Ben Edelman ordered food from a restaurant that had a website. The website had not been recently updated to reflect current prices. Ben Edelman paid four dollars more for his order than he thought he should. He contacted the restaurant, and demanded triple damages, to be credited to his credit card pronto, thank you very much.
Twelve dollars!
Triple damages?
It turns out that that is what the State of Massachusetts stipulates for advertising the wrong price.
What is remarkable is that Ben Edelman switched to asshole mode in record time.
Ben Edelman is an associate professor of bidniz at Harvard.
Whose website may be inadvertently wrong.
It's a mighty fine institution.
Which, this blogger does not doubt, is filled with people like Ben Edelman. Especially the bidniz faculty. The right stuff.
Sterling of character and stiff of upper lip.
Mighty fine people.
四川飯莊 II
The full exchange of e-mails between Ben Edelman (professor of bidniz) and Ran Duan (representative of Szichuan Garden Restaurant), is reproduced in full here: http://www.boston.com/food-dining/restaurants/2014/12/09/harvard-business-school-professor-goes-war-over-worth-chinese-food/KfMaEhab6uUY1COCnTbrXP/story.html.
["Ben Edelman, Harvard Business School Professor, Goes to War Over $4 Worth of Chinese Food"]
As well as here: http://blog.angryasianman.com/2014/12/this-harvard-business-school-professor.html.
["THIS HARVARD BUSINESS SCHOOL PROFESSOR WAS OVERCHARGED $4 FOR CHINESE TAKEOUT. NOW HE'S GOING TO MAKE THEM PAAAAAAY!"]
Ben Edelman is a whiz at e-mail: http://www.boston.com/food-dining/restaurants/2014/12/10/there-more-edelman-did-this-before-and-worse/00mTW39jcyXb3VNHZoXEYN/story.html?p1=trending_article_page_2.
["There’s More: Edelman Did This Before, And Worse"]
Ben Edelman is sorry.
Well la dee da.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, December 12, 2014
Thursday, December 11, 2014
JACKKNIFE READY RUBBED -- GUESTPOST BY A HEDGEHOG
Sometimes I have to admit that my own tobacco blathering is not the be all and end all of tobacco blathering. There are other blatherskytes who blather better than I blather. Blast it. Damned geniuses.
By which I mean that they are more inspired.
Perhaps a lot crazier too.
Lyrical.
AN INCITEMENT TO EXTREME MANLINESS
Review of G. L. Pease's JackKnife Ready Rubbed
By a Hedgehog.
[Read the entire essay here: tobaccoreviews.com -- review74831. ]
Suddenly all I want to do is chug a couple of handles of Wild Turkey, squeeze off some rounds, club some seal babies, harpoon something endangered, bomb Hanoi, crank up the George Thorogood, copter-hunt some mastadons, scarf a T-bone, litter, bench-press my HumVee, call in some air-strikes and generally get some. That's what a kiloton of Kentucky Dark Fired can do for a guy.
Esthetes and other un-American elements have suggested that there there's some bright-leaf in here, and maybe some sweet Virginias. If there are, I don't want to know about it. I like my tobacco as subtle as a thermobaric charge; this hits the spot and leaves a smoking hole.
Pipe Used: Generally I smoke this with my bare hands.
Age When Smoked: Jail bait.
[End cite.]
Well now. Is it the tobacco, or the smoker?
Truth is that Greg Pease's JackKnife is a darn fine product.
If seal babies smoked this, they'd grow up strong enough to beat the crap out of Canadian seal hunters. Hedgehogs too.
Normally hedgehogs are hard to handle.
Fumigate their nest with JackKnife smoke and they'll be gentle enough that you can harvest their honey easily. Or is that Kodiak bears I'm thinking of?
I likewise smoke JackKnife with my bare hands. From my beard to my pelvis is a dense mass of barbed wire. Don't hug me, I bite.
I do not like to be wipped.
APPENDIX
For reference purposes, my own review here: JackKnife Plug.
JackKnife's predecessor: Triple Play.
Other Pease's: Capsule Reviews.
And, because I can: Pipesmoking Jailbait.
Yes, this is an opportunistic attempt to ride on some other writer's coat tails, rather than composing anything original. But I credited the source, and provided links, so it's "win-win" as far as I'm concerned.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
By which I mean that they are more inspired.
Perhaps a lot crazier too.
Lyrical.
AN INCITEMENT TO EXTREME MANLINESS
Review of G. L. Pease's JackKnife Ready Rubbed
By a Hedgehog.
[Read the entire essay here: tobaccoreviews.com -- review74831. ]
Suddenly all I want to do is chug a couple of handles of Wild Turkey, squeeze off some rounds, club some seal babies, harpoon something endangered, bomb Hanoi, crank up the George Thorogood, copter-hunt some mastadons, scarf a T-bone, litter, bench-press my HumVee, call in some air-strikes and generally get some. That's what a kiloton of Kentucky Dark Fired can do for a guy.
Esthetes and other un-American elements have suggested that there there's some bright-leaf in here, and maybe some sweet Virginias. If there are, I don't want to know about it. I like my tobacco as subtle as a thermobaric charge; this hits the spot and leaves a smoking hole.
Pipe Used: Generally I smoke this with my bare hands.
Age When Smoked: Jail bait.
[End cite.]
Well now. Is it the tobacco, or the smoker?
Truth is that Greg Pease's JackKnife is a darn fine product.
If seal babies smoked this, they'd grow up strong enough to beat the crap out of Canadian seal hunters. Hedgehogs too.
Normally hedgehogs are hard to handle.
Fumigate their nest with JackKnife smoke and they'll be gentle enough that you can harvest their honey easily. Or is that Kodiak bears I'm thinking of?
I likewise smoke JackKnife with my bare hands. From my beard to my pelvis is a dense mass of barbed wire. Don't hug me, I bite.
I do not like to be wipped.
APPENDIX
For reference purposes, my own review here: JackKnife Plug.
JackKnife's predecessor: Triple Play.
Other Pease's: Capsule Reviews.
And, because I can: Pipesmoking Jailbait.
Yes, this is an opportunistic attempt to ride on some other writer's coat tails, rather than composing anything original. But I credited the source, and provided links, so it's "win-win" as far as I'm concerned.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
THOSE PEOPLE
Watching Marlene Dietrich chewing up the scenery in a movie about Catherine the Great makes clear that the world was a very different place eighty years ago. And that Josef von Sternberg truly hated the Russians.
Which is understandable. The problem was that he hated damned well everyone else too.
Earlier, Sternberg had made Shanghai Express, which was a fictionalization of the Lincheng Incident.
Lincheng Incident: On May 5, 1923, over a thousand bandits from Shandong hijacked a train and took all passengers hostage, including nearly three dozen white folks. Their demands were the withdrawal of troops from their home province, amnesty and military employ for most of the perpetrators. After much dithering by the Chinese and Western Powers, Shanghainese gangster boss Tu Yuesheng took matters into his own hand (on behalf of friends in the French Concession Police) and paid a rather paltry ransom (and probably made some extremely credible threats against family members of the wannabe soldiers), whereupon the hostages were released, and three thousand Shandong stalwarts were absorbed into the army.
For the next few years, train hijackings in China enjoyed an upsurge.
Within months of the event, the Chinese government, in reaction to intemperate demands by the western powers that such things absolutely be prevented in future, by employing white troops if need be, had politely told the white world to kindly and with due diligence take a hike.
But please do continue to visit our famous sights.
And also enjoy the local cuisine!
Sternberg's treatment of the tale makes nearly as little sense as his berserk interpretation of Catherine the Great's life story.
Naturally the film was shot within driving distance of the studio. Southern California looks remarkably like China between Peking and Shanghai.
Representational accuracy was not an operative concept, and few people would object to inaccuracies or outright balderdash, as long as it re-enforced their own value system while telling a darn good story.
The narrative was a greater truth than the facts could ever be.
Sternberg was not unusual in his distaste for other people and other languages, that was a common cultural trait among white Americans at that time, in which they were no different than most of the world. And if "the other" was a different race or culture, then it had a prescribed position as either exotic oddity or howling savage, often parts of both.
Any attempt by the 'not-our-type' class to act like "normal people" was considered both dubious and suspect.
What's surprising is that it took so long for things to change.
It has been less than fifty years since that happened.
Any improvements may be only skin deep.
Or marked by willful blindness.
Of course, economic segregation has gotten a lot worse in the intervening half century, and the wealthiest classes will do almost anything to avoid living cheek by jowl with "those people", and prevent their offspring from having to attend school with them. Which, given that so few Americans can actually afford to go to college nowadays, is quite odd.
More Americans are the economic underclass than ever before.
We have all become "those" people.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which is understandable. The problem was that he hated damned well everyone else too.
Earlier, Sternberg had made Shanghai Express, which was a fictionalization of the Lincheng Incident.
Lincheng Incident: On May 5, 1923, over a thousand bandits from Shandong hijacked a train and took all passengers hostage, including nearly three dozen white folks. Their demands were the withdrawal of troops from their home province, amnesty and military employ for most of the perpetrators. After much dithering by the Chinese and Western Powers, Shanghainese gangster boss Tu Yuesheng took matters into his own hand (on behalf of friends in the French Concession Police) and paid a rather paltry ransom (and probably made some extremely credible threats against family members of the wannabe soldiers), whereupon the hostages were released, and three thousand Shandong stalwarts were absorbed into the army.
For the next few years, train hijackings in China enjoyed an upsurge.
Within months of the event, the Chinese government, in reaction to intemperate demands by the western powers that such things absolutely be prevented in future, by employing white troops if need be, had politely told the white world to kindly and with due diligence take a hike.
But please do continue to visit our famous sights.
And also enjoy the local cuisine!
Sternberg's treatment of the tale makes nearly as little sense as his berserk interpretation of Catherine the Great's life story.
Naturally the film was shot within driving distance of the studio. Southern California looks remarkably like China between Peking and Shanghai.
Representational accuracy was not an operative concept, and few people would object to inaccuracies or outright balderdash, as long as it re-enforced their own value system while telling a darn good story.
The narrative was a greater truth than the facts could ever be.
Sternberg was not unusual in his distaste for other people and other languages, that was a common cultural trait among white Americans at that time, in which they were no different than most of the world. And if "the other" was a different race or culture, then it had a prescribed position as either exotic oddity or howling savage, often parts of both.
Any attempt by the 'not-our-type' class to act like "normal people" was considered both dubious and suspect.
What's surprising is that it took so long for things to change.
It has been less than fifty years since that happened.
Any improvements may be only skin deep.
Or marked by willful blindness.
Of course, economic segregation has gotten a lot worse in the intervening half century, and the wealthiest classes will do almost anything to avoid living cheek by jowl with "those people", and prevent their offspring from having to attend school with them. Which, given that so few Americans can actually afford to go to college nowadays, is quite odd.
