![[Christian Hug]](http://ximg.scru.org/images/christianhug.png)
This is the night of second-hand thoughts. Oh, the shame. I'm gonna do this in mostly-chronological order. Mostly.
I vaguely remember the first great meal I had in Paris. I got off the plane, went through immigration and customs, hopped on the RER, got out and dragged my suitcase to Le Chat Grippé. I walked through the door in my T-shirt and jeans, and said… well, I don't remember what I said, but I ended up getting a table and ordering the tasting menu. I don't remember very much about the food, but I remember that the waiter had to wake me up between courses. I've kinda had a thing for tasting menus ever since.
Tonight I made a reservation at a fine dining establishment that was advertised as having a couple of tasting menus. I wasn't going to commit myself to a tasting menu, but there was a good chance I would find it irresistable. I timed my departure pretty well, and after walking the 2.5 miles to the restaurant, I was only a couple minutes early.
Now the funny thing about this is I did not happen to notice that I had entered Molecular Gastronomy Hut. The signs outside did not say Molecular Gastronomy Hut, neither in cuneiform, hieroglyphs, nor any language I could read. The menu did not advertise the fact that this was Molecular Gastronomy Hut. Had I known that this was Molecular Gastronomy Hut, I would have not ordered the tasting menu, especially since I was not hungry and should probably have not even eaten a whole course. Had I known that the wine pairings would only include two reds, I wouldn't have ordered those either.
Normally I expect wine pairings to include a white. It's the thing to do; it adds contrast. You drink it and get it over with and then you enjoy the rest of your meal. This had at least three whites and one rosé. Mother of God.
For the moment, though, I had no foreknowledge of the wines, and was was entranced by the knives, which were twisted such that if the handle was lying flat on the table, the blade stood vertically. Not only was this incredibly distracting, it seemed to have some practical value; if there were foodstuffs on your knife, they would remain elevated and not touch the tablecloth.
Anyway, the food comes out, course by course, wine by wine. I wonder if Richard from Top Chef is hiding back in the kitchen. There are random foams and gastriques lying conspicuously on my plates. My second course had a lemon sorbet sitting on top of various types of vegetable matter. My third course involved arthropods. Ever wonder what to pair with fried arthropod? That's right, rosé. My fourth course was actually tasty, much to my surprise. It was a pumpkin flower cappuccino. It is hubris to call it cappuccino, but they did and I am going to maintain the tradition. It tasted like warm infused buttery goodness, even though I was picking insect legs out of my mouth while drinking it.
You may or may not be surprised to learn that the lemon sorbet made a reappearance in a later course. The waiter recommended mixing it with the other ingredients. Tom Colicchio was hiding in the back of my head asking why, if it was meant to be mixed, wouldn't they serve it mixed. I am forced to agree.
The only other thing worth having was the cheese plate. It was populated with cheese I had never had before, and fruit concoctions to go with each. Most of the cheese were nothing special, but one was orgasmic. No, I'm not going to tell you what it was. Oh, all right, it was the middle one.
One hundred fifty-six courses later, I was asked if I wanted any coffee. I didn't really want caffeine, but as I didn't want to sabotage the experience, I acquiesced and consented to an espresso. I'm not sure how I was understood, as by this time I had stopped speaking the local language and was presently shouting about bacon-burger dogs, the Huxtables, and Freebird. Then after coffee and being ignored, I asked for the check. Surprise, surprise: there was an additional dessert course to go. Didn't I look foolish? The bill came out to about half the country's GDP. The last time I had seen that many digits was when a bunch of hipsters tried to calculate π while spaz-dancing to Fischerspooner and playing Space Channel Five. I wondered how it must feel for one of those guys who decides to order all kinds of extravagant room service in a luxury hotel right before committing suicide.
After I paid, which seemed to confuse them a bit, they offered to call me a cab. I refused politely several times. I don't like cabs to begin with, aside from the whole plutocrat-fatcat I-might-as-well-get-a-maid-and-a-butler-and-a-valet feel to them, and the practical aspects of the drivers being douchebags. I had just spent a ridiculous amount of money on food that wasn't worth it, and I saw no reason to add insult to injury by paying for a taxi. It could probably have been $10 or $15 more. Mother of Christ.
