GREAT THIGHS IN THE EAST

This blogger likes thighs. On occasion, I have even been known to wax lyrical about them.
Ideally of course a person should have two.
Some people have more than two thighs in their life.
And a fortunate few even have a large number of very fine thighs.

The Chinese word 'gu' (股) among other things means 'thigh'.


大股東
Taai gu tung: majority shareholder, partner, or owner.

If you're me, you automatically translate that as 'great thighs in the East'.

Yes, the third word (tung 東) does mean East.
But as East is the position of the host, of fortuity, and of mastery, it crops up in some expressions to indicate the dominant party involved in something. For example: suen tung (船東) and choi tung (財東), a ship's master and a shop owner respectively.
And 'gu' also means part, portion, share. Plus haunch and rump.
So a better translation would be 'largest share boss'.

Still, I like the mental image that the term 'taai gu tung' evokes.
Possibly because I am immensely fond of thighs.

Among other things.


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ARE YOU GOING TO EAT ALL OF THAT, GREEDY HUMAN?

Sometimes the wall gets disproportionally surreal. Such as when the Architect is telling the Egg about a Grilled Pepper sighting while battling determined pigeons trying to steal his chips. We were fortunate that Pigeon Man did not drop by, as there is no question which side in that lopsided struggle he would have supported.
The only thing that could have made it more dada would have been the presence of Agent Left Testicle.

[Background: the wall is where cigar and pipesmokers hang out around mid-day in the Financial District. The Egg recently came back from New York. The Architect had a tuna-salad sandwich in addition to his bright yellow bag of Lays’ Potato Chips. Pigeon Man is a superhero and friend of Agent Left Testicle who wanders around the neighborhood. Grilled Pepper refers to a a very natty gentleman voted most likely to be at the top of a building with a high-powered rifle.  I am a pipesmoker.]


At one point the Architect charged at the lead fowl, who had tried sneaking up on his bag of Lays' Potato Chips while he was distracted. Even while being chivied by the now enraged Architect, the little fellow made determined feints at the prize.

Dude, share your damned chips! If you persist in making pigeons angry, one day they'll ambush you when you're all alone, and we'll only recognize your battered corpse by the shock of silvery hair, the stylish sunglasses, and the half-finished cigar.
Unless Pigeon Man finds you before we do.
He likes cigars.

Cuff links, dogs, and a dolphin were also mentioned.  But mostly Grilled Pepper.
Please imagine a musical trio: Grilled Pepper, Pigeon Man, and the Baron.

When the recounting of the sighting was over, discussion lagged a bit until one of the other people present came up with what must be the all-time greatest marketing idea in the world.


Airline bottles of Bourbon in every Happy Meal.
Seriously, Jim Beam should pair with MacDonalds.
This concept would appeal to EVERY demographic.


Heck, I might even go to Mickey D’s again if they did that!
The last time I went there was back in the very early nineties, and I still remember the nausea from struggling to digest the mess.
No, shan’t mention what I ordered.
Firstly because I am led to believe that many people succeed in keeping it down, secondly because I do not wish to be sued by a big evil food and compost conglomerate for slanderous statements about one of their very fine offerings, than which there is naught more scrumptious and soothing to the digestive membranes oh my yes.
Still, they need to provide liquor to their patrons.
As well as a pigeon-free cigar lounge.
Tobacco aids digestion.

POST SCRIPT

The pigeons did not succeed in snagging any chips at all, despite repeated attempts. Primarily because the Architect did not open the bag until he had finished his delicious tuna sandwich. After consuming the chips with evident enjoyment, much to the chagrin of several birds, he lit up a ferociously big cigar.

I’m guessing he’s not kissing anyone this afternoon.

Possibly excepting Pigeon Man.

Or Agent Left Testicle.

Cigar breath.

Feh.

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THE STIMULATED LIFE

It's a beautiful day, truly one of those days when one is glad to be alive.
Two cups of coffee, long bath, clean clothes, and quick ride on an uncrowded bus down to Chinatown.
There was a pretty young woman with very pale skin and a somewhat abstracted look to her face opposite me who had purchased several bags of groceries. She did not even notice my glances, but was probably thinking what she would do with the rest of her day. Almost certainly a spry middle-aged Dutchman doesn't figure into her plans, unfortunately.
Very pale arms, terminating in small hands. Neat and trim in her jeans and teeshirt. Simple haircut that framed her face and bright brown eyes nicely.
At Mason Street she got off.
That's two blocks before Stockton, so I'm guessing one of her household duties is to buy the stuff that isn't available in Chinatown during the weekend.


Another person on the bus had a similar haircut and a very sweet face, but unfortunately she was with her mom, who looked at me disapprovingly the entire time like only a Cantonese mother can.
Probably thinking "hah, smelly old white dude - tobacco! People like him NEVER marry nice family girls (好家庭嘅女), and he probably plays cards with other depraved smokers!"

Admission: I do indeed whiff of tobacco. But I don't play cards.
And I am not depraved.

I wasn't looking at her daughter, but I did surreptitiously sneak the occasional glance.
She was beautiful in that completely unaware way that some damsels have.
Both she and the other young lady had that quiet calm look.
Composed thoughtful faces, intelligent eyes.

Seeing pretty women is good for the soul. It's like a wave of warm sunshine.

I headed over to the dimsum place with happy enthusiasm.
Yes, life is very good indeed.
It's time to eat!