More Americans are the economic underclass than ever before.
We have all become "those" people.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
SOMETIMES THEY TALK ABOUT FOOD
Ming is an excellent barber. But he dwells too much on food. While waiting for my turn, I listened in on him and the man under his hands talking bout food. That customer, makes no mistake, likes Cantonese food. Why, the food in Guangzhou is delicious! But the younger generation prefers MacDonalds and Pizza. Oh, these modern times!
Followed a back-and-forth about stir-fried vegetables and fish.
All, of course, superlatively fresh! In Guangzhou.
By this time my mouth was watering.
Because my Cantonese is not quick enough for long conversations, I tend towards fairly non-communicative. So when I was under the clippers Ming ended up talking about food with two other people. His assistant had already eaten, he hadn't. No time, work called. He likes dim sum.
Who doesn't?
But he does not know very many people, and consequently seldom heads out to a tea-house.
Which begged the question how he was EVER going to meet a woman. He averred that women would probably not like him, modern girls like men who can show off their means. Not so, one of the others said, what mattered most was a true heart. But where to find? If he never went out to dim sum, nor parties, he would never meet someone.
Followed a description of steak, which was on a sizzling platter. Plus soups, homecooking, and pizza.
Why, just look at so-and-so (a gentleman outside my field of vision who was waiting his turn), HE still woos the ladies. And he might just get lucky one of these days. You have to take risks, and eat well. Some women find food way more important than material goods, and at least you'll get fed, she might even bring you lunch, seeing as you're so hardworking!
After this philosophical high, the conversation veered back into dim sum.
As I knew it would.
Did I already mention that my mouth was watering?
Care to guess what I had for lunch?
I finished the afternoon by spending an hour at a calligrapher's studio, listening in while he gave a lesson to an older Taiwanese woman, who uses too much pressure on the curves rather than letting the stroke guide the brush. Which is why the swooping overhand toward the right and down shows fibres but scant ink.
Additionally, like many people, she does the vertical trunk before the horizontal component through which it cuts. A logical mistake. First stroke, at top, horizontal. One could assume that the vertical which is attached should next be written, but one should instead make the box-like part immediately underneath the topmost vertical. Only then proceed to the vertical. Again, lightly, do not press. It is not heavy.
He couldn't find a seal-script version of 卷 in the dictionary he was consulting at the time. So I pulled a copy of the 印雕辭典 which I saw in his book shelf out. Yes, the character was in that one. Alas, only one example in 篆書。 One likes to have more for comparison. But all three of us failed to find it in the first dictionary.
As a phonetic element is also occurs in 捲、箞、棬、and 錈。
Which gave us plenty of fine variations.
As you can see, one can play around with curves and line-tension inside the confines of the space. It's an attractive vibrant character.
Just not represented in all seal-script dictionaries.
Both the stick-inks used in brush calligraphy and the vermilion paste for seal impressions have their own smell, an evocative aroma. What better way to occupy a gloomy afternoon than drinking in their fragrance?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Followed a back-and-forth about stir-fried vegetables and fish.
All, of course, superlatively fresh! In Guangzhou.
By this time my mouth was watering.
Because my Cantonese is not quick enough for long conversations, I tend towards fairly non-communicative. So when I was under the clippers Ming ended up talking about food with two other people. His assistant had already eaten, he hadn't. No time, work called. He likes dim sum.
Who doesn't?
But he does not know very many people, and consequently seldom heads out to a tea-house.
Which begged the question how he was EVER going to meet a woman. He averred that women would probably not like him, modern girls like men who can show off their means. Not so, one of the others said, what mattered most was a true heart. But where to find? If he never went out to dim sum, nor parties, he would never meet someone.
Followed a description of steak, which was on a sizzling platter. Plus soups, homecooking, and pizza.
Why, just look at so-and-so (a gentleman outside my field of vision who was waiting his turn), HE still woos the ladies. And he might just get lucky one of these days. You have to take risks, and eat well. Some women find food way more important than material goods, and at least you'll get fed, she might even bring you lunch, seeing as you're so hardworking!
After this philosophical high, the conversation veered back into dim sum.
As I knew it would.
Did I already mention that my mouth was watering?
Care to guess what I had for lunch?
I finished the afternoon by spending an hour at a calligrapher's studio, listening in while he gave a lesson to an older Taiwanese woman, who uses too much pressure on the curves rather than letting the stroke guide the brush. Which is why the swooping overhand toward the right and down shows fibres but scant ink.
Additionally, like many people, she does the vertical trunk before the horizontal component through which it cuts. A logical mistake. First stroke, at top, horizontal. One could assume that the vertical which is attached should next be written, but one should instead make the box-like part immediately underneath the topmost vertical. Only then proceed to the vertical. Again, lightly, do not press. It is not heavy.
He couldn't find a seal-script version of 卷 in the dictionary he was consulting at the time. So I pulled a copy of the 印雕辭典 which I saw in his book shelf out. Yes, the character was in that one. Alas, only one example in 篆書。 One likes to have more for comparison. But all three of us failed to find it in the first dictionary.
As a phonetic element is also occurs in 捲、箞、棬、and 錈。
Which gave us plenty of fine variations.
As you can see, one can play around with curves and line-tension inside the confines of the space. It's an attractive vibrant character.
Just not represented in all seal-script dictionaries.
Both the stick-inks used in brush calligraphy and the vermilion paste for seal impressions have their own smell, an evocative aroma. What better way to occupy a gloomy afternoon than drinking in their fragrance?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 09, 2014
AMERICAN TORTURE, THE POLICE, AND CORRUPTION
The reason why democracy is the best system of government is NOT that fewer or no wrongs will be committed than in other systems, but that it bears within itself the tools to correct those errors, rather than perpetuate them.
Judging by the squawks of outrage from the other side in Washington, this lesson does not appear to have penetrated many "conservative" minds.
Consequently it behooves us to fear them.
We shine a light on our flaws. The Far Right wishes that we wouldn't. And much of the rest of the world insists that unlike us, they don't have any flaws that need exposure.
It is probably our greatest strength.
There is much that can be improved.
Unlike in the rest of the world.
Which is utterly perfect.
As they tell us.
Always.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Judging by the squawks of outrage from the other side in Washington, this lesson does not appear to have penetrated many "conservative" minds.
Consequently it behooves us to fear them.
We shine a light on our flaws. The Far Right wishes that we wouldn't. And much of the rest of the world insists that unlike us, they don't have any flaws that need exposure.
It is probably our greatest strength.
There is much that can be improved.
Unlike in the rest of the world.
Which is utterly perfect.
As they tell us.
Always.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 08, 2014
BERKELEY FINDS ITS MISSING MANHOOD -- BY LOOTING RADIO SHACK AND WHOLE FOODS
Last night and the night before, frat boys, earthmoms and moonpapas, trustafarians, and the black block, showed Berkeley who da boss. By setting streetfires, breaking windows, and stealing from stores that in their righteous rage against the man, they trashed. They would have also looted pizza places, but employees stood outside guarding the premises. Because, after all, one does not wish the place that helps one pay for community college destroyed by people who can afford to go to Berkeley.
The twitter feeds were eloquent, and fascinating.
"Protesters at Telegraph and Alcratraz, about four blocks from my apartment. Just heard a boom. Here we go."
"Oh holy shit please don’t set the gas station on fire."
"Go home white kids you're drunk, And stupid."
"Who knows better about the struggles of minorities than a bunch of college kids at Berkeley?"
"Seems like it is predominantly white males instigating looting, as WholeFoods & McDonalds vandalised."
"My Whole Foods has been looted of Christmas trees!! Also hope my car windows are not smashed."
"Please Berkeley not the Whole Foods... Anything else."
"Just discovered that the phrase "Black Lives Matter" has nothing to do with disadvantaged goth kids."
"Can white occupy hipsters please fuck off and let the black voices be heard?"
"White kid in a black hoodie just ran down Alcatraz Ave. kicking cars. What a shithead."
"Wish I could be there with you guys but its hard to stay up late and trash the community when you've got work the next day."
"A dozen protestors broke into whole foods and stole cider and Christmas trees."
"Must sleep. Love to you ALL. Take care of each other, and smash the police."
"Black lives matter, until Trader Joe's is out of basil cilantro hummus."
"Too many vegans looting gallons of whole milk."
"Oh goodie, the helicopters are back!"
Twitterers with something worthwhile to say: Jillsmo, Nothgiel Semaj, Matt Takimoto, Eldritch Buddy, Jimni 27, Adam Edgmond, Independent Texan, Keaghan Townsend, Jinxy Stubblefield, Leila Mansouri, Grumpy Hat, Joey Garibaldi, Adriana Alcorta, A Happy Place, and above all, Jamaal Shapiro for injecting a note of savagely witty realism into what was, essentially, an opera of the absurd and misguided singing for an audience of limp and sweaty middle-class self-orgasmers.
Please note that exemplary police restraint, a sparing use of teargas, and the paucity of arrests, are a greater testament to "white privilege" than almost anything else could possibly be.
It also demonstrates that despite progressive pretensions and fervor, Berkeley is hopelessly, drearily, and resolutely, bourgeois.
Please also note use of the Oxford comma.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The twitter feeds were eloquent, and fascinating.
"Protesters at Telegraph and Alcratraz, about four blocks from my apartment. Just heard a boom. Here we go."
"Oh holy shit please don’t set the gas station on fire."
"Go home white kids you're drunk, And stupid."
"Who knows better about the struggles of minorities than a bunch of college kids at Berkeley?"
"Seems like it is predominantly white males instigating looting, as WholeFoods & McDonalds vandalised."
"My Whole Foods has been looted of Christmas trees!! Also hope my car windows are not smashed."
"Please Berkeley not the Whole Foods... Anything else."
"Just discovered that the phrase "Black Lives Matter" has nothing to do with disadvantaged goth kids."
"Can white occupy hipsters please fuck off and let the black voices be heard?"
"White kid in a black hoodie just ran down Alcatraz Ave. kicking cars. What a shithead."
"Wish I could be there with you guys but its hard to stay up late and trash the community when you've got work the next day."
"A dozen protestors broke into whole foods and stole cider and Christmas trees."
"Must sleep. Love to you ALL. Take care of each other, and smash the police."
"Black lives matter, until Trader Joe's is out of basil cilantro hummus."
"Too many vegans looting gallons of whole milk."
"Oh goodie, the helicopters are back!"
Twitterers with something worthwhile to say: Jillsmo, Nothgiel Semaj, Matt Takimoto, Eldritch Buddy, Jimni 27, Adam Edgmond, Independent Texan, Keaghan Townsend, Jinxy Stubblefield, Leila Mansouri, Grumpy Hat, Joey Garibaldi, Adriana Alcorta, A Happy Place, and above all, Jamaal Shapiro for injecting a note of savagely witty realism into what was, essentially, an opera of the absurd and misguided singing for an audience of limp and sweaty middle-class self-orgasmers.