So I walked. It was only four or so miles to my bed, and I passed the time by singing songs of cormorants and racial disharmony and seventeen-year-old prostitutes and the time the Rescue Rangers got sentenced to maximum-security prison. All in all it was a terribly unpleasant contrast to the happy song about alfajores I was singing before dinner.
Mmm… alfajores.
⋰
Posted Tue Jul 22 00:02:15 2008A sound caught my ear, tickling my consciousness until I was impelled to locate its source. It was not that I wanted any ice cream from the ice cream truck I was sure was the culprit; it was because it sounded suspiciously like it was playing Come Dancing by the Kinks. When I saw that it was a large garbage truck, I was still more bothered by the calliope-like riffs coming from it than the fact that the garbage truck was playing a song.
Naturally, I whirled around and goosestepped away. After having dinner with what was probably a contracted companion, I was escorted to a massage parlor. While I was being serviced, I stared at the TV while a news program started. Its theme song was a muzak version of Yanni.
Shortly thereafter I made the mistake of getting into a conversation about lavender: the flower, not the color. The musical accompaniment was Elvis Costello. This is not notable.
Then, before I was fondled unpleasantly by an 8-year-old with Down's Syndrome, whose mother was entirely unsympathetic to my plight, I encountered a much smaller garbage truck. It was playing Für Elise. What a contrast! I only want to encounter garbage trucks playing classic rock from now on.
Come dancing; it's only natural, unless you get molested by a mongoloid.
Posted Sun Jul 6 02:44:08 2008I was misled. That much is probably true. I certainly had no idea what I was getting myself into. Enough of that though; there's narrative fading away.
The part I should take responsibility for is the decision I made to stray off the map. Perhaps it was not so much a decision as a compulsion. I looked at the map. I saw the suspicious unmarked area at the edge, and concluded immediately that there was something good there, something the people wanted to keep hidden from me. I was correct, but I presumed far too much about the terrain. I thought I would make a quick exploration of the secret place, then backtrack to the more mapped area and get back with the program. Enough of that though; I've nearly forgotten the story.
First I should point out that, had the map been to scale, it should have taken me an leisurely fifteen minutes to get to my first destination. It should have, assuming the land would be as flat as the map that represented it. Instead, it turned out to be something one could cover in fifteen minutes if one had, say, a jetpack and spring boots. I'm probably wrong; I'd probably injure myself in the process and take longer. Anyway, the average incline was close to 45°, and luckily was mostly uphill. Luckily.
When I got to a resting place, I was able to conclude that my supply of fluids was almost certainly insufficient for me to continue. On the other hand, there was probably no way I would return if I went back for more drink. I told myself that there would likely be a beverage-selling shack out in the middle of nowhere around the next bend or so. Having solved this probability problem, I pressed on into the blazing sun.
I came to a path leading down to the sea. It was unclear what was down there, but it was clear that it seemed to be a million miles down, and that that path might be the only way back. Given my current state of exhaustion and hydration, I decided to pass on this opportunity.
After continuing for a while, the features at the bottom of that path became visible. A very pretty cove was down there, and almost certainly no shack o' drinks. I then came upon a fork. A wide path led downward: to what, I could not see. To its left, a narrow and rough path led straight. Knowing that a descent probably meant climbing four to eight times the altitude back somehow, and assuming the less pleasant-looking path led somewhere better, I went left. After a while, the land began to slope down, ever so slightly. Little clusters of bottles and newspapers were left on the rocks here and there. Then came a sofa under a tent. I began to wonder what hippies were traveling this path. The slope grew greater, and I passed a bench in a tent. Then I came to a giant staircase, almost straight down. It was covered in weeds and insects. Some were vegan, some wanted my flesh. As I got toward the bottom I thought about how glad I was that I had come that way from the top and not the other way around. Oh, I was very glad.