Yummy!

Left the eatery and lit up shortly after three o'clock.
After sampling various other places over the past few months, I realize that 金華點心快餐 has some of the very best jook (粥) around. And their oil strips are delicious, fresh, light, and airy.
One lovely bowl of preserved egg and lean pork rice porridge (皮蛋瘦肉粥 pei dan sau yiuk juk), one yau tiu (油條) - only three bucks.
Cheaper than many other places, and far far better too.
Yeah, a simple lunch. But ever so satisfying.

On the way down to the office I purchased a large bag of lichees.
I'll snack on a few while reading the internet.
The rest are for my roommate.



NOTE: Yummy dim sum and fast food (金華點心快餐 kam wah dim sam faai tsan) is on Stockton Street diagonally opposite where the new metro station is going to be. Their rice porridge is good (two kinds: fish slice jook, and preserved egg and lean pork jook), so are their cilantro rice sheet rolled noodle, and their chicken buns. Sometimes the coffee is excellent, sometimes not. In addition to a selection of dim sums frequently fresh from the kitchen, they also offer three items over rice (a very good deal), plus black bean spareribs over rice, and lamb stew with tofu skin.
You'll probably have to share a table with some other people, and you might want to learn Toishanese.

The pipe tobacco is Rattray's 'Hal O'The Wynd'. I opened another tin yesterday, and had three bowls one after the other last night, with no tongue burn at the time, and no residual rastiness to my mouth this morning.
Darn fine tobacco.
Did I already mention that life is good?
Because it really is.


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HURRY UP EVENING

Just for the heck of it, here’s a classic number by Papa Touwtjie. It seems perfect for a Saturday evening in San Francisco.
Don’t ask me why, I cannot explain.

HOIGRI

[SOURCE: http://www.blogger.com/”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jlcyftcV2Ww&feature=related”.]


Papa Touwtjie (Johan Touwslager) was shot in 2005 in Paramaribo by one of his brothers during a family quarrel. He was only thirty five years old.
The artist is gone, the music lives on.

I’m heading out to the cigar bar for some quiet time now.
You should probably explore the oeuvre of Papa Touwtjie and the many other Surinamese musicians on youtube for the rest of the evening. Check back here later and tell me what you think.
Don’t worry if you don’t understand the language they sing in, as there are several, some of them so upriver that less than a few thousand people speak them.
Just enjoy.


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START BURNING WITCHES NOW!

Predictably, the rabid fringe of American society has gotten their panties in a bunch over the issue of gay marriage.
Because the Bible says it ain’t right.


Well, gentlemen, the Bible also tells you to avoid pork and shellfish, to abstain from worship at heathen altars, to not mix wool and linen in the same garment, and avoid collecting firewood on the Sabbath.

You are also commanded to work six days. Not five. Six.
How DARE you have a TWO day weekend?
Work, you heathen bastards!

The bible ALSO tells you to whack anyone who practices witchcraft.

That includes prognosticators such as stock-market gurus, personal trainers, self-help authors, bookies, talk-show hosts, the idolatrous scum predicting doom and gloom on Fox, and most if not all television preachers.
As well as faith-healers.

There are several branches of Christianity that are quite sodden with witchcraft.
Not naming any organizational names, but you know who they are.
Many other branches of Christianity are stark raving mad.
Besides being disgusting heretics pur sang.
Again, not naming any names.

Remember, heresy partakes of both witchcraft AND idolatry.
That church your cousin Bubba goes to is a hotbed.

As a first step to a more moral and deity-based society, that trembles in awe and fear of divine wrath, you should start by burning all the witches, warlocks, and heretics in your own neighborhood.
Please err on the safe side. When in doubt, start a fire.


Gentlemen, I expect to see large parts of this God-besotted country aflame within days, and there had better be some serious weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

The rest of us will cheer you on.


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I'LL BE THE ONE DRESSED LIKE A CLOWN

One of the things that always creates stunned silence is a demonstration that the listener’s praeconceptions were entirely wrong.
A mouth falling open makes no sound.
Several years ago I regularly telephoned a customer in the South Bay about past-due invoices for services rendered by the company employing me at the time, and after dealing with the matter at hand we would exchange pleasantries and chit-chat.
All of our conversations were in Cantonese.
Well, except for complicated words like “payment terms” (付款方式), “open invoice” (應付的發票), and “wire transfer” (電匯), that is.
Reason being that I don't know those terms.

One time were both going to be at a lecture, and planned to meet for coffee afterward.
Except that we didn't know what the other person looked like at all.
After scanning the lobby for several minutes once it was over, I finally approached the likeliest looking person.

"請問, 你係唔係周小姐啊？"
['Excuse me, are you ms. Chou?]

Oops.
In three years of regular contact, I had forgotten to mention my last name.
A man with a Caucasian surname probably isn't ethnically Chinese, right?
But it had never come up, as it wasn't a necessary datum.
I had thought that my ghastly accent and limited vocabulary were a dead give-away, she assumed that I was merely a 竹升, of which there are many in San Francisco.
Once she got over her flabbergasted surprise, it was a very enjoyable meeting.
Nothing in our work relationship changed - she remained AP for our South Bay client, and I stayed AR for an enterprise providing regularly scheduled services. We still chatted once a month, and bills would be paid.
We met again at an office Christmas party, and also recognized each other once at a movie theatre.
I changed jobs since then, and though we kept sporadically in touch after that, we finally lost contact when her company moved her to Philadelphia.

