REBUILD IT!

"The Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris, a masterpiece of Gothic architecture, is the most visited monument in France. It was built in the Middle Ages, at the far end of the Île de la Cité. Work started in the 13th century and finished in the 15th century. Badly damaged during the French Revolution, the cathedral was restored in the 19th century by the architect Viollet-le-Duc."

"Its many visitors come to admire its stained glass and rose windows, the towers, the steeple and the gargoyles. They can also discover the Notre-Dame treasury and have a go at climbing the towers to enjoy a panoramic view of Paris.
In 2013, Notre-Dame is celebrated its 850th anniversary. For this occasion, many events were organized and the cathedral renewed its bells with the arrival of eight new bells as well as a new great bell."

"Road distances from Paris in France are calculated from point 0 on the cathedral forecourt."

------Paris: Official website of the Convention and Visitors Bureau

Image Credits - Copyright: rdnzl - Fotolia
SOURCE: Cathedrale Notre Dame de Paris et son tresor




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DANCES WITH CHICKENS

Sometimes you wonder what your fellow white (or black) barbarians are thinking. For instance, why are there Japanese lanterns for festivals that have at least a modicum or religious or spiritual content hanging behind the loudly partying big breasted slags? Lanterns that say "conducting (or 'managing') sacrificial rituals" (御祭禮 'ngaa jai lai').

And then you remember. They're there because they look colourful.
It's more or less a form of cultural appropriation.
Like cooking "Orange Chicken".

I myself have never cooked "Orange Chicken", which I have been told is the most popular Chinese dish in the United States -- a status it shares with General Tso's Chicken, another dish I have never prepared -- but I have certainly committed sheer tonnes of cultural appropriation. Steamed pork patty with dried fish (咸魚蒸肉餅 'haam yü jing yiuk beng'), or salt fish and chicken fried rice (鹹魚雞粒炒飯 'haam yü gai naap chaau faan'). As well as congee (粥 'juk'). And Wonton (雲吞 'wan tan'). It just strikes me that if you like eating it, you should know how to make it. Just in case you are stuck in Kansas, surrounded by miles and miles of trailer parks, wilderness, fierce howling bears, and folks who resemble Honey Boo Boo.


That is probably why my apartment mate, who is a Cantonese American person, knows how to do chopped liver (gehakte leber), brisket, several delicious Indonesian dishes, plus some French stuff; we're surrounded by miles and miles of non-Jews and non-Netherlanders.

And, during the tourist season, folks who look like Honey Boo Boo.


I think I actually did have 'Orange Chicken" once. It was during that period when the company was being sold to the Canadians, preparatory to which we had relocated the office from downtown San Francisco to a ghastly lean-to in the wilds of Fremont. Because that office park had few lunch options, we often had food delivered, organized and chosen by management.
One day we had "Chinese Food" from Panda Express.


I work in Marin now. There's a Panda Express roughly a mile away.
I have never been tempted by "Orange Chicken".

I live in San Francisco.
We've got food.




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WELTS AND CHILI SAUCE

After being subjected to leggy blonde vulgarians on the telly last night -- my apartment mate likes to watch white women acting like tacky hoes, as the perfect examples of what not to be -- of which I see plenty normally anyhow, seeing as I work in the suburbs -- I reread something I wrote about wild public sexual escapades over three years ago.

CLIMACTIC PECULIARITIES

Quite inadvertently, in that essay I suggested that cold weather was the best circumstance for rutting. That could be the insanest thing I ever wrote.
What was I thinking? February and March were perfectly beastly this year, and not surprisingly nobody was rutting in public during those months. Certainly not me, nor would I have wanted to see any of it anyhow.

It was cold and wet. Needed my Canadian overcoat, and gloves.

I spent a lot of time outdoors. Necessitated by the civic ordinances against smoking inside. Which have probably caused more pneumonia and fatal joint-lock than the health authorities want to admit.

All over the city rheumatic elderly smokers -- many of them very exemplary people who recycle -- probably ended up keeling over and croaking, floored by extremes of weather. Vegans and street people died too.
After rifling through the pockets of the victims.

Piles of rotting frozen corpses.
Damn the anti-smokers.
Bitches.


