Feast on this.

Everyone who knows me, knows that I love to cook. Most have also been on the receiving end of my more successful culinary extravaganzas, as well as some of my more horrifying creations. Lucky for me (and for everyone I feed), the fabulousness far outweighs the suckage.

For my dad's 60th birthday this last weekend, I opted for an Indian Feast. His wife (my wonderful stepmom), Jen, hates to cook. She wants nothing to do with it. I've cut a deal with her - when we come to their home in central Oregon, I will do the cooking if she picks up the groceries before I arrive. She doesn't mind the grocery shopping and can afford to buy anything in the store I could possibly ask for (although I do try to stay reasonable - even on special occasions). I can even keep a fairly accurate inventory of her pantry in my memory so that I can be sure an alter my grocery store requests accordingly. Everyone wins with this plan.

After dining about an hour or so later than originally anticipated (that's the part I really suck at), the dinner was declared a success! Here's what we had:


Vambotu Curry (Sri Lankan Eggplant Curry) (I know, not Indian, but it's an amazing dish and a nice compliment to the other dishes we made)
Chukandar Dahi (Beets with Mint and Yogurt)*
Vatana Bhaji (Green Peas with Coconut and Cilantro)
Chickpea Salad with Ginger
Chicken Tikka
Basmati Rice
Paratha (Whole Wheat Flatbread)
Mint Chutney with Yogurt
Dry Peanut Chutney


And, for dessert, K made Chai Tea cupcakes with Cinnamon Cream Cheese frosting. The wine we served with dinner was Toluca Lane Pinot Noir 2003 which, admittedly, is not the ideal choice for Indian food with so many different spices and flavors, but dad likes pinot noir and it was his birthday.

Some of the dishes came from Madhur Jaffrey's World Vegetarian and others came from Mark Bittman's The Best Recipes in the World. My experience, so far, with both cookbooks is that the World Vegetarian recipes are a bit more challenging, time consuming and labor intensive, but all that I have made from that book have been tasty and worth my while. Bittman is awesome because he gives a ballpark idea of how long the dish will take to make, which is very helpful.

On the heels of this feast (i.e. last night) was a different feast in celebration of our friend Elizabeth's 50th birthday. The theme was "Itlee" (this is how Elizabeth says "Italy," being from New Orleans, er N'awlins, and all) and here is what we served:


appetizers:

Puree of Cannelini Beans with Garlic and Rosemary and Whole Wheat flatbread for dipping
Steamed Artichokes
Italian Black Truffle Cheese with Crackers and Figs
beverage: Pastis (I know, not Italian - I didn't have Campari or Limoncello on hand and didn't have time to go to the liquor store)


salads:

Caprese
Roasted Beets with Mint and a Balsamic Reduction*
Panzanella (Garlic Bread Salad with Tomatoes and Basil)


main course:

Saffron Risotto two ways:
one with Scallops, Prawns and Tomatoes
one with Asparagus, Peas and Roasted Red & Yellow Bell Peppers (K is vegan and J may or may not be pregnant and is not eating shellfish as a result)
beverage: BV Napa Cabernet 2004, sparkling water

dessert:

Lemon Tart (this is the most amazing lemon tart - perfect consistency and wonderful balance of sweet and tart with just the right amount of lemon and a flavorful crust; it's from the May 2002 issue of Bon Appetit and I highly recommend it)

Elizabeth and her boyfriend, Michael, were beyond happy with the full tummy and leftovers they had when they left our home. There are still more leftovers - anyone?

* Please note: Not sure if peeps know this or not, but I think it's valuable info for anyone who doesn't know. When you consume roasted beets, it has a very colorful impact when it exits your body (well, unless it exits via vomit, in which case I have no idea what color it would be - maybe ruby reddish). Seriously - the shits are a sort of reddish burgandy and it can be rather alarming if you aren't expecting it.

__________________________________

So, I realize that this isn't the thought provoking !kablammo! post that might come with a month + absence, but it's what was on my mind today. Worry not, there are some bonafide stories in the making and I'll do my best to do them justice.

Desert Island food

just in case

1. Unagi
2. Barely seared Ahi
3. Haagen Dazs Dulce de Leche
4. Mangos (already cut up for me)
5. Panang Curry
6. Rare Filet Mignon
7. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies
8. Artichokes (steamed, with drawn butter)
9. Tarte Tatin
10. Fresh raspberries

Because I like to "torcher" my peeps: Putting the "fun" back in dysfunctional...

In honor of the pending Christmas holiday and the fact that I will be spending it NOT with my mom (where icky nasty bad disfunction abounds), and because I am thoroughly convinced that there is good dysfunction and bad dysfunction (the good being the ones with my chosen family - aka my friends - and my work family), I present to you some fond memories from Thanksgiving last.

I annually spend Thanksgiving with my "chosen family" instead of my biological family. This is a little bit selfish, since I have biological family in town and I'd rather be with my friends and where the food is better than going to my mom's or aunt's house for the holiday.