I was reminded of those days when I overheard a scrap of conversation recently outside the office building.
The sentence that was uttered was: "I'll be the one dressed like a clown".

I cannot imagine a better way to be instantly recognized than that.
It's absolutely brilliant!
Failsafe.

"I'll be dressed like a clown!"

Should've thought of that myself.
It would've prevented a lot of frustration.
And we would've had much more time for coffee.


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FROM BARBECUE TO SAND DADDY; A SAUCE POST

The other day I was discussing food with a gentleman from Louisiana who had spent some time in South East Asia. He mentioned a sauce his mother used, which she could no longer find.
I think I know roughly what it was. But really, it could be almost anything.

Sauce, in the South-East Asian context, means the entire spectrum from freshly made and soupy liquids to dark foul-smelling pastes that must be tempered and made palatable by diluting and cooking.
Sometimes they're concentrates, sometimes fermentation products.
And sometimes surprisingly familiar. Albeit cleverly disguised.

Here are two examples, both multinational.


燒烤醬 SIU HAAU JEUNG

Chinese barbecue sauce, as used in many restaurants, is one of the earliest examples of fusion cuisine.
From most to least, the ingredients are ketchup, apple cider vinegar, orange juice, and finely minced onion. Plus a little mustard powder, black pepper, chili oil, chili paste, and salt, as considered appropriate by the cook.
Generally three times as much ketchup as vinegar, four times as much vinegar as orange juice, and four times as much orange juice as honey. The quantity of the other ingredients ranges from minor to minute.
Usually it will be reduced to a thick gloop for storage, but it is also often compounded as needed and dumped over the raw meat to marinate.
Some cooks also add red miso (紅味噌 'hong mei chang') to the recipe.

Well-marbled fatty pork, whether 三層肉 ('saam chang yiuk': three layer meat), 梅花豬肉 ('mui faa chü yiuk': plum blossom pork), 五花腩 or 五花肉 ('ng faa naam', 'ng faa yiuk': five flower pork brisket), sauced and rubbed with the cooked-down version, then roasted in the oven or braised on the stove top, is quite scrumptious.

I know you've had it. Just think of all those delicious riblets!

It is also a stellar marinade for chicken wings, by the way. If you make it at home, adhere to the general proportions of ketchup, vinegar, juice, and honey as outlined above, then add the remaining ingredients to taste, before simmering down. It will keep for a while in the refrigerator.


沙茶醬, 沙爹醬 SATE SAUCE

The old-style Chinese sate sauce must be differentiated from the newer version. Both ultimately derive from a South-East Asian model brought back by Fujianese (Hokkienese) returning to China, but the version that has dried shrimp and fish-paste as a significant percentage is more of a longtime Chinese settlement in Java taste, and must be used sparingly as just one ingredient among many, whereas the modern Chinese version will contain more peanuts and the customary East-Indian spices.
Both 沙茶醬 and 沙爹醬 are pronounced 'sa-te cheo' in Hokkien, and mean the same thing. But 沙茶醬 (Cantonese: 'sa cha jeung') has the dried shrimpy flavour, 沙爹醬 (Cantonese: 'sa de jeung') is peanutty.
Either may be used as a component in other sauces, or condimentally when grilling or hot potting.

Note that the standard Hokkien term for sauce is 汁 (Hokkien pronunciation: chiap; Cantonese: 'jap'), from whence the second syllable in the English word 'ketchup' (茄汁) and the Malay-Javanese term 'ketjap' for soy-sauce. The difference between the concepts 醬 ('jeung') and 汁 ('jap') is one of compounding, processing, or fermentation, versus moisture and juice. Soy sauce (豉油 'si yau') belongs in the 醬 category, fish sauce (魚露 'yü lou') is clearly more 汁 than anything else.

KETCHUP

Speculatively, the path whereby the term 茄汁 ("keh-chap": tomato sauce) became the Javanese, Malay, and Indo-Dutch term for soy sauce may be explained by the habit of pickling fresh ingredients in a soy-sauce base, such as likely happened with tomatoes. If the resultant product is simmered down considerably till it approximates the same volume as the amount of soy sauce which was added, the salt content will be similar to that of soy sauce, hence it can be stored, and the taste will have been intensified.

Modern-day Indonesian soy sauce is often sweetened, which likewise provides a combination and layering of flavours. Once tomatoes became more common in the region, their addition would have been seen as an unnecessary complication; why pickle them when you can use them fresh?
Similar processes are still used to prepare strong condiments and non-perishable sauces by both Chinese and South-East Asians today. Mushroom soy sauce (草菰老抽 'tsou-gu lou-jau') is an example of one such. Look for either Pearl River Bridge brand (珠江橋牌) or Amoy (淘化大同, 淘大牌).


The Dutch version of sate sauce often consists of fried onion, peanut butter, palm sugar, tamarind or vinegar, chili sauce, and fish paste. Some versions are shockingly bad, some similar to the mediocre sweet versions preferred by Thais and Singaporeans.

Indonesians make the best. They invented it.  It's a signature of their cuisine, and they add it to any number of meat and vegetable dishes.
But unlike the Dutch, they do not use it on French Fries.


About the title of this post?