Yesterday I was wearing a sweater and heavy shirt, and still felt cold. My colleague was lightly and stylishly garbed in a guyabera and belly-ached that it was too warm. Madre de dios! Temperature-wise, he's clearly an idiot.
He's from Central America, where it's usually one hundred Fahrenheit.
His cojones should've been ice by the end of the day.

Neither of us were sexually excited.



I disapprove of public rutting, moronic clothing choices, and displays of both sexuality and fertility in public. You all need to mortify yourselves. Beatings to raise red lines all over, then rub hot sauce and salt into the stripes.
Please feel free to chastise yourselves in public.
There's nobody watching anyhow.
Don't send photos.




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CRICKET SOUNDS NEAR KAI TAK

One of the images of the past is of a colonial official posted in the jungles of South East Asia, refreshed from splashing water over his lean white body at the large ceramic vat out behind the bungalow, dressed in off-duty garb (no tie), reaching for the tin of Rattray's Tobacco to fill his pipe. The day is over, cook is preparing curry, cup of tea, London newspaper three months late.

Ah, cricket, I see.

He settles in the creaky chair for a good long smoke.

Whisps of fragrant Latakia drift slowly out into the undergrowth.
Something with scales slips into the river.
Insects chatter.

The bugs are loudest just before darkness, the chickens for the curry far away from Foster Farms are always scraggly and benefit from a long stew with ginger, lemon grass, turmeric, and coriander, the only milk for the tea comes in a tin (condensed), and there is as always too much European politics in the paper. One article about Germany, one about France.


But cricket, at least, is timeless. And universal.

[A lawyer I know just won't shut up about it. Parsees love cricket.]


When Adrian was stationed in Hong Kong, he never once mentioned cricket on Facebook. And the pipe tobacco he smoked three years ago seemed to be Dunhill's Elizabethan mixture, mornings in front of the office in Central.

There actually is cricket in Hong Kong. It's largely a subcontinental affair.
Babar Hayat. Aizaz Khan. Nizakat Khan. Anshuman Rath. Kinchit Shah.

In all honesty, I am very glad that he did not talk about cricket, or any sport, for that matter. When I worked with Indians I heard enough about that.

But he hardly mentioned food, either.

In. Hong Kong.


Probably the most Hong Kong dish EVER is Shanghai Pork Chop Noodles (炸猪扒湯麵 'jaa jyu baa tong min'). Breaded, deep fried, served with a bowl of noodles and soup with mustard greens. There is no actual connection with Shanghai that I know of, but many "Shanghai" restaurants on the island and in Kowloon offer it. Perhaps it's the noodles (Yangchun Noodle 陽春麵 'yeung chun min') which are not the usual Cantonese preference.

Yangchun Noodles are very Shanghai.


Easy, too. Slightly thicker than usual wheat noodles, served in a broth made very simply with a little soy sauce, and if you are feeling fancy pork bones and chicken stock. Otherwise just hot water, soy, and a spoonful of lard stirred in for mouth-feel. Chopped scallions or chives strewn on top.
One or two drops of sesame oil are optional.

Being totally unorthodox, and a kwailo to boot, I usually do this with Kwan Miao noodles (關廟麵 'kwaan miu min') plus bacon grease and olive oil.

Fried porkchops, chicken cutlets, short ribs; all good.
Wiener schnitzel (维也纳炸牛排) also can.
And add a squeeze of lemon juice.
It prevents kidney stones.

Also hot sauce, of course.
Must have a sambal.
Sriracha.



I think I'll open a tin of Rattray's tobacco soon. It's been a while.




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CAROLINA OMELETTE RECIPE

A pipesmoker whom I know internetally is going to throw fourteen eggs at her husband, who is also a pipesmoker whom I know internetally. This thing is happening on the other side of the country, so I will not be a witness.
But I expect that there will be photos. I demand that there be photos.

No, I have no clue why. It's Southern Pipe Smoking Zaniness.
She's from Mississippi. They live in South Carolina.
There are fourteen eggs waiting for him.

14.

Not being personally involved, and also not being even marginally in the line of fire, I can naturally only approve of this, and encourage it. I suspect that,
at some point, he will have his revenge.