Please note that exemplary police restraint, a sparing use of teargas, and the paucity of arrests, are a greater testament to "white privilege" than almost anything else could possibly be.
It also demonstrates that despite progressive pretensions and fervor, Berkeley is hopelessly, drearily, and resolutely, bourgeois.
Please also note use of the Oxford comma.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
LITTLE SISTER'S GRUEL -- 妹記粥
One my favourite dishes is simple, basic, and cheap (皮蛋瘦肉粥 'pei daan sau yiuk juk'). Scrawny pork and preserved egg in rice porridge. No, I cannot remember when I first tried it; many years ago. But in any case it was shortly after I had learned to read the words. 皮 'pei': skin, surface. 蛋 'daan': egg. 瘦 'sau': thin, lean. 肉 'yiuk': meat, flesh. 粥 'juk': rice gruel, thin paste. You don't have to know how to read in order to enjoy food, but if you're white, it helps.
Some things require more than passing ability with a dictionary. Fish loin and meatball congee: 魚腩肉丸粥 ('yü naam yiuk-yuen juk'). This is fatty underbelly of carp, which is sweet and rich, with meatballs made of not particularly diet-friendly pork; both equally added to your bowl of rice porridge. It is "mun yü dik tim mei" (滿魚的甜味); "filled with the sweet deliciousness of fish". Shredded lettuce (生菜絲 'saang choi si') on top brings out the fresh taste.
If you are an aficionado, also order some crunchy raw fish skin (爽魚皮 'song yü pei'). Many people do. Dressed, with ginger and scallion added, to dip in soy and chili.
Congee heaven is on Flower Garden Street (花园街 'fa yuen gaai'), in Mongkok (旺角), near Argyle Street (亞皆老街 'ngaa gaai lou gaai').
妹記生滾粥品
旺角花園街市政大廈4樓熟食中心11-12舖
['mui kei saang-gwan juk pan; wong-gok fa-yuen gaai si jing-daai haa, sei lau, suksik jungsam, sap-yat sap-yi pou']
MUI KEE CONGEE
["Younger Sister's Freshly Boiled Congee Products"]
Shop no. 11-12, Fa Yuen Street Market, Municipal Services Building, Fourth Floor, Cooked Foods Centre
Mongkok, Kowloon, Hong Kong.
Hours of operation: Seven in the morning till three P.M.
It used to be a street food stall (大牌檔 'daai paai dong'), but like very many such it has moved indoors. The third generation of the original family now runs the place.
The term 'mui' (妹) means a younger sister, and is a flexible relational term -- meaning that I would address a young non-adult as such, but not someone reasonably close to my own age, unless there were kinship or romantic ties binding us -- and in this case posits the founder within a family or social hierarchy.
No, I do not know the backstory.
好靚好食嘅 HOU LENG HOU SIK GE!
["very beautiful and delicious!"]
Items to consider, because they are wonderful:
Carp belly and meatballs congee (魚腩肉丸粥 'yü naam yiuk yuen juk'), pork liver and carp belly congee (豬潤魚腩粥 'chü yun yü naam juk'; 魚腩豬肝粥 'yü naam chü gon juk'), and plain carp belly congee (鯇魚片粥 'waan yü pin juk'). But there are many other variations, and there is no need to restrain yourself to just these three. What you must definitely also have is "oil fried lumps" (油炸塊 'yau jaa faai'), which is a strip of deep-fried puff bread (油條 'yau tiu') cut into manageable chunks. Dump these on top one by one, to sop up some of the congee. Not all at once, as you don't want them sodden.
They are customary with rice porridge, and yummy.
If there are two of you, you should also share preserved egg with shredded ginger (生薑皮蛋 'saang geung pei daan') on the side.
熟食中心 SUK-SIK JUNG-SAM
The Cooked Foods Centre is open from six in the morning till 2 A.M.
It's a little hard to find if you're new to the area, but worth it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Some things require more than passing ability with a dictionary. Fish loin and meatball congee: 魚腩肉丸粥 ('yü naam yiuk-yuen juk'). This is fatty underbelly of carp, which is sweet and rich, with meatballs made of not particularly diet-friendly pork; both equally added to your bowl of rice porridge. It is "mun yü dik tim mei" (滿魚的甜味); "filled with the sweet deliciousness of fish". Shredded lettuce (生菜絲 'saang choi si') on top brings out the fresh taste.
If you are an aficionado, also order some crunchy raw fish skin (爽魚皮 'song yü pei'). Many people do. Dressed, with ginger and scallion added, to dip in soy and chili.
Congee heaven is on Flower Garden Street (花园街 'fa yuen gaai'), in Mongkok (旺角), near Argyle Street (亞皆老街 'ngaa gaai lou gaai').
妹記生滾粥品
旺角花園街市政大廈4樓熟食中心11-12舖
['mui kei saang-gwan juk pan; wong-gok fa-yuen gaai si jing-daai haa, sei lau, suksik jungsam, sap-yat sap-yi pou']
MUI KEE CONGEE
["Younger Sister's Freshly Boiled Congee Products"]
Shop no. 11-12, Fa Yuen Street Market, Municipal Services Building, Fourth Floor, Cooked Foods Centre
Mongkok, Kowloon, Hong Kong.
Hours of operation: Seven in the morning till three P.M.
It used to be a street food stall (大牌檔 'daai paai dong'), but like very many such it has moved indoors. The third generation of the original family now runs the place.
The term 'mui' (妹) means a younger sister, and is a flexible relational term -- meaning that I would address a young non-adult as such, but not someone reasonably close to my own age, unless there were kinship or romantic ties binding us -- and in this case posits the founder within a family or social hierarchy.
No, I do not know the backstory.
好靚好食嘅 HOU LENG HOU SIK GE!
["very beautiful and delicious!"]
Items to consider, because they are wonderful:
Carp belly and meatballs congee (魚腩肉丸粥 'yü naam yiuk yuen juk'), pork liver and carp belly congee (豬潤魚腩粥 'chü yun yü naam juk'; 魚腩豬肝粥 'yü naam chü gon juk'), and plain carp belly congee (鯇魚片粥 'waan yü pin juk'). But there are many other variations, and there is no need to restrain yourself to just these three. What you must definitely also have is "oil fried lumps" (油炸塊 'yau jaa faai'), which is a strip of deep-fried puff bread (油條 'yau tiu') cut into manageable chunks. Dump these on top one by one, to sop up some of the congee. Not all at once, as you don't want them sodden.
They are customary with rice porridge, and yummy.
If there are two of you, you should also share preserved egg with shredded ginger (生薑皮蛋 'saang geung pei daan') on the side.
熟食中心 SUK-SIK JUNG-SAM
The Cooked Foods Centre is open from six in the morning till 2 A.M.
It's a little hard to find if you're new to the area, but worth it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 07, 2014
SOME OF US ARE MISSING IN ACTION
The person who scribbles this blog is NOT the most social of persons. That is almost a given, because truly gregarious souls are often too extrovert and garrulous to actually write anything. The converse however is not necessarily that people who write are introverts worth reading.
Judging by the internet, very little that has been written is actually even bearable. This blog could be in that large category.
Thank you for getting this far.
This past Thursday wine, cheese, bread, and stout beer were consumed. In between the generation of a dense cloud of smoke. One or two head-colds, in remission, may have taken a few steps back in consequence. One of the gentlemen present asked if the door could be opened because of the smog.
Naturally I allowed the heretic to enable the entry of fresh air.
His deviance is purely temporary in nature.
He has a collection of Barbies.
It's fabulous.
dot-dot-dot
By which are meant pipes carved by Rainier Barbi, doyen of German pipe makers till his untimely exit in 2011. The man with the fab assortment of handmade pipes was at the tail-end of a sinus infection caused by Costa Rica, which has more birds and butterflies than half the rest of the world put together. It's a very infectious place, and filled with bugs.
He survived the ghastly ordeal.
Birds. Butterflies.
Bugs!
One of our oldest friends, however, was not there to enjoy his return, and we smoked his favourite tobacco to remember him. Given that some of us are into aromatics or VaPers, this was, in its own way, a form of tribute.
Fitting in any case.
Dr. George Couris passed away on November 15
From his obituary in the SF Chronicle: "Born in Greece to Demetrios and Ioanna Kouris, he immigrated to the United States in 1958. He obtained his medical degree in Greece and his surgical training in the United States and the United Kingdom. George enjoyed the art of surgery (general, vascular and thoracic) and practiced in San Francisco, New York and Sun Valley, Idaho.
George's non-surgical life was filled with his passion for ballet, classical music, and his love of skiing. His retirement involved considerable travel, his self-taught oil painting, drawing humorous cartoons and writing poetry. He remained an avid pipe smoker all his life."
[End quote.]
Dr. Couris only smoked Dunhill's London Mixture. So that evening, we all smoked London Mixture. Not all of us stuffed it into a Hungarian, however. The Hungarian, or Oom Paul, is the pipe shape that Dr. Couris favoured, because it allowed him to do his paperwork after slicing up patients and putting them back together.
Personally, I find a pipe that I cannot jam a cleaner through while it is in use somewhat problematic, and consequently I own only one example. But to match the mood I puffed a Peterson Rathbone. Which is sort of Oompaulish, but with a lazier bend.
There was NO strange behaviour, despite our natural praedilections.
We restrained ourselves. We were adults.
We also decided that the monthly meeting should move to the second Thursday of the month, because one of the key members has a surgical department meeting every first Thursday. And seeing as the number of medical dudes among the membership has fallen, we must treasure the remaining doctors; they give us plausible deniability.
I am all about plausible deniability. There are NO health repercussions from sensible tobacco use, I couldn't have done it your honour as I was nowhere near the scene of the crime, and whether or not the young lady with the intriguing cleavage ever slept with the fat pig is none of your business.
She's from back east. They do peculiar things there.
In addition to growing fine tobacco.
We are all going to miss George. He was a splendid fellow, with a wry and puckish sense of humour. In particular I remember his intelligence, thoughtfulness, and well-considered interactions with others, as well as the time he brought an illustration of a nineteenth century medical device to one of the meetings.
Imagine a wry and elfin presence at the centre of the table. A scarlet labelled tin in front of him, a pipe of a familiar shape issuing whisps of fragrance. One glass of wine. Twinkling eyes. Eventually an astutely calibrated rhetorical question upending someone else's far too deeply pursued opinionation, or an insight that somehow added breadth to what had been a narrowly-focused conversation.
"The shape is unimportant; how does it smoke?"
I wonder how long he knew about the nineteenth century medical device before he decided to share with us the queer particulars.
"First look at the picture, then guess what it is."
My stab was probably closest.
A clyster.
THE TOBACCO SMOKE ENEMA
From Wikipedia: "The tobacco smoke enema, an insufflation of tobacco smoke into the rectum by enema, was a medical treatment employed by European physicians for a range of ailments."