沙爹醬 'sa de jeung': sand daddy sauce. The older name (沙茶醬) makes just as little sense, as it means 'sand tea sauce'.
Both are phonetic borrowings of the Javanese and Malay term 'saté', referring to grilled skewered meat.
Satay should not be confused with 'panggang', which is more like Southern-style barbecue, in that a large cut or the entire animal is slow-roasted and basted for several hours.


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A VEGETABLE!

On the bus through Chinatown today I looked at the neatly arrayed vegetables outside a store.
One vegetable caught my eye.
It was simply labeled as "A菜".  A choy.  A vegetable.
A vegetable?!?
Of course it is!

Now, I'm quite used to the Cantonese taking liberties with their own written language, and frequently incorporating English into the text. Even using English initials and numbers as if they were independent words, or parts of single characters - such as the utilization of an o or 0 on the left-hand side of a standard character to signify that the word is Canto dialect, pronounced the same as the original word, but with a different meaning. The o or 0 serves as shorthand for the mouth radical, often used to create new glyphs, which tells the reader to go by the sound alone.
Coffee, for instance: 咖啡.
Which is 加 and 非 with 口 added to both characters.
Go by the sound: o加 (kaa) o非 (fei).

This little trick is frequently employed by computer and cellphone users, as the Unicode for Cantonese lags a bit, or the actual written word might be hard to find in an on-line dictionary.

First time I've ever seen an A added, though.

Did my friend Ah-Choy get so lucky playing cards that they now celebrate his victories by naming a vegetable after him? He always was clever (choi: 才, hence also 財), but that would take the cake.

Dude, here's your very own vegetable! It's green! Lucky colour!

Nope. Silly me.
It's not even Cantonese.


A菜 ...

Lactuca Indica. A vegetable suitable for stir-frying, also known as 'Indian Lettuce'.
Click HERE to see what it looks like.
Also called 萵仔菜, 生菜, 鵝仔菜, or 媚仔菜。Basically a longish cultivar of Lactuca Sativa.

Doesn't need any blanching, simply wash, separate, and dry. Then cut across into wide sections, and stirfry till beginning to wilt. The pan may be pre-flavoured with garlic and ginger. If using oyster-sauce, heat that up with the rice wine afterwards and drizzle over the dish.
A few drops of sesame oil in any case are a splendid addition.
Or a bit of melting chicken or duck fat.
For the toothsome aroma.
Bon appétit.



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THE MACHISMO OF YOGHURT

Earlier today a friend suggested that we recommend yoghurt to a mutual acquaintance. He made the proposal after reading an article about shiny mouse testicles.


QUOTE
“the yogurt-eating mice were incredibly shiny. Using both traditional histology techniques and cosmetic rating scales, the researchers showed that these animals had 10 times the active follicle density of other mice, resulting in luxuriantly silky fur.

Then the researchers spotted something particular about the males: they projected their testes outward, which endowed them with a certain “mouse swagger,” Erdman says. On measuring the males, they found that the testicles of the yogurt consumers were about 5 percent heavier than those of mice fed typical diets alone and around 15 percent heavier than those of junk-eating males.”
END QUOTE

[Source: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/05/06/testicles-yogurt-mice-probiotics_n_1489701.html.]


My input was to amend the suggestion. Not that I do not wish the gentleman in question to have shiny rodent testicles, but there is less going on in his life than would merit those scrotal improvements. Yes, if parts of his physique became incredibly attractive to female mice, I'm sure it would be a direct benefit. But there are other things.
Several issues that absolutely require action.
I advocated a totality of approach.
A more complete package.
Drastically.

Yoghurt and Metamucil shakes.
Forcefed.
He’ll thank us later.

After six months of this, he'll be younger, svelter, sexier, and if nothing else, his bald zone will be shiny.
Not only female mice will find him attractive. So will many other creatures.
I have his best interests at heart.


In case you were wondering, I do not need yoghurt.
I already have luxuriantly silky fur.

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QUICK LITTLE FELLOWS

It has been a very long time since I had home-made jook. Or, for that matter, home-made darn-well anything, other than the weird late-night snacks I prepare for myself.
Grazing in Chinatown for pastries, jook, and noodle soup – which describes my dining habits now – was briefly interrupted by Passover.
Two seders. Good conversation, excellent food, and splendid company both nights.
Plus a matze brei feast a few days later.
But both before and after that I haven’t really dined.
A proper meal requires diversity; it isn’t just a bowl of noodles with vegetable matter and protein added.
And more than that, eating well depends on company.
Cheerful and considerate co-eaters.

To put that differently, supper means four chopsticks in play. Not two. Four.
At least four, possible more than four.
Maybe six, even eight or nine.
But, as a minimum, four.

If using forks, half that number. And be wary of stab wounds.


FAAI-JI  筷子

The term faai-ji (筷子) is a fairly modern construction, utilizing the word for 'quick' (快) with the bamboo radical (竹) on top to create a separate character, and followed postfixally by ji (子) to make a noun.
A pair of chopsticks is 一對筷子 (yat dui faai-ji: 'one matched set of chopsticks') or 一雙 (yat seung: 'a pair').
The single item is enumerated with 'gan' (根). So "yat gan faai-ji" (一根筷子) is merely one chopstick, while "leung gan faai-ji" (兩根筷子) is properly yat dui (一對).
你明唔明呀?
The older term 'chyu' (箸) is still used in Japan, and also among one or two Chinese linguistic groups that didn't get the memo.
You might see it in writing, as it is still more correct and fully vouched. But it is seldom used in speech, except among the Japanese (和) and Min (閩).
噉,你識用筷子嗎?