If I were him, I would go to bed immediately afterwards. And hug her during the night, while still covered with eggs.

Of which there are fourteen.


Both of them are also well on their way to becoming crazy cat ladies. That may or may not be relevant. It has not (yet) been mentioned how the cats feel about this. But their positive feedback could be assured if anchovies were to be included. Sort of a Caesar Salad. With garlic and croutons.

I am now fondly imagining both of them, plus fourteen broken eggs, a tin or two of anchovies well distributed, and several cats, all lumped together in a happy stink puddle, waking up this Saturday morning listening to the rain.

Those photos will break the Internet.

Crunchy bits!



AFTERWORD

In the interests of full disclosure, I should mention that I do not live in the South, have only the haziest idea of what life there is like (my thoughts about that are now more vivid than ever), and am not likely to ever get anywhere near either Mississippi or North Carolina. There are fewer than a dozen eggs in my apartment, and it is fairly certain that no one will ever pelt me with eggs. I lack the sense of humour to be able to appreciate that if it were to happen.

I got drenched by a fermented shrimp condiment once. Didn't realize it was chemically unstable, so when I popped the lid off, a foul smelling spew went everywhere. In retrospect, that does seem mildly amusing. There are probably still little shrimp eyeballs in the nooks of that kitchen.

No women or cats were involved.


By the way: three years ago she was smoking some frightful aromatic pipe tobacco, moon-baby orgasmic cherry pie, or something. She smokes more civilized stuff now. Both Latakia mixtures, or aged Virginias. Without those nasty fruitloop perfumes. So there is progress.
She may have finally left the dark side.

Except for a seasonal fondness for pumpkin spice pipe tobacco.
Probably that's just to lure the little children, though.

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SORT OF BLONDE AND BLAH

Years ago he moved to Sweden because of a pretty little Swedish girl. Today he is briefly back in the land of his birth, enjoying our fine climate while risking his life in a society with no adequate medical system. But he's going back to Sweden soon. And surely I can understand?

Well, actually, no.

Swedes are decent people and all that, but that climate, and the dang trolls, are enough to prevent me from ever moving there. And, as far as I know, Swedish girls are a lot like Dutch girls, except with drippy Abbaesque personalities.

And then there's what they do to herring.
Which is absolutely barbaric.
Surströmming.


No amount of socialized medicine is enough to make a man put up with Abba and rotten fish. Or köttbullar on Knäckebröd. Every single day.


The only two places in Europe with less inspiring food are Iceland and Ireland.


Iceland has fermented shark, conveniently pre-vomited.


Ireland has Spice Burgers.




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DON'T START THE DAY THAT WAY

My cardiologist speaks English as his first language, and, like many locally born San Franciscans of a certain type, does not understand the language of Hong Kong and Canton City, being only slightly familiar with his parents' dialect of Cantonese. Evenso, his idea of what many Americans eat is a bit skewed, although in the case of his clientele (mostly overweight Blacks and Whites) probably dangerously and painfully accurate.

Like him, I am not entirely familiar with what most Americans eat. So his recitation of all the evil things that I should avoid was a marvelous litany, and had a fun ritualistic ring to it. Bacon. Sausages. Fried eggs. Ham.
Pancakes.

Pancakes? Good lord. Can't stand the American flapjack. A thick doughy greasy fried bread-like substance, round and gooey, which my apartment mate often has for breakfast. Like all Anglo morning food, it's nasty.

Can't quite figure out how she developed an affection for the short stack, as she's of Cantonese ancestry. Must be her older brothers. One of them was a football player, in college, in the Midwest. That'll corrupt you.

A pancake should be like a crêpe. Perhaps with slices of apple in the batter. It's a snack-type thing, good in winter.


Largely I have avoided breakfast since returning to the States years ago. Cup and a half of strong coffee, cigarillo, then off to the shower. On workdays, a baked thing, three and half hours after I get up.

The "American Breakfast" is a nightmare.

Yesterday I rolled out of bed at eight, saw my cardiologist at two, got back to Chinatown just before teatime, and then broke my fast with battered and deepfried chops and curry sauce over rice. It was delicious!