And further: "In the 1780s the Royal Humane Society installed resuscitation kits, including smoke enemas, at various points along the River Thames, and by the turn of the 19th century, tobacco smoke enemas had become an established practice in Western medicine, considered by Humane Societies to be as important as artificial respiration."
And a poem pf praise:
"Tobacco glyster, breath and bleed.
Keep warm and rub till you succeed.
And spare no pains for what you do;
May one day be repaid to you."
—Dr. Houlston (24 September 1774)
[End cite.]
I think you will agree that that is a completely unique way of enjoying the noble weed. Surprising that it has not had a resurgence. If marijuana is "therapeutic", then certainly the modern generation of hipsters should enjoy blowing smoke up their whatisits. Highly recommended.
And backed by centuries of medical practise.
A germane and incisive quote from somewhere else comes to mind:
"You must NOT have an illegal experience. Men here will try to sell you black market watches, and if you talk to them, they will take you to a room, and try to sell you "other" things!"
Perhaps a nozzle, a fumigator, and a bellows.
A mouthpiece which is attached to a pipe.
And a conical rectal insertion cone.
All the several members of the Golden Gate Pipe Club are strongly vested in more traditional nicotine delivery systems.
Kindly do not fall off your camel.
After the meeting adjourned -- no, we did NOT dissolve in a puff of smoke, who said that? -- a few members repaired to a den of equity in downtown San Francisco, where we were surrounded by cigar freaks talking loudly.
An illustrator joined us, chatted for a while, and then headed out.
After someone got distracted by a tweeting love god and left, I was joined by a very sober gentleman who likes La Flor Dominicana cigars, shortly followed by a severely intoxicated engineering personage partaking of a Padron 80th. Anniversary perfecto with a quadruple Bourbon no ice.
I'm not entirely sure what I was drinking. It was a singlemalt oddity distilled in California. Perhaps I am the only customer who gets it.
The problem with cigar bars is that there is never any cleavage, other than the vistas presented by large middle-aged gentlemen.
I am not a large middle-aged gentleman. I have no cleavage. Undoubtedly a little cleavage on the right person is a wonderful thing, assuming the suitable gender. But it does not suit middle-aged gentlemen.
Eventually the crowd thinned. Boruch Hashem.
The young lady from way back east was not there, the fat pig who may or may not have had something going on with her did not stay long.
The racist with the fedora left in due course.
No aromatics were smoked.
It had begun to drizzle again as the last few patrons went out into the silent San Francisco darkness.
According to my apartment mate, the smell of aromatic pipe tobacco "makes old stale pee smell good".
Curtis would agree.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Judging by the internet, very little that has been written is actually even bearable. This blog could be in that large category.
Thank you for getting this far.
This past Thursday wine, cheese, bread, and stout beer were consumed. In between the generation of a dense cloud of smoke. One or two head-colds, in remission, may have taken a few steps back in consequence. One of the gentlemen present asked if the door could be opened because of the smog.
Naturally I allowed the heretic to enable the entry of fresh air.
His deviance is purely temporary in nature.
He has a collection of Barbies.
It's fabulous.
dot-dot-dot
By which are meant pipes carved by Rainier Barbi, doyen of German pipe makers till his untimely exit in 2011. The man with the fab assortment of handmade pipes was at the tail-end of a sinus infection caused by Costa Rica, which has more birds and butterflies than half the rest of the world put together. It's a very infectious place, and filled with bugs.
He survived the ghastly ordeal.
Birds. Butterflies.
Bugs!
One of our oldest friends, however, was not there to enjoy his return, and we smoked his favourite tobacco to remember him. Given that some of us are into aromatics or VaPers, this was, in its own way, a form of tribute.
Fitting in any case.
Dr. George Couris passed away on November 15
From his obituary in the SF Chronicle: "Born in Greece to Demetrios and Ioanna Kouris, he immigrated to the United States in 1958. He obtained his medical degree in Greece and his surgical training in the United States and the United Kingdom. George enjoyed the art of surgery (general, vascular and thoracic) and practiced in San Francisco, New York and Sun Valley, Idaho.
George's non-surgical life was filled with his passion for ballet, classical music, and his love of skiing. His retirement involved considerable travel, his self-taught oil painting, drawing humorous cartoons and writing poetry. He remained an avid pipe smoker all his life."
[End quote.]
Dr. Couris only smoked Dunhill's London Mixture. So that evening, we all smoked London Mixture. Not all of us stuffed it into a Hungarian, however. The Hungarian, or Oom Paul, is the pipe shape that Dr. Couris favoured, because it allowed him to do his paperwork after slicing up patients and putting them back together.
Personally, I find a pipe that I cannot jam a cleaner through while it is in use somewhat problematic, and consequently I own only one example. But to match the mood I puffed a Peterson Rathbone. Which is sort of Oompaulish, but with a lazier bend.
There was NO strange behaviour, despite our natural praedilections.
We restrained ourselves. We were adults.
We also decided that the monthly meeting should move to the second Thursday of the month, because one of the key members has a surgical department meeting every first Thursday. And seeing as the number of medical dudes among the membership has fallen, we must treasure the remaining doctors; they give us plausible deniability.
I am all about plausible deniability. There are NO health repercussions from sensible tobacco use, I couldn't have done it your honour as I was nowhere near the scene of the crime, and whether or not the young lady with the intriguing cleavage ever slept with the fat pig is none of your business.
She's from back east. They do peculiar things there.
In addition to growing fine tobacco.
We are all going to miss George. He was a splendid fellow, with a wry and puckish sense of humour. In particular I remember his intelligence, thoughtfulness, and well-considered interactions with others, as well as the time he brought an illustration of a nineteenth century medical device to one of the meetings.
Imagine a wry and elfin presence at the centre of the table. A scarlet labelled tin in front of him, a pipe of a familiar shape issuing whisps of fragrance. One glass of wine. Twinkling eyes. Eventually an astutely calibrated rhetorical question upending someone else's far too deeply pursued opinionation, or an insight that somehow added breadth to what had been a narrowly-focused conversation.
"The shape is unimportant; how does it smoke?"
I wonder how long he knew about the nineteenth century medical device before he decided to share with us the queer particulars.
"First look at the picture, then guess what it is."
My stab was probably closest.
A clyster.
THE TOBACCO SMOKE ENEMA
From Wikipedia: "The tobacco smoke enema, an insufflation of tobacco smoke into the rectum by enema, was a medical treatment employed by European physicians for a range of ailments."
And further: "In the 1780s the Royal Humane Society installed resuscitation kits, including smoke enemas, at various points along the River Thames, and by the turn of the 19th century, tobacco smoke enemas had become an established practice in Western medicine, considered by Humane Societies to be as important as artificial respiration."
And a poem pf praise:
"Tobacco glyster, breath and bleed.
Keep warm and rub till you succeed.
And spare no pains for what you do;
May one day be repaid to you."
—Dr. Houlston (24 September 1774)
[End cite.]
I think you will agree that that is a completely unique way of enjoying the noble weed. Surprising that it has not had a resurgence. If marijuana is "therapeutic", then certainly the modern generation of hipsters should enjoy blowing smoke up their whatisits. Highly recommended.
And backed by centuries of medical practise.
A germane and incisive quote from somewhere else comes to mind:
"You must NOT have an illegal experience. Men here will try to sell you black market watches, and if you talk to them, they will take you to a room, and try to sell you "other" things!"
Perhaps a nozzle, a fumigator, and a bellows.
A mouthpiece which is attached to a pipe.
And a conical rectal insertion cone.
All the several members of the Golden Gate Pipe Club are strongly vested in more traditional nicotine delivery systems.
Kindly do not fall off your camel.
After the meeting adjourned -- no, we did NOT dissolve in a puff of smoke, who said that? -- a few members repaired to a den of equity in downtown San Francisco, where we were surrounded by cigar freaks talking loudly.
An illustrator joined us, chatted for a while, and then headed out.
After someone got distracted by a tweeting love god and left, I was joined by a very sober gentleman who likes La Flor Dominicana cigars, shortly followed by a severely intoxicated engineering personage partaking of a Padron 80th. Anniversary perfecto with a quadruple Bourbon no ice.
I'm not entirely sure what I was drinking. It was a singlemalt oddity distilled in California. Perhaps I am the only customer who gets it.
The problem with cigar bars is that there is never any cleavage, other than the vistas presented by large middle-aged gentlemen.
I am not a large middle-aged gentleman. I have no cleavage. Undoubtedly a little cleavage on the right person is a wonderful thing, assuming the suitable gender. But it does not suit middle-aged gentlemen.
Eventually the crowd thinned. Boruch Hashem.
The young lady from way back east was not there, the fat pig who may or may not have had something going on with her did not stay long.
The racist with the fedora left in due course.
No aromatics were smoked.
It had begun to drizzle again as the last few patrons went out into the silent San Francisco darkness.
According to my apartment mate, the smell of aromatic pipe tobacco "makes old stale pee smell good".
Curtis would agree.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE DON JUAN OF STOCKTON STREET
Really, I shouldn't gossip. But this is about someone you don't know, so it's okay, right? Right? Anyway, he has not one but TWO girlfriends, the lucky devil. And while on the one hand I am astounded and not a little shocked, on the other hand I am intrigued. How did he do it?
It turns out that his brother is one of the key magnets for the young ladies. They just adore the little fellow!
Chiu Ming is quite the lady killer. But his sibling is an absolute doll.
Actually, the only reason why Chiu Ming and the two females in question associate at all is because Chiu Ming speaks intelligibly. The kid still communicates in long drawn out "mmmmmmmmmmmmmm", especially when one of the girls reaches out and cups his cheeks.
So smooth, so round, so silky.
Sweet face. No wonder they like him.
Chiu Ming is already in the first grade, his brother is only in the first year of kindergarten. The two young ladies look like they're the last year of kindergarten and the second year of grammar school respectively.
Chiu Ming does NOT like girls! He claims not to know them.
Probably self-preservation, as both of them know him.
Maybe he's jealous; both girls are adorable.
That could explain "mmmmmmmmmmmmmm".
His kid brother is a 'player'.
Chiu Ming discussed pipes and tobacco with me while the two little girls petted his younger brother's face. I'm sure they thought he was just totally kissy, but they weren't going to cross any lines.
Chiu Ming is a little baffled that I like to smoke and read. And what, he wishes to know, is 'Dutch'? French he's heard of, German also.
Dutch sounds strange!
It is. It's easier than French, softer than German. Not unlike English, of which it is kin, same way Cantonese and Mandarin are also related. But when I was child most our books were in English, so I learned how to read it early. Though I pronounced many words as if they were Dutch.
He also asked me how come I spoke Chinese, but admitted that I was hard to understand, because I don't speak right.
"Well, I like to eat, and some of the things your parents sell don't have English names...."