SIK-FAN  食飯

Cooking a good meal for oneself is both pointless and frustrating. In addition to being very much like drinking liquor alone - a dangerous first leap towards alcoholism - it means looking at leftovers in the fridge the next day, and realizing that there are hardly any good memories attached to the dishes. How depressing!
.....It seems an awful lot.   Why did I cook so much?   And that fish was too bony, and is now past its prime.
Shortly after those thoughts you realize that few markets in this day and age sell a single chop, and there's stuff in the freezer you haven't looked at in ages. Shopping for one person is hard, far far better to simply go across the hill and enjoy the bright lights and noise.

I'm glad I know how to use chopsticks.
All good things come in pairs. Or as matched sets.
Nowadays I rarely talk while eating.
But I've gotten much better at listening.

On a related note, this afternoon I happened to sit at the same table as a young father and his infant, and ended up hearing a patient conversation in Mandarin about little shrimp bonnets (蝦餃) and rolled sheet noodle (腸粉). Judging by the gentleness of his father, that little boy is very lucky and will have a wonderful childhood.
Plus he has a truly splendid example to grow up being like.

I enjoyed my meal very much.


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THE BADGER UNGRUNTLED

You know I relish my weekend meals in Chinatown, right? These are highpoints, welcome respites.
I like the hubbub around me, the snide snarky remarks I get to overhear by people unaware that some white people actually speak Cantonese. And I enjoy the liveliness, vibrancy, and unvarnished expressing of gut-feelings, witty insights, ire, frustration, joy, and ‘dang-I-got-away-with-that’ that also burble-up among the locals. Good food in a noisy place, after which I'll wander around a bit smoking a pipe before heading over to the office to read for the rest of the day.

Yesterday I had cause for disgruntlement.
The service at one of my semi-regular food stops stank.
No, I shan’t mention which one. It was probably a fluke.
But it will be several months before I go there again.

Normally the person at the counter is a man in his late thirties or early forties. He recognizes me and sometimes absentmindedly assumes that he heard one thing when I actually said something else, such as the time I ordered the bittermelon stirfried with chicken chunks over rice, and instead got the fresh greens and fish over rice.

[Bittermelon stirfried with chicken chunks over rice (涼瓜鷄球飯 leung gwa kai kau fan) versus fresh greens and fish over rice (菜遠蘢利魚飯 choi yuen lung lei yu fan): you will note that these two dishes sound nothing at all alike. And no, it wasn't my accent, as he and I have had conversations before. He just wasn't listening attentively. Rather an amusing situation, and I didn't want to embarrass him by pointing out the error, so I just quietly ate the food.]


YOU FINISHED?!?

This time it was a sour, sharp, and plumpish woman working the counter. My friend wasn't around, and the atmosphere was consequently far less hospitable, more institutional. Brusque.
No soup with my food. Apathy, arrogance, and impatience were abundantly displayed, though not at me, because once I had placed my order the woman simply ignored me. She snapped at one of the employees, next told a large group that if they wanted decent service they should have called in their preferences ahead. Growled at a toddler, and made a snippy remark upon hanging up the phone.
Then asked "you finished?", and before I could even respond, smacked the bill down on the counter.
I had really wanted a little bit more tea.
No hope of that, I guess.

Not even a fortune cookie.

She has a talent for being uncharming in three languages.
I know I should mention the name of the restaurant.
If only to warn people away from the woman.
But I would not want to do that.

The restaurant been around for years, and they are well-known for their chicken wings. Plus the gentleman who usually works there on Saturday afternoons is a very likeable sort, albeit sometimes abstracted.
It's a really capital place.
The food is good.


幸運餅乾 HANG WAN BENG-GON

By the way, I know they have fortune cookies. Not that fortune cookies are an important part of the meal, but when everyone else gets fortune cookies, it's rather galling to be left out. And yes, I am taking it personally, even though it was probably an oversight caused by apathesis, gripe, snoot, and foul-temper. Maybe something went south in her life. Maybe she's frustrated that the only husband she's likely to have is a country bumpkin Toishanese blister who smells bad and eats too much. Maybe she didn't get to push some rich old coot off the end of a pier.
Maybe her pick-up truck stalled on the great freeway of life, her spoiled-brat high-school classmates drove by hooting, and the dark stinky liquids dripping from the carburetor of her emotions stained all of her designer handbags.
Her Hello Kitty doll bit her. Bad hair day. Arm-pit itch. Fungus.
The Benz is on the fritz, some kwailo got her parking spot, the bus driver demanded she pay.
But even with all those things going wrong in her life, she should've remembered the bloody fortune cookie.
What?!?!?!?!?!?!
I don't get one because I'm just a single solitary middle-aged badger?
My hair is combed, my beard and mustache are trimmed.
I've got clean hands, and I am neatly dressed.
Well-behaved and very presentable.
Where's my damned cookie?

Yeah, now I'm finished.


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NO, I DON"T COME HERE OFTEN

The title of this post is actually a falsehood. The place in question has seen a fair amount of me over the past several months. Largely that is because it has by necessity replaced the cafés which I previously frequented to read and smoke.
The tobacco Nazis have probably contributed more to the Starbucksification of the universe than any other group, by chasing the smokers out.
We have, perforce, found different places to fume.
Dungheaps. School playgrounds. Hospital delivery rooms.
All places where your precious little tots might be exposed to us.