First meal since coffee at eight.

So. Breakfast.



日式咖哩豬排飯
['yat sik gaa lei chyu paai fan']

It needed Sriracha, of course. Whenever Hong Kong people do "curry", it tends to be flavourful, but very low on heat. And this glow-in-the-dark big-nosed white person likes a piquancy. The breaded and fried porkchop is a relatively new item on the menu, and the "Japanese style" curry gravy is considerably nicer than the old-style Canto curry. Yeah, my cardiologist, the dietitian I saw last week, and my regular doctor could all be quite disturbed, as there was not a single vegetable there. But on the other hand, both members of the nursing staff I see at the hospital might approve.
Tasty, exciting, the perfect meal!

When I'm at work nowadays, I eat salad for lunch.
Lordy, but salads are vicious.
Even with Sriracha.



Smoked my pipe on the sidewalk alongside the park afterwards. The two filthy naked crazies from the previous day weren't there -- perhaps men with butterfly nets took them away -- and there were more children and old people, fewer bums. Maybe somebody complained.

The black female loonie who wears dirty towels is back.
Grant Avenue and Wentworth Place. Usually.
Sometimes she has a sheet.





APPENDIX

Cardio-vascular disease: 心血管疾病 ('sam huet kun jat beng'; "heart blood-tubes illness ailment/sickness"). Cardiology: 心臟病學 ('sam jong beng hok'; "heart-organ disease study"). Also 心臟內科 ('sam jong noi fo'; "heart-organ internal science"). Cardiologist: 心臟病醫生 ('sam jong beng yi saang'; "heart disease doctor"). Also 心臟病專家 ('sam jong beng juen gaa'; "heart disease specialist"). Note that 臟病 ('jong beng'; "organ disease") sounds very similar to 髒病 ('jong beng'; "venereal disease").

Context is everything, the more the better. Include 血液循環 ('huet yat cheun waan'; or 循環系統 'cheun waan hai tung' in your discussion; circulation and circulatory system respectively.





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YESTERDAY SHOULD BE REPEATED

The old man with a cheat sheet for filling out forms (age, address, date of birth). The middle-aged impatient woman (medical tests just take up so much precious time!). The baffled fellow who didn't know why he OR his daughter were there. A sweet old lady. And two middle-aged Caucasian dudes. I still don't know why the other one was there, he was still waiting when my procedures were done.

Having arrived twenty minutes early, I was there for a good long while in between, but still got out well before lunch. So I wandered around -- scoped out the dim sum restaurant where I had originally planned to eat, they were booming, went to Walgreens to have my transit card upped -- before finally deciding on a bánh mì (燒豬肉麵包 'siu chyu yiuk min baau') and cà phê sữa (越南咖啡無多冰 'yuet naam gaa fei mou do bing').


There were two pipes and tobacco in my coat pocket. One briar was an elegant little number my grandmother had given my dad when he returned from the war, so it was considerably older than myself. The other pipe was a squatty thing I had acquired 15 years ago. The first for after lunch.
The second for after tea.

Purchased a fun reference book in between.

Coldish, but sunny, a slight breeze. Stockton Street bustling, the alleyways quiet and windless. Outside mr. Wong's shop I listened to the sixties music he had on. There were only a few tourists, or people of any type. Too early for grandparents to pick up their kids.


I just realized that from the hospital, to Walgreens, to the Vietnamese place, the bookstore, and even at the bakery where I went for milk tea and a pastry, every person I dealt with was female. That doesn't usually happen.

Stimulating beverages. Textural things. Savoury or flaky edibles. New book. Smoke. Touchy-feelies (two pipes, both sandblasted). Aged Virginia leaf and memories of my father. Sunlight recalled from long ago, and in real world time. People I remembered, and people in the present.
Yesterday should always be repeated.


Slanting silver rays, black holes in the shadows.
The way the pipe was held in his mouth.




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OH, THEY ARE JUST SO SWEET!

Some people shouldn't have kids. Those two troll-like creatures looked like they could've been living under a bridge instead of riding public transit and acting spoiled. Yeah, I know. Mean thing to say. All children are precious.
Those two brats were alien mutants.
And behaved repulsively.
Monsters.