He conceded that that made sense. The tourists didn't know what to call them either when they wandered in. But they couldn't read the characters written on the wall, even though they were big.
While we talked, his little brother kept darting out for some more face time with the cutest of the two little girls, then withdrawing behind solid objects, before going forward again. She has small hands; I can understand his quandary.
The girls finished their snackipoos, said 'bye bye', and left with their mom. Chiu Ming waved perfunctorily. His brother looked wistful.
I really hope we see them again soon.
For the kid's sake.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
It turns out that his brother is one of the key magnets for the young ladies. They just adore the little fellow!
Chiu Ming is quite the lady killer. But his sibling is an absolute doll.
Actually, the only reason why Chiu Ming and the two females in question associate at all is because Chiu Ming speaks intelligibly. The kid still communicates in long drawn out "mmmmmmmmmmmmmm", especially when one of the girls reaches out and cups his cheeks.
So smooth, so round, so silky.
Sweet face. No wonder they like him.
Chiu Ming is already in the first grade, his brother is only in the first year of kindergarten. The two young ladies look like they're the last year of kindergarten and the second year of grammar school respectively.
Chiu Ming does NOT like girls! He claims not to know them.
Probably self-preservation, as both of them know him.
Maybe he's jealous; both girls are adorable.
That could explain "mmmmmmmmmmmmmm".
His kid brother is a 'player'.
Chiu Ming discussed pipes and tobacco with me while the two little girls petted his younger brother's face. I'm sure they thought he was just totally kissy, but they weren't going to cross any lines.
Chiu Ming is a little baffled that I like to smoke and read. And what, he wishes to know, is 'Dutch'? French he's heard of, German also.
Dutch sounds strange!
It is. It's easier than French, softer than German. Not unlike English, of which it is kin, same way Cantonese and Mandarin are also related. But when I was child most our books were in English, so I learned how to read it early. Though I pronounced many words as if they were Dutch.
He also asked me how come I spoke Chinese, but admitted that I was hard to understand, because I don't speak right.
"Well, I like to eat, and some of the things your parents sell don't have English names...."
He conceded that that made sense. The tourists didn't know what to call them either when they wandered in. But they couldn't read the characters written on the wall, even though they were big.
While we talked, his little brother kept darting out for some more face time with the cutest of the two little girls, then withdrawing behind solid objects, before going forward again. She has small hands; I can understand his quandary.
The girls finished their snackipoos, said 'bye bye', and left with their mom. Chiu Ming waved perfunctorily. His brother looked wistful.
I really hope we see them again soon.
For the kid's sake.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, December 06, 2014
SAN FRANCISCO: WHERE WHAT YOU EAT IS AN IDEOLOGICAL ISSUE
The voice informed me "you know, lumpy milk is very good for you".
I decided not to react to this startling information, not being sure that I had heard correctly. When this statement was shortly followed by insane cackling, I was much reassured. Either she was throwing out some old dairy, or channeling an evil co-worker. We seldom have old dairy.
An exception sometimes being cheese.
My apartment mate is not lactose intolerant. Which is unusual for a person of East Asian ancestry. One might naturally expect that as someone of European heritage ("so white he glows in the dark"), this blogger himself would be the primary consumer of milk, butter, and cheese in the household. Or, conversely, if white describes a modern day urban American attitude, that I would abjure such things and sing the virtues of tempeh, tofu, and wheatgrass instead. Unless I had the allergies which so many middle-class white people have, in which case no dairy, no wheat, no soy products, no peanuts, no citrus, no chilies, no sugar, no salt, no mushrooms, no corn oil, no meat products, no shellfish, no spices....
Just a little steamed "organic" broccoli or a wedge of lettuce, please, with some all-natural third world funkadelic oil-substitute which is sustainably harvested by artistic and sincerely spiritual rainforest dwellers.
And perhaps a drop of wholesome cider vinegar.
NO MILK. NO BUTTER. NO CHEESE!
She drinks the stuff, I merely dump it into my coffee or milk-tea. Or my mixture of strong tea with dark roast, though I more often drool the sweetened condensed milk into that.
We share the cheese -- sometimes she eats cheese every day -- and the butter is her favoured cooking grease more than mine. For a total bomb, bacon-wrapped shrimp sauteed in butter.
She would add oyster sauce to that, I'd jazz it up with Sriracha.
In truth, both together are a wonderful mixture.
Squeeze of lime, and I'm good.
"Ces crevettes au beurre à l'ail au jus de citron et au persil, sont-ils de Trader Joes?"
'Mais non, mon ami, ils sont d'Amazon!'
Mais le fromage est Français.
We don't eat together any more, haven't done so in years. But we've remained keenly interested in good eating and enjoying new comestibles. And besides a tempestuous loathing for wheatgrass, tempeh, and the methodology that Caucasian neurotics use for preparing tofu or broccoli, we don't have any food-hangups.
Too many people nowadays are batshit crazy when it comes to food. Apparently her on-again off-again boyfriend is 'salt-sensitive', in addition to having an irritable digestion and goobus ideas about cuisine.
I've avoided the issue of dietary loopiness in dates by not actually having any dates. It has been a great and somewhat bittersweet blessing to not worry whether someone can or cannot, or will or will not, eat good and interesting food.
But imagine the potential disaster!
Say for instance that I asked a charming petite, elfin even, blonde who was half my age, out to dinner. Let's also posit that she actually had a decent personality, no matter how unlikely that is, because the chances of my inviting a brainless dingbat out on a date are absolutely zip.
Unfortunately I just assumed that she was sane.
Without ridiculous food freakery.
A fellow eater.
We go to a Chinese restaurant which has live fish in tanks along the wall. Plus wonderful steamed oysters, killer red-cooked pork belly (東坡肉 'tung po yiuk'), and stirfried pea sprouts (炒豆苗 'chaau dau miu').
Then all hell breaks loose.
"They're ALIVE! Don't tell me they kill animals, and I'm allergic to shellfish, they make me break out in hives, no sex for you, meat is murder that was a sentient being, this place is filled with bad karma, oh my god my aura is like quivering, I can smell the torment here, you should ONLY eat vegetables do they have salads, the only salad dressing I can stand is balsamic blueberry what do you mean they've never heard of it was this sustainably farmed you're so last century did I already mention no sex why is everything here animal protein perhaps they can do some steamed soy-free tofu if I ask, you speak Cantonese explain to them that gluten and soy are baby killers and we demand rawtarian food that woman has the same handbag as mine that bitch and I've NEVER seen this vegetable before so I'm so NOT touching it you're a bad man!"
Yah, you bet. I am a bad man. That fish will be deceased very soon, and very delicious. Stop belly-aching about the damned oysters; they give me gout, but do you see ME complaining? We should have TWO orders, and Tung-po Pork is a culinary masterpiece; Su Tung-po, after whom this dish is named, was way more sentient that the pig we're going to eat ever was. Please celebrate that, even if you've unfortunately never heard of him. Trust me, an absolute genius. And if you won't touch the pea-sprouts, then I guess garlic stirfried longbean is out too, huh?
How about fish-fragrance eggplant?
She'll probably insist on being taken home NOW!
Before I can even have a single bite.
An epic disaster.
Yes, this hasn't happened yet.
There's a trade-off
I actually enjoy eating with other people. But it's a very rare occurrence, unfortunately. If only every one else weren't so weird about it.
All things considered, Pepe the King Prawn might be a good dining companion. Intelligent, dynamic, and he has a vibrant personality. Why, he's just full of pepper!
As far as I know he has NO food problems.
Well, except a fear of butter.
Melted butter.
He's male, though. That's quite unfortunate.
More a frat brother than anything.
And he'd bogart my style.
Major competition.
If you read about a strange fellow offering random young ladies bacon on the street in San Francisco sometime, that won't be me.
But I sympathize. Good lord yes I sympathize.
Might even spring bail for the man.
I feel for him.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I decided not to react to this startling information, not being sure that I had heard correctly. When this statement was shortly followed by insane cackling, I was much reassured. Either she was throwing out some old dairy, or channeling an evil co-worker. We seldom have old dairy.
An exception sometimes being cheese.
My apartment mate is not lactose intolerant. Which is unusual for a person of East Asian ancestry. One might naturally expect that as someone of European heritage ("so white he glows in the dark"), this blogger himself would be the primary consumer of milk, butter, and cheese in the household. Or, conversely, if white describes a modern day urban American attitude, that I would abjure such things and sing the virtues of tempeh, tofu, and wheatgrass instead. Unless I had the allergies which so many middle-class white people have, in which case no dairy, no wheat, no soy products, no peanuts, no citrus, no chilies, no sugar, no salt, no mushrooms, no corn oil, no meat products, no shellfish, no spices....
Just a little steamed "organic" broccoli or a wedge of lettuce, please, with some all-natural third world funkadelic oil-substitute which is sustainably harvested by artistic and sincerely spiritual rainforest dwellers.
And perhaps a drop of wholesome cider vinegar.
NO MILK. NO BUTTER. NO CHEESE!
She drinks the stuff, I merely dump it into my coffee or milk-tea. Or my mixture of strong tea with dark roast, though I more often drool the sweetened condensed milk into that.
We share the cheese -- sometimes she eats cheese every day -- and the butter is her favoured cooking grease more than mine. For a total bomb, bacon-wrapped shrimp sauteed in butter.
She would add oyster sauce to that, I'd jazz it up with Sriracha.
In truth, both together are a wonderful mixture.
Squeeze of lime, and I'm good.
"Ces crevettes au beurre à l'ail au jus de citron et au persil, sont-ils de Trader Joes?"
'Mais non, mon ami, ils sont d'Amazon!'
Mais le fromage est Français.
We don't eat together any more, haven't done so in years. But we've remained keenly interested in good eating and enjoying new comestibles. And besides a tempestuous loathing for wheatgrass, tempeh, and the methodology that Caucasian neurotics use for preparing tofu or broccoli, we don't have any food-hangups.
Too many people nowadays are batshit crazy when it comes to food. Apparently her on-again off-again boyfriend is 'salt-sensitive', in addition to having an irritable digestion and goobus ideas about cuisine.
I've avoided the issue of dietary loopiness in dates by not actually having any dates. It has been a great and somewhat bittersweet blessing to not worry whether someone can or cannot, or will or will not, eat good and interesting food.
But imagine the potential disaster!
Say for instance that I asked a charming petite, elfin even, blonde who was half my age, out to dinner. Let's also posit that she actually had a decent personality, no matter how unlikely that is, because the chances of my inviting a brainless dingbat out on a date are absolutely zip.
Unfortunately I just assumed that she was sane.
Without ridiculous food freakery.
A fellow eater.
We go to a Chinese restaurant which has live fish in tanks along the wall. Plus wonderful steamed oysters, killer red-cooked pork belly (東坡肉 'tung po yiuk'), and stirfried pea sprouts (炒豆苗 'chaau dau miu').