And, in San Francisco, a cigar bar.
Where pipe-smokers are appreciated.
And welcomed as a respectable minority.


The one great problem with drinking establishments is that they do not allow toddlers, infants, and rambunctious teenagers on the premises. And as everybody knows by now, tobacco addicts like nothing better than ruining the lungs of juveniles, asthmatics, cripples, and all those neurotic people who claim every imagined allergy in the book.
When we're not threatening your breathing apparatus, we're probably trying to get into your panties, or arrogantly waving a large juicy barely cooked beefsteak about.
But only if we're not abusing stray pets, or roasting their flayed little carcasses over a bonfire made of children's books.

Years ago a friend joined me at the cigar bar. The next day his wife sent me an e-mail asserting that she had dropped him off washed and starched, and I returned him to her smelling like the men's room at Grand Central Station. And very much the worse for wear!

Well, yes. Sorry. But I feel good about that.

Unfortunately, cigar bars cater mostly to men.
Women are NOT discouraged in the slightest, and I do know a few who smoke cheroots. But most women shy away, oddly preferring the company of people into sustainable tofu-based technology. Gentle, fully realized and grounded individuals, who are involved in fair-trade, world-improvement, the nurturing of indigenous peoples, and liberating the lab animals from sex-slavery or whatever it is that mean bad chemical companies use the creatures for.
In other words, the drips and nitwits who hang out at Starbucks. And the cafés of North Beach, now that smokers are no longer welcome.

Perhaps the company of a multitude of tobacco fiends is too much to bear?

Fear not, fair damsels! We are not just a pack, we are splendid company one on one.
We have, long ago, learned how to make small talk. Might be a bit rusty at present, but if you persuaded us to leave our sanctuary for something to nibble on somewhere, we would be more than happy to accompany you, and practise the art of conversation.
We might stink a bit, but we have hearts of gold.

And, unlike those latte swilling wussies at Starbucks, we know where you can get a good meal.
Later we'll take you somewhere to taunt the tourists and suburbanites.


AFTERWORD

Please consider this a proposition.  Do you like meat?  Do you like men? 
Do you like meat AND men? 
If so, perhaps we should meet sometime.  Sometime quite soon.
I clean up nicely, and I know how to behave in public.
And I'm really keen to re-learn "small talk".


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FUNKY BRITISH FRUIT CAKES

My plan to make people sick on melon-flavoured tobacco came to naught.
Apparently my fellow pipe-smokers at the club are quite sensible.
Some of them indeed sniffed at the tin, curiously twitching.
Not a one of them smoked more than one bowl.
Despite my enthusiastic propaganda.
Darn.

The product in question was far too dubious for most of them.

To quote the burbling text on the tin: "The sweet fragrant Honeydew was all gone by the time Susan Cushing offered the container to Sherlock Holmes, but he was undoubtedly familiar with this fine Irish flake's gratifying flavor, its pleasing aroma and gentleness on the palate. A subtly sweet, fragrant flake tobacco in the Irish tradition."
This is a pressed medium all-Virginia melange, very English in its composition, but augmented in a fashion alleged to be Hibernian. 
The Irish should sue.

It's from McClelland's 221b series, three tobaccos 'celebrating' the famous English detective. And actually, I can believe that Sherlock Holmes would have smoked something similar at times.
Like other famous British detectives, he was a markedly queer fish.
This is a rather odd product. Underneath the frooty-tooty, it's actually quite decent. But I shan't go into detail as this is not a review. I'll finish the tin, though I will not buy anymore anytime soon.
The smell will endure in the pipe I used. It is duly ghosted.
A pong of honeydew to last a while.


MILDLY NAUSEATING

Many mystery novels set in the British Isles feature what are supposed to be loveably amusing eccentrics. And yes, the Sherlock Holmes stories are somewhat entertaining, but that is far more because of the attempted wit and humour in the writing than the allegedly charming idiosyncrasies of the main character.
Eventually the reader realizes that Sherlock Holmes is barely tolerable, an irritating old cock at best.
British detectives, almost without exception, are precious little turgidities.
They are abnormal, and people whom you wouldn't want to meet.

Miss Marple? Oh please. An exasperating marmot woman.
Shan't even mention Poirot - snob frog fop.
I know, allegedly he was a Belgian.
Real Belgians speak Flemish.
So, a snob frog fop.
Very British.

My favourite fictional detective is Maigret (who was invented by a Belgian).
Both Simenon (the author) and his Parisian hero were pipe smokers.
That is the only thing they have in common with Holmes.

While British authors insist that childish and irritating uppercrustian quirks make for great sleuths, the continentals know better. A good mystery novel does not rely on exceptional characters, magical plot-twists, or amazing coincidences to present a tale, but describes people who are believable, and in at least some ways likeable, to outline a crime. Then over the course of the narrative possible motives and gradual developments in the dossier are revealed, as everything progresses from cooling corpse to case-closed.

It is not certain what tobacco Maigret preferred. His creator, Georges Simenon, is known to have smoked Royal Yacht. That particular tobacco is far queerer than anything Holmes may have shoved in his pipe, and hard to describe, too. Had mr. Simenon mentioned Maigret smoking said product, it could likely have made him seem perverse.
Jules Maigret smoked tabac ordinaire.
Presumably unperfumed.