Of course, one little old woman thought they were just darling.

There's always one who goes gaga for nasty kids.

The more loathsome, the better.


That's the problem, you see. SF Muni buses convey icky little turdlings, their parents, elderly psychopaths and demented people, and office workers from the Embarcadero Centers. Plus random individuals overdosing.
And folks needing a warm place to crap.
A smorgasbord.




We need more lizards in San Francisco, and fewer humans.




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YOU DOCTOR ME NURSE

Off to the hospital for two more appointments (screening in radiology dept.) in a few minutes. Which, once completed, will be followed by lunch, a pipeful of tobacco, snackipoo and milktea, and another smoke.

A rich full day, in other words.

Tomorrow I am seeing my cardiologist at a different hospital.

So it's a good thing I did laundry last Friday. One doesn't want to show up at the hospital smelling all stanky. There are people there who one would want to think of one as a decent civilized self-disciplined dude, despite the habit one has of having unhealthy food. And enjoying tobacco. And disco-dancing while on vacation in Ibiza.


Lunch, three days in a row, was salad.

I hate salad now.



You know, there are VERY good reasons dim sum restaurants and chachanteng in C'town do not have salad on their menus.


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THANK YOU, PLEASE CALL AGAIN!

There are times when you can still tell that the call is not an actual live human to whom you wish to talk. Prerecorded, robotic, or a subcontinental scam artist trying to get into your bank account, your computer, or your boxer shorts.
Calls telling you that you are in danger of losing your approval for a student loan, or telling you amazing things about Dan's Airduct Service. Or asking, brightly, "hi, is the lady of the house there?" With an expectant pause.
Other than saying 'no', or asking 'why', or even slamming the phone down, there is only ONE possible response to that.


"WE ARE AN ANARCHO-SYNDICALIST COLLECTIVE!"

"We take it in turns to be the Lady of the House. Supreme femininity derives from a mandate from the masses!"


As far as actual gender goes, my apartment mate is the Lady of the House. We are not a couple, neither of us make decisions that would involve both of us, there is nothing to see here. So just move along.
She is the small Cantonese womyn resident. Of the apartment.
I am the smelly Dutch resident. Of the apartment.
The senior roomie is a teddy bear.


We share the kitchen, crapper, shower, and a landline. We have separate beds, rooms, bank accounts, computers, and love lives.
That is to say, she may have broken up with Wheelie Boy (I should know?), but they are still on good terms.
I haven't had a love life since like before Jayzus.

There is no 'Lady of the House'.
Instead, two grumpy adults.
And a dour teddy bear.

We will not buy the garbage on the other end of the line.






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WORDS OF WELL BEING

Like everybody, I take my medical advice from random know-it-alls on a daily basis. Because you just can't pay for that kind of life experience. This in connection with serious input from people who entirely unbeknownst to me have diagnosed my health issues precisely, and "really" possess so much more wisdom and medical science that they are just burbling over with helpful suggestions and authoritative facts.

Either that or they want to kill me.


Special diets! Avoid red meat, gluten, carrots, corn, soy, and gmos.
Instead: cucumbers, kale, beets, organic apple cider vinegar.
Native American tobacco ceremonies, and burning sage.


Modern fabrics give you cancer.


Not only am I still upset at all the unwanted medical advice I received last week, but a few people have added to that by their dingbat theories, which, if taken seriously, might cause some real damage. Why is it that so many people who have not a shred of medical expertise feel obligated to lay their supertstitious suburban voodoo on people?

Screw sage, gluten-free, organic, macrobiotic, paleo, and buggery apple cider vinegar. The reason why you folks aren't dead yet is A) you were vaccinated as kids, and B) you are incredibly and undeservedly lucky.

If neither I nor any rational one else would take style, investment, car buying, cigar, or culinary advice from you all, why should we even listen to your crackpot health advice? You're Gwyneth buggery Paltrow perhaps?
Vani the food-booby Hari?
Snake-oil Oz?




By the way: vaccines do NOT give you autism.
Or any kind of damaging inflammation.
There is NO conspiracy.