Then all hell breaks loose.
"They're ALIVE! Don't tell me they kill animals, and I'm allergic to shellfish, they make me break out in hives, no sex for you, meat is murder that was a sentient being, this place is filled with bad karma, oh my god my aura is like quivering, I can smell the torment here, you should ONLY eat vegetables do they have salads, the only salad dressing I can stand is balsamic blueberry what do you mean they've never heard of it was this sustainably farmed you're so last century did I already mention no sex why is everything here animal protein perhaps they can do some steamed soy-free tofu if I ask, you speak Cantonese explain to them that gluten and soy are baby killers and we demand rawtarian food that woman has the same handbag as mine that bitch and I've NEVER seen this vegetable before so I'm so NOT touching it you're a bad man!"
Yah, you bet. I am a bad man. That fish will be deceased very soon, and very delicious. Stop belly-aching about the damned oysters; they give me gout, but do you see ME complaining? We should have TWO orders, and Tung-po Pork is a culinary masterpiece; Su Tung-po, after whom this dish is named, was way more sentient that the pig we're going to eat ever was. Please celebrate that, even if you've unfortunately never heard of him. Trust me, an absolute genius. And if you won't touch the pea-sprouts, then I guess garlic stirfried longbean is out too, huh?
How about fish-fragrance eggplant?
She'll probably insist on being taken home NOW!
Before I can even have a single bite.
An epic disaster.
Yes, this hasn't happened yet.
There's a trade-off
I actually enjoy eating with other people. But it's a very rare occurrence, unfortunately. If only every one else weren't so weird about it.
As far as I know he has NO food problems.
Well, except a fear of butter.
Melted butter.
He's male, though. That's quite unfortunate.
More a frat brother than anything.
And he'd bogart my style.
Major competition.
If you read about a strange fellow offering random young ladies bacon on the street in San Francisco sometime, that won't be me.
But I sympathize. Good lord yes I sympathize.
Might even spring bail for the man.
I feel for him.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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Friday, December 05, 2014
RICK SANTORUM NEEDS A BRAIN
Recently the whore of the conservative movement (no, not who you guessed; I would never call either of those two bimbos such a name) showed his complete lack of intelligence by opening his mouth. Now, you may think that must happen an awful lot -- everytime he breathes, for instance -- but what I refer to here is his inability to comprehend just how valuable the separation of church and state really is.
Cite:
To Santorum, the concept of church-state separation isn’t merely misguided. It’s downright communist.
Santorum delivered this sizzling take in a conference call with social conservatives posted online today and flagged by the watchdog group Right Wing Watch. A caller told Santorum that that many of the policy priorities of President Obama and “the Democrat Party” appeared in Karl Marx’s “The Communist Manifesto”; the caller proceeded to cite a number of things, including same-sex marriage, that appear nowhere in the tome.
“Well, I was just thinking,” Santorum chimed in, “that the words ‘separation of church and state’ is not in the U.S. Constitution, but it was in the constitution of the former Soviet Union. That’s where it very, very comfortably sat, not in ours.”
End cite.
[SOURCE: Rick Santorum: Only dirty commies support the separation of church and state (Salon).]
My people fought an eighty years war to get out from the tyranny of his people. And we destroyed their fleets wherever we encountered them, whenever we could. If we don't maintain a separation between c and s, once my people get in power we're going to burn every Papist church there is. Now, let's rethink this, okay?
I am by no means a believer, and have never been a member of a church congregation. But I will gladly support laws forbidding the practice of Catholicism, Southern Baptism, Evangelical Lutheranism, Seventh Day Adventism, Methodism, and Snake Handling, in favour of one creed only. As well as legislation approving the use of violence (remember "the right to bear arms"?) to keep those heathen heretic bastards from ever excercising any power and authority whatsoever.
The only true version of Christianity is Dutch Calvinism.
All the rest of you heathens will ROT in HELL.
We'll gladly make it happen sooner.
Just give us a chance.
By the way: American Christian religious songs are both repulsively heretical and in extremely bad taste. So those should be banned ab initio. Henceforth you should ONLY chant from the Psalter of Marnix van Sint Aldegonde or Petrus Datheen. Those who continue singing that sickening simplistic crap will have the opportunity to join Rick Santorum on the flames when we burn all of you.
Bunch of bloody Gnostics and Arians.
Spreaders of filth.
Feh!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Cite:
To Santorum, the concept of church-state separation isn’t merely misguided. It’s downright communist.
Santorum delivered this sizzling take in a conference call with social conservatives posted online today and flagged by the watchdog group Right Wing Watch. A caller told Santorum that that many of the policy priorities of President Obama and “the Democrat Party” appeared in Karl Marx’s “The Communist Manifesto”; the caller proceeded to cite a number of things, including same-sex marriage, that appear nowhere in the tome.
“Well, I was just thinking,” Santorum chimed in, “that the words ‘separation of church and state’ is not in the U.S. Constitution, but it was in the constitution of the former Soviet Union. That’s where it very, very comfortably sat, not in ours.”
End cite.
[SOURCE: Rick Santorum: Only dirty commies support the separation of church and state (Salon).]
My people fought an eighty years war to get out from the tyranny of his people. And we destroyed their fleets wherever we encountered them, whenever we could. If we don't maintain a separation between c and s, once my people get in power we're going to burn every Papist church there is. Now, let's rethink this, okay?
I am by no means a believer, and have never been a member of a church congregation. But I will gladly support laws forbidding the practice of Catholicism, Southern Baptism, Evangelical Lutheranism, Seventh Day Adventism, Methodism, and Snake Handling, in favour of one creed only. As well as legislation approving the use of violence (remember "the right to bear arms"?) to keep those heathen heretic bastards from ever excercising any power and authority whatsoever.
The only true version of Christianity is Dutch Calvinism.
All the rest of you heathens will ROT in HELL.
We'll gladly make it happen sooner.
Just give us a chance.
By the way: American Christian religious songs are both repulsively heretical and in extremely bad taste. So those should be banned ab initio. Henceforth you should ONLY chant from the Psalter of Marnix van Sint Aldegonde or Petrus Datheen. Those who continue singing that sickening simplistic crap will have the opportunity to join Rick Santorum on the flames when we burn all of you.
Bunch of bloody Gnostics and Arians.
Spreaders of filth.
Feh!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, December 04, 2014
THERE'S MAGIC IN THOSE WORDS!
Sometimes you run across a sentence that sparks the imagination. Perhaps a catch phrase from a comedian ("I'm Rick James, Bitch" -- Dave Chappelle), or a political statement of magnitude, such as this wondrous wisdom from the politician most likely to win the next presidential election: "He who warned, uh, the British that they weren't gonna be takin' away our arms, uh, by ringing those bells, and um, makin' sure as he's riding his horse through town to send those warning shots and bells that we were going to be sure and we were going to be free, and we were going to be armed."
Sarah Palin said that on June 3, 2011, in a talk about the ollamurkin values of a rugged man on a horse.
I find that truly inspirational.
You do to.
But this isn't about politics. It's about a wonderful crapper.
"Man injured by Amsterdam pop-up toilet"
It turns out that there are toilets in the Dutch capital that appear at night, in order that street people and bar patrons not pee publicly.
"A man in the Dutch city of Amsterdam has been injured after a pop-up public toilet sunk into the ground emerged unexpectedly."
Unpredictable lavatories, I'm sure you will agree, are a wondrous thing. There you are, clenching fiercely after a long jaunt around the ancient cobblestone streets trying to find your hotel -- like everyone unfamiliar with the layout you are lost, you've passed the same sights three times now -- and your bladder is fit to bust. Then, magically, a toilet rises up out of the ground. Ta daa!
We can't tell you how to get to your hotel, because you are unable to pronounce either the name of the establishment or the street on which it's located in a way that natives can understand, but we can let you leak.
And you will be a lot happier after that. Calmer, too.
Bladder ease equals peace of mind.
Relax.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sarah Palin said that on June 3, 2011, in a talk about the ollamurkin values of a rugged man on a horse.
I find that truly inspirational.
You do to.
But this isn't about politics. It's about a wonderful crapper.
"Man injured by Amsterdam pop-up toilet"
It turns out that there are toilets in the Dutch capital that appear at night, in order that street people and bar patrons not pee publicly.
"A man in the Dutch city of Amsterdam has been injured after a pop-up public toilet sunk into the ground emerged unexpectedly."
Unpredictable lavatories, I'm sure you will agree, are a wondrous thing. There you are, clenching fiercely after a long jaunt around the ancient cobblestone streets trying to find your hotel -- like everyone unfamiliar with the layout you are lost, you've passed the same sights three times now -- and your bladder is fit to bust. Then, magically, a toilet rises up out of the ground. Ta daa!
We can't tell you how to get to your hotel, because you are unable to pronounce either the name of the establishment or the street on which it's located in a way that natives can understand, but we can let you leak.
And you will be a lot happier after that. Calmer, too.
Bladder ease equals peace of mind.
Relax.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 03, 2014
BRIEFLY THE WASHINGTON CAFE, NOW ELECTRIC AND UPDATED
Old timers remember it before it was Upholding Heaven. Which it had been for decades, before it became Mister Man's Tea Restaurant.
Long before then you could have cocktails there and eat casual noodles till past two in the morning. Quite a sprightly place.
The Universal Cafe went out of existence in the mid-eighties. I knew the place as King Tin, which closed in 2012. Then Mister Man revamped it, and opened up as the Washington Cafe. Which, this past summer, he completely repainted, dolled up, and turned into the Hunan House.
That's four different eateries that have occupied the spot.
Prior to 1984:
寰球酒家
UNIVERSAL CAFE
826 Washington Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
['waan kau jau gaa']
1984 to 2012:
擎天酒樓
KING TIN / NEW KING TIN
826 Washington Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
['king tin jau lau']
2012 till 2014:
文記茶餐廳
WASHINGTON CAFE
826 Washington Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
['man kei chaa chaanteng']
Since summer 2014:
湘菜館
HUNAN HOUSE
"By Washington Cafe"
826 Washington Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
['seung choi gun']
Mister Man is still involved, as the byline indicates. I suspect that he looked at Chinatown, realized that outsiders were a more profitable market segment than local residents, who are almost all rather skint for ready cash, and decided to go whole hog, and give the chain of fake Szechuan restaurants in the neighborhood some real competition.
One of those joints has since closed down.
No doubt they've also got ideas.
I have not eaten at the newest iteration of Mr. Man's culinary dreaming. The old version I liked; hot pot, tea restaurant specials, spaghetti, soup, sandwiches & quick dishes, congee, noodles, and a terrific cup of milk tea (好飲嘅港式奶茶 'hou yam ge gong sik naai chaa').
I wouldn't be surprised at all if it turns out to be an astounding success. Mister Man is hardworking, ballsy, and inspired. And he knows how to do a good restaurant.