But it does not matter. People who read Simenon may be pipe-smokers, or not. If they do have a briar, they might smile when recalling that their favourite author and detective also indulge on occasion.
But they do not wish to imitate either man.
The habit is a pleasing coincidence.
Not a fruity affectation.

TOBACCO INDEX


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YOUR MOTHER WOULD DISAPPROVE!

The day started with me brushing my teeth and going to bed. Shortly after midnight. I had been out late, you see. That happens sometimes.
But this day will end with an absolute orgy.
Intemperate behaviour, risks.

I hasten to add that I am a sane sober adult and consequently tend towards sensible courses of action and intelligent behaviour. But there are decisions I am allowed to make, and sometimes by gum, I’ll do what I want to.  Honestly, you need not worry. I think I know what I’m doing.
This evening I’ll be standing around with a bunch of other manly men, all of us waving the ceremonial object or tool that we have in common.

Yes, I know you think it sounds like a secret Masonic sex - death - bondage cult.
But it’s just a bunch of pipe smokers, socializing companionably.
Like the others, I shall smoke too much.

THE FLOCKING OF THE COOTS

Unwise choices will be made, that's for sure.
I have a tin of melon-flavoured tobacco in my backpack.
As well as several normal tobaccos, which are NOT aimed at the pervert demographic. The other people there will also be well-supplied with leaves. There may be several strong flakes present, as well as sharp and bitey ribbons, and numerous perfumed products that radiate sheer nelliness.
And probably one or two Latakia dumps.

All of these products need to be smoked. Either to test them out, or to prove! that you can take it like a man.
It is a sign of stupendous machismo to smoke five bowls of putrid floral crap in quick succession.
Nothing says outrageously butch testosterone overload like fruity clouds of perfume.
You can do it. You’ve got balls. And hair on your chest. Like Hemingway!

I HAVE A TIN OF MELON TOBACCO!

On the other hand, I’ve got nothing to prove, and I’m quite happy with myself. So I’ll just smoke two or three bowls of good tobacco, while strenuously talking someone else into overdoing the Hello Kitty blends.
All of the powers of persuasion I can muster will be brought into play.
Sarcasm. Irony. Cynicism. Poetry. Blandishments. Polite doubt.
I can be a really very convincing person, when I try.
There are buckets AND a toilet there.
So it’s okay. Trust me.

I will probably get home late.
Then brush my teeth.
And go to bed.


TOBACCO INDEX


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FEEDING THE BARBARIAN

Not surprisingly, reading about ancient Tamil literature inevitably pulled my eye into linguistics on the internet today, and thus, logically, led to a fantabulous quote from a long dead heathen bastard of great talent and ability.
Please note that the heathen bastard (of great talent and ability) was, in fact, European. More European than that very able and talented bastard one can scarcely find.
Although, in contrast to many of the modern natives of the area where once he lived, he probably stank less, and washed more.

Perhaps an un-European characteristic of his.


"Ubi nunc est illa ferocia, ubi semper insida mobilitas?"
['Where now is that famed ferocity of yours, that ever insidious fickleness?']

---Eumenius, sneering at the Franks, fourth century C.E.


The area where Eumenius lived was on the border zone of Germanic dominance, and later briefly became the north-easternernmost extent of Muslim military penetration into Europe. Fortunately for the natives, neither curse had much lasting effect on Burgundy.
One suspects that the history of French viticulture might have been quite different otherwise - the Dutch (descendants of the Franks) and Arabs are not known for their wines, though both are notorious for their keen appreciation of intoxicants.

The ferocity of the modern Dutchman may be easily tamed by boeuf à la Bourguignonne with nice crisp frites and a salad on the side.
Accompanied by a few glasses of Pinot Noir.

The Arab will necessarily require a different approach.


BOEUF BOURGUIGNONNE

Beef, onions, and mushrooms, slow-cooked in wine and stock.
With lardoons, carrot, and parsley.


Generously augment a little olive oil at the bottom of a stewpot by rendering the grease from a few chunks of bacon. Remove the bacon before it browns, set it aside. Brown beef chunks herein nicely, remove and set aside also. Gild sliced carrot and onion in the pan, pour off the excess grease, and add the beef and bacon, plus salt, pepper, and a dusting of flour. Toss to coat evenly, and agitate the ingredients over heat. Do this carefully, as you wish the flour to contribute good flavours when browned, rather than a burnt taste if blackened.
Add a smidge of tomato paste, then pour in equal measures of good red wine and beef stock to cover. Add a bay leaf and one or two cloves of garlic. Set it to simmer for two or three hours on very low heat. Stir occasionally to prevent scorching.

Meanwhile, sauté a number of small onions, rolling them about in the pan, till they are fairly golden evenly all around.
Take some of the liquid from the meat pot and add it to the onions to cover, with another bay leaf, and simmer on very low heat till the liquid has reduced down to zilch. Set the onions aside.
Now sauté a bunch of thick-sliced mushrooms barely golden.  And set aside.

When the meat is tender, add the small onions and thick-sliced mushrooms on top. If the stew is too liquid, decant much of the sauce to a saucepan and reduce it to velvety-glazy, then pour it back over. Let everything simmer a few minutes together, before strewing plenty of chopped parsley over and putting it on the table.

If you cannot manage crispy fries alongside, noodles or potatoes are also good accompaniments. Plus a loaf of good bread.


