; both Shahs and Patels have a history of being gold-dealers.
Still, I cannot figure out how the turtle fits into this.
Or why a turtle, or tortoise, terrifies.
They aren't the same, btw.
Chelonians can be divided into sea-going (turtles) and land dwellers (tortoises). In Spanish, both are the same: Tortuga.
The only thing I know about turtles is that Lady Curzon Soup makes good use of their edible nature.
LADY CURZON SOUP
Four cups turtle broth.
Half a cup cream.
Half a cup of whipping cream.
Half a cup sherry.
Half a cup turtle scraps.
Two Tsp. Madras curry powder.
Pinch of mace.
Mix everything except the whipping cream over low heat, taking care that it does not boil. Then beat the bejazus out of the whipping cream, apportion the liquid over several small bowls or cups, and add whipping cream on top.
Nowadays it is usually made with mussel broth, as even the English have become averse to greenish-hued mysteries and chelonitoxism.
More complex recipes use two egg yolks beaten into the cream to make a richer experience. Add a little soup to this mixture, then increase the amount gradually to a full cup worth. This will ease the subsequent addition of the cream and yolk mixture to the rest of the soup.
So no, I do not know what current television show the cigar smokers so avidly discussed. The bits I heard indicated that it was much more violent and depraved than football, but had an internal logic and cohesion quite foreign to American sports.
I remain curious.
Not enough to join their conversation or watch their teevee shows, however. Life is too short for crap.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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Monday, March 24, 2014
THE RAVENOUS BEAST
One should NOT eat nearly an entire package of digestive biscuits. Milk chocolate covered. Pensively. Before I realized it, the package was empty.
And I was full.
They were made by United Biscuits (UK) Ltd.
45% wheat & wholemeal.
It has been asserted that this distinctive cookie is nourishing food for people of weak digestion. And as they are made in regions beyond the control of American agro-imperialist control, there will be no corn syrup utilized in their manufacture. They have a tendency to disintegrate when wet.
There are seventeen of them in the average package.
Of which thirteen were left when I came home.
They disappeared within an hour.
I should have had tea.
I shall blame United Biscuits (UK) for any mistakes or ill-considered dining choices made recently. As well as my pensively thoughtless omission of tea while consuming over a dozen baked wheaten discs covered with milk-chocolate (rumoured to be perfect food for people of weak digestion).
Next time, put the kettle on. And consider the consequences.
I don't know what I was thinking.
I was led astray by perfection.
Damn' fine biscuits.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And I was full.
They were made by United Biscuits (UK) Ltd.
45% wheat & wholemeal.
It has been asserted that this distinctive cookie is nourishing food for people of weak digestion. And as they are made in regions beyond the control of American agro-imperialist control, there will be no corn syrup utilized in their manufacture. They have a tendency to disintegrate when wet.
There are seventeen of them in the average package.
Of which thirteen were left when I came home.
They disappeared within an hour.
I should have had tea.
I shall blame United Biscuits (UK) for any mistakes or ill-considered dining choices made recently. As well as my pensively thoughtless omission of tea while consuming over a dozen baked wheaten discs covered with milk-chocolate (rumoured to be perfect food for people of weak digestion).
Next time, put the kettle on. And consider the consequences.
I don't know what I was thinking.
I was led astray by perfection.
Damn' fine biscuits.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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