At the bottom was something resembling a plastic bottle graveyard and barrels among barrels filled with water. Rubber hoses seemed to run randomly between certain barrels. A kitchen stood at the edge of some barrels. I suddenly got the feeling that I was not supposed to be here. After discovering that a couple of escape routes were actually dead ends, I proceeded to descend a small staircase to a terraced garden. Hoses lay about the rows, presumably for watering the plants. A cot under a tent lay empty, and I hurried past hoping I would not encounter the owner. Then I was at the ocean. The coast was lined with huge boulders, and a wooden bridge led me to the first one, and another wooden bridge took me to the second. Then the bridges stopped.
In the distance, I could see that pretty little cove from before. I took stock. I could either return whence I came, up that horrifying staircase, or I could try to traverse the rocky coast over to the cove, then maybe do a faceplant on the beach and let the tide drown me rather than climbing back up. It seemed like a no-brainer, so I began making my way toward the cove.
It got harder. Several times I became very afraid, either of falling and smashing my head against a rock or falling into the water below, or some sequential combination thereof. In the end I turned out to be more afraid of going back, at least until I got to what I judged the point of no return. I was reasonably close to where I imagined the sandy beach started, but there was a huge and impassable boulder in the way. Also, if I went further there was no way I would be able to climb back up in case I needed to retreat. I was thinking I would need to retreat, because unless there was some magical hidden toehold, I would be forced to jump into the water and swim around. I did not want to jump into the water. I wanted my phone to stay unfried in the event that I would need to use it to get rescued. I also did not want to call anyone to get rescued, especially since I didn't really know how to explain where I was.
With a heavy sigh, I gave up, turned, and went back. This time I moved more quickly, though incurring more damage to my hands and feet. No humans were visible at the crazy farm/garden and makeshift reservoir, but plenty of bugs were visible on the staircase. I made the mistake of trying to lean against the railing to catch my breath. When I finally got to the bench in the tent, I understood exactly what it was for. I sat down, took a sip of my remaining water, ate an apple, and kept going up. When I got to the couch, I sat again.
This time I sat and tried to figure out a plan. I still clung to the belief that once I got back to somewhere less wild I'd be able to buy a drink. I noted that I only had a little bit of water left, that I was dehydrated, that I was sunburned, that my pulse was about 180, and that there were no dogs or Russian people wandering past me.
I ate a pear and drank my last few drops of water. I kept sitting until my pulse was down to around 150, then I figured I needed to keep moving. I was experiencing most of the effects of caffeine, and for free.
Oddly, I passed a dog a few steps later. It was just standing by a rock, looking at me. I decided not to converse. When I had nearly reached the fork again, a couple came my way. I thought about begging them for water. I decided not to be rude. I have no idea what happened to them. I'm betting they wisely decided not to go down the steps.
Resolving that the only sane option was to go back all the way to where I absolutely knew I could buy something potable, I headed in that direction. Still, I took two risks. Instead of going up the exact way I had come, or taking a well-travelled path down, I took a narrow and flat dirt path. It was actually a bit of a dilemma. I started down the latter two more than once each. Finally I saw that the down path was rather V shaped, and I concluded correctly that the straight path would bypass that angular-half-pipe-like construct. When I finally got to a point I recognized, it was smooth sailing the rest of the way down.
I bought water and a snack, since I had had almost nothing to eat that day. At this point it would have been prudent to call it quits and go off and gorge myself on seafood or something, but no, I was now in the mapped area and surely it would all be roses and manna.
Finishing one bottle, I bought two more. Five minutes later I bought another. I had now overcompensated, but I was playing it safe. I continued my explorations. Bicyclists kept nearly running into me, and, aside from the obvious, I viewed this as a good sign. Bicyclists, especially those that can't seem to steer straight for some reason, avoid difficult terrain. This is why they take their bikes on subways, trains, and buses. I don't like bike-riding, but if I had my druthers, I would always go downhill. No up, no flat, just down. Like downhill skiing, just down. It is a good thing I don't ride a bike.
Once I got to the point where the bicycles thinned out to nonexistence, I was at an intersection. The way I wanted to go was up. The way I didn't want to go, but was a reasonable option, was only very slightly up. Additional factors complicated this decision point.