You will note that I did not give precise quantities.
You know what you want: more meat than small onions, more onions than mushrooms, and more of all of that than the carrot. Just eyeball it. The key is careful sautéing, slow simmering, and a judicious layering of flavours, to achieve a dish of tender chunks with a rich and velvety sauce.


If you are unsure of yourself, invite me over.
I will gladly sample your first attempt.
And I'll even bring the wine.



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THE MIRACLE OF RAMPANT AMAZONS

No, this post isn't about large sexually liberated or carnivorous women.
The title came to me while reading a communication from a bookseller.
Years ago I purchased a few books from Amazon, in consequence of which the dear lady (Amazon) presumes to know my tastes, and what drives me.

She (Amazon) even thinks she can plumb the very depths of my soul!

Some people might say that I have no soul.

Amazon is different. She believes in me.

I am a timorous Christian virgin waiting for the end of days. Who reads squeaky clean romance novels.
As well as mediaeval martyr hagiographies.
And I absolute require health-spa massages, pore cleansing, and fabulous footwear, right here in San Francisco!

Alas, Amazon utterly fails to fathom that a middle-aged man might have multiple interests.
The Documentary Hypothesis, heathen iconography, Abu Ghraib, Guantanamo.
Food history, Dutch studies, and South-East Asian theatre forms.
The Myth of the Holy Cow, by Dwijendra Narayan Jha.
And foreign language dictionaries.

Nope. According to Amazon I am two dimensional.

An ugly but sensuous Fundy with no sex life.

Okay. It's true. Amen, and hallelujah.
I tried to hide, but you found me.
Ain't gonna argue the point.
You are so right.

Word of advice: ALL ugly but sensuous Fundies should have a sex life. It will turn things right around for them, why, it will positively make them glow! They'll finally look happy, dump the frump gowns, and run around barefoot in the grass. There will be beads and tie-dye dresses!
Why, they'll look absolutely radiant!

And they might even become amazons!

Sex is better than massages, skin treatments, and also San Francisco.

But perhaps not as good as fabulous footwear.

NOTHING! beats fab footwear.

Fab footwear is GOD!


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TROUBLEMAKERS HAVE ALREADY BEEN ARRESTED!

Rest easy, San Francisco, there were no interruptions to lunch.
Nobody handing out multi-page flyers about the ideals of the occupy movement, no massed protestors with black bandannas covering the lower half of their faces destroying plate glass, no red banners moving down the street while people yelled jejune revolutionary slogans.

On the other hand, riot-tourists in Oakland have violently clashed with the police, thrown bottles, and overturned garbage cans.


'Garbage cans are a potent symbol of the ruling class!'


'We must overthrow the trash-receptacle dictatorship!'


If you think there’s a subtle undertone of disparagement for the occupy movement in this post, you are absolutely correct.
About the only thing I can feel for the self-absorbed ‘entitled’ folk remaining in the movement is that indeed it is a darn shame that there aren’t enough Revolutionary Red Panties to go around.
Red panties are zesty and EXTREMELY hot hot hot.
Either bikini briefs, or French cut.
Watch me perspire.
Ooooh.

Like a true member of the bourgeoisie, I am currently wearing pin-stripe bankers’ boxers.
You cannot see them, they’re under my slacker slacks.
I’m wearing them ironically.

If the Berkeleyites and Black Block set fire to Oakland this evening, I shall briefly enjoy the splendid sight from one of the San Francisco hilltops, before heading home and picking up a book.
An anti-revolutionary book.
Written by someone middle-class and dead.
He was a very good writer, and the world is a better place because of him.

I doubt that anyone in the occupy movement will leave the world a better place.

Unless they leave.


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LUNCH SOMETIME

One of the most famous paintings produced by Edouard Manet is Le déjeuner sur l'herbe ("The Luncheon on the Grass"), which shows a naked woman in the foreground with two fully dressed men, and another woman behind the happy picnic party, scantily dressed, taking a dip in a bosky pool.
The two men are talking to each other, the naked woman is bored with their conversation and gazes directly at the viewer.

This canvas created quite a scandal at the time it was first exhibited.
It is now so iconic that I need not even reproduce it here.

To my mind, one of the things most remarkable about the painting is the clever use of blobs, those being the sketchily done areas in dark hues that form the pattern of the painting.
The people in the picture, however, hardly engage.
The nude woman, while charming, is not really that interesting, and the poncy gentleman with the odd hat who is facing her companion seems disinterestingly dissolute.

A better female nude can be found in Manet's painting 'Olympia', in which a courtesan with rather handsome breasts stares provocatively at the audience while a servant proffers flowers from an admirer.
Note, please, that the admirer is neither present nor known.
The painting suggest that it could be any one of us.

But the key element of Le déjeuner sur l'herbe is the image of a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, picnicking in a dell or glade, and enjoying the breeze as it strokes the skin.
Good company, something to nibble on, a warm day.
Clothing optional.

I have never experienced such a thing near the office, more's the pity.
There are a number of pleasant shady places in the Financial District that pretty much demand leisurely naked snack parties.
Including a copse of bamboo off an alley between Market and Mission.

In previous years I would wander over there in mid-afternoon to have some quiet time.
No, I never went commando while amid the tall pillars of bamboo.
But I'm very surprised no one else did.
This IS San Francisco.

I think I'll head over there sometime, now that the weather has improved.
With a sandwich from one of the nearby delis.
And a pipe.

Plus, of course, a positive attitude.


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