Still, I prefer Cantonese food. Hunan, Szechuan, suburban American Chinese, Singapore noodles, and whatever they do in Peking, doesn't really appeal to me. Cantonese cuisine has all the flavours.
Hong Kong food is a weird fun variation.
Hunan? well, whatever.
Got milk tea?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Long before then you could have cocktails there and eat casual noodles till past two in the morning. Quite a sprightly place.
The Universal Cafe went out of existence in the mid-eighties. I knew the place as King Tin, which closed in 2012. Then Mister Man revamped it, and opened up as the Washington Cafe. Which, this past summer, he completely repainted, dolled up, and turned into the Hunan House.
That's four different eateries that have occupied the spot.
Prior to 1984:
寰球酒家
UNIVERSAL CAFE
826 Washington Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
['waan kau jau gaa']
1984 to 2012:
擎天酒樓
KING TIN / NEW KING TIN
826 Washington Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
['king tin jau lau']
2012 till 2014:
文記茶餐廳
WASHINGTON CAFE
826 Washington Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
['man kei chaa chaanteng']
Since summer 2014:
湘菜館
HUNAN HOUSE
"By Washington Cafe"
826 Washington Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
['seung choi gun']
Mister Man is still involved, as the byline indicates. I suspect that he looked at Chinatown, realized that outsiders were a more profitable market segment than local residents, who are almost all rather skint for ready cash, and decided to go whole hog, and give the chain of fake Szechuan restaurants in the neighborhood some real competition.
One of those joints has since closed down.
No doubt they've also got ideas.
I have not eaten at the newest iteration of Mr. Man's culinary dreaming. The old version I liked; hot pot, tea restaurant specials, spaghetti, soup, sandwiches & quick dishes, congee, noodles, and a terrific cup of milk tea (好飲嘅港式奶茶 'hou yam ge gong sik naai chaa').
I wouldn't be surprised at all if it turns out to be an astounding success. Mister Man is hardworking, ballsy, and inspired. And he knows how to do a good restaurant.
Still, I prefer Cantonese food. Hunan, Szechuan, suburban American Chinese, Singapore noodles, and whatever they do in Peking, doesn't really appeal to me. Cantonese cuisine has all the flavours.
Hong Kong food is a weird fun variation.
Hunan? well, whatever.
Got milk tea?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
THE WORLD LOVES SINGING GERMANS
Woke up this morning with music in my head. That means it's going to be a wonderful day. And, as you would expect, it's a song suitable to the season. A cheerful & uplifting ballad, that would be a wonderful sing-along down at the local grammar school.
This is what I want dulcet children's voices to serenade for this entire month. And I wouldn't mind hearing it blaring softly forth from speaker systems at the local strip mall. Except that this is San Francisco, and the vegan population would get all distressed and start weeping. Because it traumatizes them, and brings up themes that they find unsuitable.
Wheatgerm freaks and white Buddhists would also object.
Concerned citizens would make faces.
A SONG OF CANONS
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iorl1qin54E.]
I grew up on this. The Dreigroschen Oper by Berthold Brecht and Kurt Weill is one of my favourites. It was frequent background music to my reading after school. Many long hours, marvelous memories.
Pot of strong tea. Stack of books. Clean ashtray. Deep armchair. And a tin of pipe tobacco, or a bundle of cheroots from the local cigar factory. Let it bluster outside, I'm indoors and the world is far away.
This what all childhoods should be.
Wholesome and educational.
And lots of teeth.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This is what I want dulcet children's voices to serenade for this entire month. And I wouldn't mind hearing it blaring softly forth from speaker systems at the local strip mall. Except that this is San Francisco, and the vegan population would get all distressed and start weeping. Because it traumatizes them, and brings up themes that they find unsuitable.
Wheatgerm freaks and white Buddhists would also object.
Concerned citizens would make faces.
A SONG OF CANONS
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iorl1qin54E.]
I grew up on this. The Dreigroschen Oper by Berthold Brecht and Kurt Weill is one of my favourites. It was frequent background music to my reading after school. Many long hours, marvelous memories.
Pot of strong tea. Stack of books. Clean ashtray. Deep armchair. And a tin of pipe tobacco, or a bundle of cheroots from the local cigar factory. Let it bluster outside, I'm indoors and the world is far away.
This what all childhoods should be.
Wholesome and educational.
And lots of teeth.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, December 02, 2014
WHAT ONE SHOULD DO ON A RAINY NIGHT
Inclement weather always reminds me of the Netherlands, where I lived for sixteen years. Yes, naturally I still speak Dutch, but I should mention that we spoke English at home. Usually. My parents were Americans, and I was born in the United States. We went over to Europe when I was two-and-a-half.
And when I say we spoke English at home (usually), what I mean is that in a household of avid readers, odd locutions abounded. Various imports from other languages were part of the word-hoard.
English. German. Dutch. Danish. Erse Gaelic. Old Norse. Yiddish. Indonesian. Latin. Chaucerian Middle-English. Anglo-Saxon. Russian. Hindustani. Et mult altres.
It's a wonder that we communicated at all.
This, too, came flooding back, as I wandered around the shopping district this afternoon. As someone who seldom visits the area, all the terms of modern retail and the fashion industry inform me that I am verbally handicapped.
Louboutin, Kors, Britex, Jimmy Choo, Marni, American Apparel.
Pillows, blankets, and comforters, by Ralph Lauren.
Zoolilly, Naturalizer, Ugg Becket.
The Coffee Revølution.
When DID the clothing departments at Macy's get taken over by Filipinas and bearded gay opera stars?
In passing I note that women's sleepwear is evenly divided between pole stripper slut and totally ridiculous. No, I didn't bother checking out the sizes, I'm sure none of it would suit me.
The only reason I was there was because I had finished my bowl of tobacco, and my fingers were starting to show Rainaud's Condition.
Also known as "zombie hands".
[The pipe was a sandblasted Peterson system that I bought twenty four years ago in Eindhoven. The tobacco was an orange-red broken flake (McClelland's No. 27).]
This may sound old-fashioned: when it comes to women's bedroom garb and underclothing, I prefer something that looks innocent and neat over crazed sex bunny outfits, Hello Kitty crap, or leering scarlet harlot.
And, in this weather, flannel jammies are best.
I headed back home, and was safely ensconced, by the time it really started coming down. It's soggy out there. At this very moment I am enjoying a warm cup of coffee-tea mixed with sweetened condensed milk. My apartment mate has not returned yet, it is peaceful and quiet within, and the rain provides a steady and comforting background.
Perhaps I should retire early for the night.
Toasty warm.
It would be nice to snuggle in the dark on a night like tonight (wearing flannel jammies, of course), but I'm sure the stuffed animals would kick up a ruckus. Poke, prod, grumble, and utter insults. They're rather territorial about the bed, and seem to think that they own it.
I don't have the heart to kick them out.
They "tolerate" me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And when I say we spoke English at home (usually), what I mean is that in a household of avid readers, odd locutions abounded. Various imports from other languages were part of the word-hoard.
English. German. Dutch. Danish. Erse Gaelic. Old Norse. Yiddish. Indonesian. Latin. Chaucerian Middle-English. Anglo-Saxon. Russian. Hindustani. Et mult altres.
It's a wonder that we communicated at all.
This, too, came flooding back, as I wandered around the shopping district this afternoon. As someone who seldom visits the area, all the terms of modern retail and the fashion industry inform me that I am verbally handicapped.
Louboutin, Kors, Britex, Jimmy Choo, Marni, American Apparel.
Pillows, blankets, and comforters, by Ralph Lauren.
Zoolilly, Naturalizer, Ugg Becket.
The Coffee Revølution.
When DID the clothing departments at Macy's get taken over by Filipinas and bearded gay opera stars?
In passing I note that women's sleepwear is evenly divided between pole stripper slut and totally ridiculous. No, I didn't bother checking out the sizes, I'm sure none of it would suit me.
The only reason I was there was because I had finished my bowl of tobacco, and my fingers were starting to show Rainaud's Condition.
Also known as "zombie hands".
[The pipe was a sandblasted Peterson system that I bought twenty four years ago in Eindhoven. The tobacco was an orange-red broken flake (McClelland's No. 27).]
This may sound old-fashioned: when it comes to women's bedroom garb and underclothing, I prefer something that looks innocent and neat over crazed sex bunny outfits, Hello Kitty crap, or leering scarlet harlot.
And, in this weather, flannel jammies are best.
I headed back home, and was safely ensconced, by the time it really started coming down. It's soggy out there. At this very moment I am enjoying a warm cup of coffee-tea mixed with sweetened condensed milk. My apartment mate has not returned yet, it is peaceful and quiet within, and the rain provides a steady and comforting background.
Perhaps I should retire early for the night.
Toasty warm.
It would be nice to snuggle in the dark on a night like tonight (wearing flannel jammies, of course), but I'm sure the stuffed animals would kick up a ruckus. Poke, prod, grumble, and utter insults. They're rather territorial about the bed, and seem to think that they own it.
I don't have the heart to kick them out.
They "tolerate" me.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
NOT A FAN OF JAPANESE FOOD
Regular visitors here have perhaps noted that while I have posted numerous Chinese, Indonesian, and Filipino recipes, as well as the occasional Afghani and Indian food preparation -- even favourably mentioned Thai, Cambodian, and Vietnamese -- there has never been any comment about what our neighbors the Japanese go all gourmandy over.
Well, besides snide comments about Caucasian sushi consumers.
In all honesty, Japanese food does not really excite me.
Other than their idiosyncratic version of curry.
Okay, superlatively fresh raw fish is exquisite.
Do you mind if I deepfry that?
Evenso, the Japanese have their own unique take on stuff to stick in their mouths, and the proper way to make it mouth-stickable.
And I know that they cook. At times.
There's evidence.
OISHII DESU, YO!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lkaIoH6Um60.]
Well hot damn', Cletus, now I is all hungry.
I want me some of that.
Seriously.
3秒クッキング 爆速エビフライ
San byo ku-king-gu, baku soku ebi frai
Three Seconds Cooking, Explosion Speed Shrimp Fry.
Double dipped and fryoblasted.
It looks delicious.
Brilliant.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Well, besides snide comments about Caucasian sushi consumers.
In all honesty, Japanese food does not really excite me.
Other than their idiosyncratic version of curry.
Okay, superlatively fresh raw fish is exquisite.
Do you mind if I deepfry that?
Evenso, the Japanese have their own unique take on stuff to stick in their mouths, and the proper way to make it mouth-stickable.
And I know that they cook. At times.
There's evidence.
OISHII DESU, YO!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lkaIoH6Um60.]
Well hot damn', Cletus, now I is all hungry.
I want me some of that.
Seriously.
3秒クッキング 爆速エビフライ
San byo ku-king-gu, baku soku ebi frai
Three Seconds Cooking, Explosion Speed Shrimp Fry.
Double dipped and fryoblasted.
It looks delicious.