![[elision]](http://ximg.scru.org/images/elizion.jpg)
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Moving hurriedly away from there, I headed upward. After a couple of turns, I ran into Catholics. First there were dead Catholics. Then there were Catholics pre-occupied with dead Catholics. Then there were Catholics waiting to die. Then there were seminarians. Then there were teens with prayer books. When I reached the next pinnacle, there were more teens with prayer books. There were benches, and there were no teens on them, for the teens were standing or sitting on the ground, quietly contemplating the Word. Unfortunately, they had decided that the benches were more suitable for holding all their bags, so there was nowhere for me to sit.
I considered interrupting their reverie, but decided it wouldn't be very Christian of me to disturb them, so I just placed an ancient Drasnian curse on them and plodded down the hill toward a small beach. I really didn't need any more sun, but at least there probably wouldn't be anyone praying there.
The water was tempting, but I'm always paranoid about my belongings when swimming alone, and if my phone were taken I wouldn't be able to call anybody to come rescue me at the next crisis point, sure to come. So I skirted the coastline and arrived at a much larger beach, one with facilities and services.
Opting to save money but complicate things by using the public changing rooms and showers, I made a discovery.
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Nonetheless, I changed into my swimming trunks, stuffed everything else but my towel, sunglasses, and a disgusting sugary drink I never should have bought into my bag, and went barefoot a few buildings down to rent a locker. The locker was ridiculously large for a single person, which is good to know should I ever want to kidnap a family and torture them at this place. The proprietor informed me that they were closing at some specific time, about an hour from then. I had no timekeeping device outside of the locker, so I had to wing it, and erring heavily on the side of caution, I had a short beach diversion. Given that large swathes of my epidermis were turning bright red, it's probably for the best.
Handling the shower, locker, and changing in the other direction was slightly more complicated, but I did it and then I headed inland, figuring I should have a substantial meal for once that day. On my way to find dinner is when things got really crazy.
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I wandered over to a bench to eat my newly-acquired snack, and did not exercise enough caution, because the flimsy paper bag ripped and I got sauce all over my pants and a little on my shirt. Unfortunately I had used my napkin in that earlier episode, and I'm not sure how much it would have helped anyway.
Thus I continued on, looking like a slobby retard. Then I made an obviously-poor decision and ended up having a subpar dinner. What happened after that is a story for another time.
Posted Wed Jun 25 09:13:32 2008This is dedicated to the little girl who just said that all tea tastes the same, but only because I bet she can't use an RSS aggregator.
I had had enough tea to kill a horse. Okay, that's an understatement. I had had enough sweet corn to kill a horse, but I had had enough tea to kill a whole village of horses. The horses constructed a village, then they had a big schism because some of them wanted to become centaurs, then there was a war, then they had to rebuild the village, and now they're living in constant fear of being wiped out by tea.
I had some cold, leftover tea for breakfast. I had milk tea for zweites Frühstück. I had milk tea for drittes Frühstück. Okay, drittes Frühstück was nothing more than a mug of milk tea and a glass of water. Then at dim sum, I was doubly foiled by a lack of 菊花茶. Doubly. I won't get into the details, but we ended up settling on some jasmine. I have a very shaky relationship with jasmine tea, but I didn't want to be difficult. I won't get into the details.
A couple hours later, my heart was doing handstands. It stopped. It started. It did a jig. It projected itself into the future, fondled the Shrike inappropriately, and returned, only skipping four beats. Disco. It shifted itself into the eighth dimension, did a pirouette, and installed a gopher server. My other organs eyed it with disgust and contempt.
It is no wonder then that I concluded I should have no more tea, then made the ridiculous decision to walk into a Cantonese restaurant for dinner. If this is not a clear case of Thanatos mixed with some idiocy and veal stock, then swirled around in a cocktail shaker until I get tired of this metaphor, then I… get tired of this metaphor.