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STAY HEALTHY

Several Vietnamese bloggers appear keen that I investigate gynecology. Mind you, I am not averse to that, heavens no, but I strongly suspect that the comments they left in my letterbox may have been self-serving spam. Because I have not dwelt overmuch on the gyne, and cannot have thus attracted their attention. So their comments will not be approved.

I filter for Spam, approve of gyne, and break for ferrets.


It's too early in the day for gynecology, though.


So the link to what may very well be the very best little clinic in Hanoi for your private parts will not be published. Sorry, Keeley, Stacy, Indra, Johnson, and others.


Please keep your squidgy bits healthy.

And don't smoke bad tobacco.




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HOLY CRAP, IT'S A SLEAZE PARTY!

Coming home from Marin this blogger wasn't looking forward to having the Real Housewives on teevee. But my apartment mate likes watching white or black wimmins from the rest of the country acting trashy. As an innocent little Cantonese girl from SF, she's used to temperate and very restrained styles of behaviour -- except for people loosing their nut in public, of course, because Cantonese just LOVE street theatre -- and the Real Housewives franchise has nothing but unadulterated gold-plated trash.

So okay, that's on the telly while I am preparing my dinner.
Curried potato and okra, with sausages and chiles.
I'm eating healthy nowadays.

Let the food cool on the stove, return to the television room (that's where the computers are) and there's a sleazoid fashion show playing, featuring big breasted trashbags. She has a big smile all over her face.


Sometimes her eyeballs glow.


If I was a sensitive man, her viewing preferences might give me gastric distress. But that isn't the case.

Should've added more chilies. The chourice isn't very spicy.

I had salad for lunch. Bland and Waspy.

Even with Sriracha.



A person's food and entertainments should be zesty. Else what's the point?
Nobody except middle-of-the-country White People are going to watch a solid hour of well-behaved Christians experiencing another mild day at the daffodil farm with their meek little rabbits and lambs. Or eat lettuce and baloney sammiches on spongy white bread while doing so.

Well, maybe some nice black people might. After all, they do consider macaroni and cheese a side dish, rather than intestinal glue.

Spa and elevator music were invented for them.

Along with Lutefisk.




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WHERE THERE ARE LIZARDS

Last night, a few hours after twelve o'clock, I was in Amsterdam. But it was only a dream. Naturally there were parts that were quite foreign to me, as well as Autumn leaves, coffee, and small cigars. My dreaming is more intense and urgent now. It's a side effect of my medication.

Unlike most tech-job yuppies, I rely on perfectly legal substances for slight psycho-active effect. All around me, Midwesterners and sub-continentals have to use cocaine, weed, meth, plus Red Bull or Monster and vodka.
Which are more intense, and less controllable.

There's weird stuff going on inside their tiny minds.


The minor effect on my occipital lobe pales considerably when compared to the waitstaff from a popular nearby restaurant screaming their empty heads off on Fernet Branca, cheap beer, and cocaine.

It's cheaper and more user-friendly too.


Amlodipine, Clopidogrel, Losartan, Metoprolol.


More intense dreams, and an imagination somewhat more vivid than before (that could just be the result of better circulation and more oxygen because of the blood-pressure medications) is quite a bit more manageable and socially smooth than their late night psychotic episodes at the two bars that they go to after work. They are nice enough people, and probably quite as competent as their e-commerce customers at whatever it is that they do.
But gracious, they are loud.

My favourite evening haunts have always been bars, restaurants, and coffee shops with fewer, calmer, and quieter, customers. Places where one can read, or smoke a pipe outside without strange conversations or extremes of behaviour.


North Beach is filled with techo-pond-scum, crack heads, coke fiends, and meth heads after dark. Polk Street has cocaine, heroine, and both designer drugs and too much energy beverage consumption. No, I do not know what marks the South of Market clubs or the Mission District, but it's probably Marinites and Oaklanders with enough hip substances to sink a fleet.


Alcohol, of course, releases the monster in many people.


We need fewer karaoke bars, more pizzerias.


And places to have coffee.