Brilliant.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 01, 2014
CONNAUGHT ROAD, LUNG WO ROAD, AND HARCOURT ROAD -- 干諾、龍和、夏慤道
If the world's interest in events in Hong Kong seems to be fading from the spotlight, it is probably because the world does not really care very much. After all, Chinese students protesting anything at all, while anomalous, is not particularly thrilling.
For one thing, they don't go berserk, riot, and loot.
No overturned and burning garbage cans.
There's a lack of immediacy.
So it's not surprising that major news outlets decided to not even stress the events on Lung Wo Road (龍和道), or even mention that mister Leung (梁太監) is a collaborator on the same level as the Word War Two era governors of new provinces in occupied Europe, or the presidents of Afghanistan during the Moscow period.
Instead, we get over twenty minutes of Michele Bachman.
Good lord, Michele Bachman. The dingbat from hell.
Michele Bachman.
GREAT HAIR
Look, if the good people of Benton, Sherburne, Stearns, Wright, Anoka, and Washington counties, in Minnesota, want a subhuman halfwit dunce to represent them, that really shouldn't concern us. Yes, it's shocking, horrifying even, that someone with an intelligence level in the low single digits can rise to prominence, but it's Minnesota. From all accounts, Minnesota is filled with inbred Vikings. Who the hell cares?
She perfectly represents them.
Minus syphilis.
Over the weekend, Leung Chun-ying's puppets used police-state tactics against peaceful demonstrators in the Admiralty area (金鐘區), because the Northern warlords were getting impatient with the situation.
Can't have those damned Southerners getting all uppity, what?
If they do, literacy and ideas might spread.
That would lead to problems.
BTW: If you get a chance, look up Kong Qingdong (孔慶東 'hung hing dung'), who is sadly representative of the average Northern person.
A crude boorish lout with pretensions, and a boundless well of slavish loyalty towards the eunuchs in the Forbidden City. Also an overblown puffed-up pompous ass, but that almost goes without saying.
He's a Mandarin speaker.
Anyway, Michele Bachman is waaay more important and interesting.
With a bit of luck, Fox Entertainment Group will be running that dingbat as their presidential candidate in the next election.
American news broadcasters: mental Ebola.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
For one thing, they don't go berserk, riot, and loot.
No overturned and burning garbage cans.
There's a lack of immediacy.
So it's not surprising that major news outlets decided to not even stress the events on Lung Wo Road (龍和道), or even mention that mister Leung (梁太監) is a collaborator on the same level as the Word War Two era governors of new provinces in occupied Europe, or the presidents of Afghanistan during the Moscow period.
Instead, we get over twenty minutes of Michele Bachman.
Good lord, Michele Bachman. The dingbat from hell.
Michele Bachman.
GREAT HAIR
Look, if the good people of Benton, Sherburne, Stearns, Wright, Anoka, and Washington counties, in Minnesota, want a subhuman halfwit dunce to represent them, that really shouldn't concern us. Yes, it's shocking, horrifying even, that someone with an intelligence level in the low single digits can rise to prominence, but it's Minnesota. From all accounts, Minnesota is filled with inbred Vikings. Who the hell cares?
She perfectly represents them.
Minus syphilis.
Over the weekend, Leung Chun-ying's puppets used police-state tactics against peaceful demonstrators in the Admiralty area (金鐘區), because the Northern warlords were getting impatient with the situation.
Can't have those damned Southerners getting all uppity, what?
If they do, literacy and ideas might spread.
That would lead to problems.
BTW: If you get a chance, look up Kong Qingdong (孔慶東 'hung hing dung'), who is sadly representative of the average Northern person.
A crude boorish lout with pretensions, and a boundless well of slavish loyalty towards the eunuchs in the Forbidden City. Also an overblown puffed-up pompous ass, but that almost goes without saying.
He's a Mandarin speaker.
Anyway, Michele Bachman is waaay more important and interesting.
With a bit of luck, Fox Entertainment Group will be running that dingbat as their presidential candidate in the next election.
American news broadcasters: mental Ebola.
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NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DARK FRAGRANCES
Due to various events my apartment mate was at home five days out of seven last week. A lot of that time coincided with my days off. Now, bear in mind that I am very fond of her -- I've known her for twenty five years, and though we aren't 'involved', there are several areas where our tastes and peculiarities overlap -- but it can at times be trying to have her around.
She is a life-long non-smoker.
I am, if anything, a mildly stubborn tobacco fiend.
When she's home, I cannot light up.
On my days off, I like to ensconce myself somewhere comfy, with a cup of milk tea or coffee, a good book, and pipe-full of something stinky. The ensuing odour does not bother me and others of my kind, we rather enjoy the reek of well-matured leaves and dusty tomes, as well as all the other subtle fragrances that attend our various habits. Pipe-smokers are, at heart, burrowers and den-builders. We don't require much space, but we do absolutely need an ashtray and a surface for the teacup.
If our homes end up a bit pongy, so what? It's raining outside, crap is being chased from nook to cranny along the street, and weird wet stuff is falling from the sky. We're comfortable with our books and throw-rugs.
Join us. There's a cup of strong tea in it for you, and an extra quilt or cover. Bring your own book. Just don't criticize the aromas; they stimulate mood and memory.
The blinds in both the television room and my own quarters are always drawn, which means that this is a very private place. I do not have to worry about the disapproving stares of tobacco-hating neighbors who might be judgmental or nosy on the other side of the backlots between the buildings. If they could see this far.
Even though I was out of the house most of the weekend, the weather did not affect me. The rain delayed till yesterday evening.
No, I did not do any shopping; be real. Black Friday does not mean a thing to me, there are no wife and kids to buy presents for at Christmas. If there were, I'm sure they would all be quite sensible and not desire playstations, video games, or expensive and useless luxury goods for the holiday.
They'd probably each want a nice pipe instead. And a tin or two of excellent tobacco. Plus their own den.
Maybe we would meet occasionally in the kitchen, while fixing a warm beverage.
RISKY BUSINESS
As a side note, I can imagine "the lecture" that I would have to give a son or daughter once they reached a certain age.
"Son (or daughter), by now you've probably gotten over your objection to the other gender. When you were very small you insisted that they had cooties, and you wouldn't be caught dead associating with them. But you've changed. If you decide to do anything naughty, please read up on the human reproductive process first, think it over very carefully, and don't waste your time on Christians, dumbasses, or ungallant dickwads. Avoid anyone who is mean, or loud and obnoxious, or has serious gaps of sense and judgment; remember that you will probably be seen with them, and both of you will be judged by that association.
If you're going to commit nooky, three things: I do NOT want to find out about it by accident, no one else should find out either, keep clean and take precautions. Which you are paying for out of your own pocket.
If you're going to drink alcohol, it would be a damned good idea to wait until you are of legal age, only drink around people who can be trusted in any case, and kindly keep your hands off my bottle of Scotch.
If you want to smoke tobacco, remember that cigarettes are for low class people, cigars are a cop-out, and I'll gladly discuss pipes and good smoking mixtures with you whenever you're ready. If you wish to borrow a briar, talk to me.
Don't date anyone who objects vociferously to the smell of a pipe.
I won't like them. Eventually, neither will you.
Avoid illegal drugs; they're strictly for idiots and losers.
Medical marijuana is a load of horse-pucky.
Rap and popular music suck."
The other things that need to be mentioned are that low-fired ceramics are usually crap, and throw-rugs are supposed to smell a bit fusty.
I've run out of sherry again. I'll have to dash out and get more, during a break in the weather. I've got plenty of tobacco. And tea.
Sometimes I like sitting in a darkened room just listening to the rain.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
She is a life-long non-smoker.
I am, if anything, a mildly stubborn tobacco fiend.
When she's home, I cannot light up.
On my days off, I like to ensconce myself somewhere comfy, with a cup of milk tea or coffee, a good book, and pipe-full of something stinky. The ensuing odour does not bother me and others of my kind, we rather enjoy the reek of well-matured leaves and dusty tomes, as well as all the other subtle fragrances that attend our various habits. Pipe-smokers are, at heart, burrowers and den-builders. We don't require much space, but we do absolutely need an ashtray and a surface for the teacup.
If our homes end up a bit pongy, so what? It's raining outside, crap is being chased from nook to cranny along the street, and weird wet stuff is falling from the sky. We're comfortable with our books and throw-rugs.
Join us. There's a cup of strong tea in it for you, and an extra quilt or cover. Bring your own book. Just don't criticize the aromas; they stimulate mood and memory.
The blinds in both the television room and my own quarters are always drawn, which means that this is a very private place. I do not have to worry about the disapproving stares of tobacco-hating neighbors who might be judgmental or nosy on the other side of the backlots between the buildings. If they could see this far.
Even though I was out of the house most of the weekend, the weather did not affect me. The rain delayed till yesterday evening.
No, I did not do any shopping; be real. Black Friday does not mean a thing to me, there are no wife and kids to buy presents for at Christmas. If there were, I'm sure they would all be quite sensible and not desire playstations, video games, or expensive and useless luxury goods for the holiday.
They'd probably each want a nice pipe instead. And a tin or two of excellent tobacco. Plus their own den.
Maybe we would meet occasionally in the kitchen, while fixing a warm beverage.
RISKY BUSINESS
As a side note, I can imagine "the lecture" that I would have to give a son or daughter once they reached a certain age.
"Son (or daughter), by now you've probably gotten over your objection to the other gender. When you were very small you insisted that they had cooties, and you wouldn't be caught dead associating with them. But you've changed. If you decide to do anything naughty, please read up on the human reproductive process first, think it over very carefully, and don't waste your time on Christians, dumbasses, or ungallant dickwads. Avoid anyone who is mean, or loud and obnoxious, or has serious gaps of sense and judgment; remember that you will probably be seen with them, and both of you will be judged by that association.
If you're going to commit nooky, three things: I do NOT want to find out about it by accident, no one else should find out either, keep clean and take precautions. Which you are paying for out of your own pocket.
If you're going to drink alcohol, it would be a damned good idea to wait until you are of legal age, only drink around people who can be trusted in any case, and kindly keep your hands off my bottle of Scotch.
If you want to smoke tobacco, remember that cigarettes are for low class people, cigars are a cop-out, and I'll gladly discuss pipes and good smoking mixtures with you whenever you're ready. If you wish to borrow a briar, talk to me.
Don't date anyone who objects vociferously to the smell of a pipe.
I won't like them. Eventually, neither will you.
Avoid illegal drugs; they're strictly for idiots and losers.
Medical marijuana is a load of horse-pucky.
Rap and popular music suck."
The other things that need to be mentioned are that low-fired ceramics are usually crap, and throw-rugs are supposed to smell a bit fusty.
I've run out of sherry again. I'll have to dash out and get more, during a break in the weather. I've got plenty of tobacco. And tea.
Sometimes I like sitting in a darkened room just listening to the rain.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
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