I have some beer to help lower my pulse to 180, though I know it will elevate my blood pressure even more, and my blood pressure is already at about 3500 volts. So when I finish the bottle, the waiter asks if I want some tea. How can I refuse? He wanders off, and a second waiter appears out of the shadows, and asks me if I want some tea. Again I agree. Reinforcing it makes it better. Then he drops the question. This guy is my homeboy: he asks if jasmine is okay. I casually inquire what choices I might have that don't suck. He is about to respond when waiter #1 drops a teapot on my table. Surprise, it's jasmine. I surrender. Homeslice ain't having it though: he offers to trade me for something else. He gives me some options and I opt for the 龍井茶. He mumbles something informative and largely irrelevant, not suspecting that I just want to play tic-tac-toe in the 井. Surprisingly, I don't.
Then I had mango pudding even though I had it at lunch too.
Posted Mon Jun 16 09:53:44 2008![[Broccoli]](http://ximg.scru.org/images/brocnbrue.jpg)
It is said broccoli was produced by crossbreeding cauliflower with rapini. I don't know who said this.
Posted Tue Jun 3 18:06:06 2008![[Spaces]](http://ximg.scru.org/images/bmssb.jpg)
I ordered the уха по-царски. It was not in the cards. The харчо was an acceptable compromise. I do love a good харчо.
мика says that her grandma's уха is the bomb-diggity. I will probably never verify this.
Posted Sun Jun 1 10:08:59 2008One day the Stranger arrived. He was a tall and lanky teen, his face peppered with acne and sparse pubescent hair. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, a long coat, a scarf, and he was Strange. Some newcomers prefer to observe, to gauge the breadth and nuance of Social Custom, and to keep low profiles until they are comfortable enough to risk a misstep. This newcomer preferred to wield a bean bag, and to go door to door, knocking, introducing himself, and asking if there might be any nice conversation lurking inside in which he might join.
Predictably, most people were horrified, frightened, and offended. They responded in a hostile fashion, and branded him Bean Bag Boy, or Bag Boy for short. A few others viewed him instead as a free spirit, a visionary, a unique character, and a Cool Guy. Perhaps they bought into the crap that society spews forth as part of its Campaign for Cognitive Dissonance. Perhaps they were just confused. Those that admired him branded him Doctor Who, a moniker of affection and respect. I will never understand this, even though I know which drugs they were on (Prozac, Zoloft, LSD, THC, psylocybin, and PCP, respectively).
Bag Boy learned to keep mostly to those who appreciated his insane ramblings. Had he been motivated and competent, he probably could have been a minor cult leader. Instead, he fell out of public view for a while. When he returned, he had two younger companions: a boy and a girl.
It became immediately obvious what to call them. The female, whose name, eerily enough, was Baggs, would be Bag Girl. Since Bag Boy already possessed that name, the male would have to be Little Bag.
Little Bag was an enigma unto himself, and went on to have many adventures of his own. Once he called me a Zenmaster, so I will refrain from mentioning him for a long time.
Bag Girl was no less a character. She detested being called by either her given name or her surname, and instead preferred to brandish an agglutinative designation of her own choosing: one part temporal adjective, one part finite act of performance. This contrasted delightfully with her appearance, which was not dissimilar to a three-foot-tall chinchilla.
Most were content to call her by her chosen appellation, though some would add her real surname (to which she fumed bitterly), and one insisted on calling her by her given name, as a hostile act of hatred.
Bag Girl's main hobby was a menagerie of characters that she explained were her multiple personalities. Unlike persons suffering from dissociative identity disorder, Bag Girl had full knowledge of her personalities and their doings.
One of these personalities was a 90-year-old elf named Galiganda Dulin. Another was a man named Sayjon, who bore a suspicious resemblance to Pink Floyd's fascist alter ego from The Wall.
In fact, Bag Girl had been profoundly affected by The Wall, although she had watched it while on LSD, so interpolation based on these data may be tainted.
Posted Sat Mar 8 22:10:14 2008I was walking under Union Square, listening to Hank Williams, when suddenly Hank was completely drowned out by the blaring of Hypnotic Brass Ensemble.
You have no idea how sad I am that I can identify Chicago street musicians.
Posted Thu Feb 21 22:41:44 2008That was the best cover of the Super Marios Bros. theme song ever.
Posted Thu Dec 20 23:17:14 2007