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SALT, SUGAR, DAIRY ... AND CRUNCHY BITS

Perfect fried rice contains egg, potato, a little chopped lemon, chilies, and curry paste; prove me wrong. This evening I fried up some scrips and scraps, with pre-cooked rice, a shrimp-paste compound, curry paste, and a pinch of nutmeg. I suppose the nutritionist I saw on Tuesday as per the advice of my doctor might be a little appalled -- more on culinary than on dietary grounds, despite being of Chinese ancestry and therefore more adventurous than Wasps from the East Coast (which is everything between the Central Valley and the Atlantic) -- but the superlative taste and satisfaction would have convinced her.

Fried peanuts would have been a nice touch.
Gonna hafta purchase more peanuts.


Besides, I've been good. No cookies. Salad for lunch (and I hate salad). The delicious and gooey looking cinnamon rolls my coworker left in the kitchen at work for all of us tempted me, oh boy golly yes, but I resisted.

Reason being that I do not wish to become diabetic.

Despite the amusing name of that ailment.

In Cantonese.


糖尿病

Tong (糖) means 'sugar', and frequently also 'candies'. So 糖尿病 ('tong niu beng') could well be translated as "candy pee sickness". Which in a way is charming as all git-out, but belies the gravity. Additionally, my doctor says my cholesterol is verging on too high too.

My apartment mate celebrates her good cholesterol results every year with a lobster and a bucket of butter.

Despite not being much of a lobster fan, I envy her.


She's an old friend, but for several reasons we don't eat together, though we may dine at the same time. Which is better than her and her on-again off-again boyfriend (not sure how that relationship is going, they might be just good friends by now, which would reflect well on him, he may be a decent bloke after all), who is food-wise a mighty queer fish. Because of which, eating with him proved nearly impossible early in their relationship.

I have no actual food hang-ups.


Vegetables are among my favourite meat substitutes. But most commercial prepackaged salads benefit immensely from the addition of chili sauce, and ideally, vegetables are blanched rather than raw.
Add some chili sauce.


Being a man means dining alone, alas, and substituting chilies for salt, sugar, pork fat, and high-cholesterol foods.




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GOOD EGG

In conversation somebody brought up street food in various cities around the world, possibly as a means of showcasing how well travelled she was.
I was not part of this conversation -- not knowing the people involved, and too busy snarfing down lean pork and skin-egg congee (皮蛋瘦肉粥), plus a fried oil stick (油條) to even grunt -- but I listened in while they apathetically forked over some damned fine steamed rice sheet noodle rolls (腸粉), and pork siu mai (豬肉燒賣).
Unless its crocodile or kangaroo, Australians don't get excited.
And unlike everybody else, they need Vegemite.
It's their soulfood of choice.

[Lean pork and skin-egg congee (皮蛋瘦肉粥): 'pei daan sau yiuk juk'. Fried oil stick (油條): 'yau tiu'. Steamed rice sheet noodle rolls (腸粉): 'cheung fan'. Pork siu mai (豬肉燒賣): 'chyu yiuk siu maai'. How did I know it was pork? There's a little yellow dab of preserved egg yolk on top.]

One of them had been to Yogyakarta. Where gudeg is from. A stew made of unripe jackfruit simmered a long time with coconut milk, palm sugar, and spices. Often served with opor ayam on a banana leaf. Both of which, unsurprisingly, can be vastly improved by the addition of Vegemite.
In addition to the inevitable sambal (chili paste).

I have never tasted gudeg in Djokya. But when I travelled, I never got smashed either, unlike most Australians or Britons.

When white people get drunk in the tropics, they smell like Vegemite.


If you are travelling in South East Asia, you do well to avoid the Caucasians there. They are almost always drunk.


Gudeg is good stuff.




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ROAST MEAT, TEA DINING HALLS, AND GARBAGE NOODLES

A conversation yesterday with a nutritionist may have left her hungry, and me slightly depressed. Largely because I had very good ammunition. We were speaking about ways I should eat better. No, we didn't even touch on the helpful advice of various self-acknowledged experts that apple cider vinegar and turmeric would solve all my problems and cleanse the world, or the recommendation that I should cut gluten and doing so would make me radiantly healthy. Damned well saintly, glowing aura and sh*t.
Or that Vegans are spiritually superior.
We settled on cookies.

Baby steps.

The cookies are between my apartment mate's laptop on mine on the table in the television room. At present there are three different delicious kinds there. Sometimes there's up to ten different kinds of cookie, just sitting there in their containers, whispering "liberate me, big boy, you know you want to", and shaking a chocolate chip suggestively.

Cookies.


甜餅乾
['tim beng gon']

We Dutch invented cookies. Both my apartment mate and the nutritionist are Chinese. They invented Cantonese Roast Duck, which is delicious and tender and juicy and has both a sweetness and a savoury quality and is wonderful by itself or over rice.

Cookies, sweet or savoury dry biscuits, flaky stuff, and crunchy snack things, are a presence in every Cantonese home. Because, you know.
You might be peckish. The grandkids could visit. Someone returned from a long journey. Angst.




香港飲食
['Heung Kong yam-sik']

My conversational input included all the ways things could go somewhat astray. Tea Dining Halls and Garbage Noodles, plus bakeries, coffee shops, snackiepoos, and what have you. Seeing as it was close to lunch time, and not having had breakfast all of this was at the top on my mind.


茶餐廳
['chaa chaan teng']

What I'm calling a 'Tea Dining Hall' is the chachanteng, a typical Hong Kong institution, where the emphasis is on a cup of strong black tea with sweet condensed milk, and a menu rich in easy to make high calorie foods that may send your cholesterol through the roof. Stuff with cheese and butter and white sauce. Fried noodles, casseroles, pork chops.

Or "French Toast". Thick, battered, fried. With sweet drizzles over.


垃圾麵
['laap saap min']

Garbage Noodles are pasta plus whatevers. Which may include fish balls, curry, various vegetables, soup stock, roast or preserved meats, and maybe a fried egg on top. And other fried things.

Garbage Noodles used to be what people threw together late at night while watching a sixty part soap opera with lots of weeping, lots of relatives of the main characters experiencing all kinds of drama and hardship, and lots of tender moments involving people who would never get to marry each other or achieve happiness. They were done commercially by street side culinary experts who often did not have the necessary permits for food preparation.

Over the past few decades those cooks have been forced indoors, and the number of optional things you can add has increased enormously. Various cuts of already cooked meat or offal. Sausage. Pork balls. Fish balls.
Several different vegetables. Hot sauce, curry sauce, oyster sauce.

Garbage Noodles are, of course, an affectionate nickname.



營養學
['ying yeung hok']

The nutritionist (營養師 'ying yeung si') works at Chinese Hospital (東華醫院 'tung waa yi yuen'), my doctor suggested that I talk to her. She has her work cut out for her. Most of her clientele may very well be elderly and stubborn, and within several blocks of her office the opportunities for backsliding or lapsing are legion, flamboyantly tempting!
Bakeries, chachanteng, lunch counters, Chinese bakeries, and shops with a huge variety of cookies and biscuits imported from Hong Kong, Malaysia, Singapore, and Shanghai.


燒味
['siu mei']

Even within a mere two blocks, there are four places where delicious Cantonese roast duck (燒鴨 'siu ngaap'), barbecue pork (叉燒 'chaa siu'), and roast meat (燒肉 'siu yiuk') may be had. Plus soy sauce chicken (豉油雞 'si yau gai') or poached chicken perhaps lightly flavoured with sesame oil and ginger (白切雞 'paak chit gai'). Four blocks, and you also have roast goose (燒鵝 'siu ngoh'') and marinated "stuff" (滷味 'lo mei').



身體保健
['san tai bou gin']

Osteoporosis (骨質疏鬆症 'gwat jat so sung jing'; "bone substance loss and loosened ailment"), high cholesterol (高膽固醇 'gou daam go seun'), and sugar pee disease (糖尿病 'tong niu beng'; diabetes) are of course major concerns of old folks eating unwisely.

And, in America, young people living on fastfood, chips, and soda.



It is getting towards lunch time. Chinatown is only a few blocks away.
Two of the places where I like to eat are closed on Wednesday, but at least a dozen others are open for business, and I can think of at least ten places which have Hong Kong Milk Tea.




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