My chosen family pretty much consists of one of my dearest friends, Kara, her partner Patrizio, her mother Ellen, three of her four siblings (Audrey, Liz and the youngest, Mateo, who comes with his wife, Liz ), some Thanksgiving orphans who are also friends, "honorary" members of the family (such as myself, my partner and my daughter) and random other friends who either have nowhere else to go or don't want to go anywhere else. The total guest count is always somewhere in the twenties and everyone contributes to the meal (all are good cooks and none cut corners or buy pre-fab or store-made items), the fixins are predominantly vegetarian (about a third or so of the crowd doesn't eat meat), but with the requisite organically fed and conscientiously raised turkey as the star of the show.

This year, we brought: homemade bloody mary mix (with extra garlic) & the pepper vodka & garnish for said cocktail (garnish consisted of five inch wooden skewers speared with olive, hearts of palm, grape tomato and a spear of celery for stirring), carrot ginger soup (vegetarian, but not vegan), roasted beet salad with goat cheese and toasted pecans and topped with a balsamic reduction, and a dessert that disappears rapidly every year: a chocolate bourbon pecan pie. We also brought two bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau and plenty of games.

While I thoroughly enjoy the genre of family dysfunction, particularly in literature and film, I must admit to feeling partial to a certain flavor of dysfunction in my presence (let's just call it "good dysfunction") and avoiding the sort of dysfunction often found at the functions at my mother's house (we'll call this one "bad dysfunction"). Now, it could just be that these two types of dysfunction are actually one in the same and I have more teflon when I am in the company of someone else's family, as opposed to immersed in the dysfunction of my own family, in which it all feels so personal and harmful.

Regardless, allow me to share with you some of the dysfunctional highlights from this year's event:

• Botox - Outed at Last! Kara's sister, Liz, had previously confessed to her sisters and mother that she is regularly submitting to Botox injections (Liz is the middle child of the five, yet appears to be the oldest) as an attempt to curb her visible aging. Needless to say, the family is somewhat appalled and consider Liz vain. However, neither Mateo nor Liz's friend, Nathaniel, was aware of this indulgence until a somewhat lit Kara cattily outed Liz at the dinner table, just after Liz called her "ugly." Mateo stood, aghast, begging his sister to say it isn't so. After the initial shock from Mateo and Nathaniel subsided, Liz blew it all off in a "so what" sort of manner and poured herself another glass of wine.

• Liz (the sister-in-law, as opposed to Liz the sister) brought her mother, Marge, who was visiting from Alaska. Both Liz and Marge are deathly allergic to cats and Kara sequestered her new kitten, LuLu, and cleaned especially well for their benefit (this was, of course, something of a big deal as it was requested to Kara that the kitten be relocated to another house entirely in order for them to avoid an allergic outbreak). As we were going around the table proclaiming what we were thankful for, mother Ellen, a very political and left-leaning woman, lauds the "takeover of the Democrats" and stands and cheers. The rest of the room erupts in cheers and a raised glass. Except for Marge, who looks mortified at the taboo subject of politics being raised at the Thanksgiving table. She does not applaud. She does not raise her glass. Her sour expression speaks volumes and you can feel her discomfort.
  

• But that's not all! At some point during the giving of thanks, it is mentioned that there is gratitude that Ellen never married any of her less-than-desirable boyfriends of yore. Kara mentions her shock and awe when Ellen's boyfriend at the time bestowed upon her as a gift for her 21st birthday a "1/4 lb. bag of weed." Laughter erupts from the table and, again, poor Marge is horrified. One can practically read the thought bubble over her head proclaiming, "what kind of family have I allowed my precious daughter to marry into?" Shortly after this incident, Marge pulls the oh-look-at-the-time card and exits the festivities without even tasting the dessert. No doubt, she was thoroughly convinced that the frosted brownies were laced with hashish.
  

• After dinner, the remaining guests engaged in a lively game of Celebrity Password. Now, one of the problems of playing games with Kara and her family is that they can get really competetive. It's almost as if they are under the impression that there might be a giant cash prize awaiting the winner - things can get a little intense. And since Celebrity Password is played in teams, we typically do not allow family members or significant others (unless they are newly dating) to be on the same team. Audrey had brought her new beau, Alphonse, who was blending in well so far with this group. However, since Alphonse was not born in the U.S., his knowledge of American pop culture was not quite up to par for playing Celebrity Password. We explained the rules to him and he was in - a good sport, indeed. However, when it was his turn to give clues, he found that he didn't always know the people he was supposed to describe. This was driving the Botoxed Liz, who was on his team, batty and she wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it. Although Alphonse tried to describe several different names ranging from polititians to pop stars to historical figures to sports figures to local celebs, he was only able to get his team to guess one correctly. When his turn to give clues came around again, Liz, clearly in an attempt to offer support, says to Alphonse: "C'Mon, you can get more than one right this time!"

• And there was also the moment during the drumroll part, just before dinner was served, when Patrizio was moving all swiftly and shit all about the kitchen like a whirling dervish or something and he opens up the oven and somehow the shelf was not secure and he goes to pull out Audrey's root vegetable hoo-ha and the shelf got all diagonally topsy turvey and the roasted potatoes that someone else made (maybe Liz?) did a little flippity flip and landed in the root vegetable hoo-ha (hey! you got your root veggies in my potatoes! well you got your potatoes in my root veggies! let's make a candy bar! ok.). Suffice to say, the original chefs of the dishes getting all comboed up were not the least bit pleased about this fusion. Dudes, have another bloody mary, it coulda been SO much worse!
  

• Lastly, there was the tipsy Ellen walking around with her dry vermouth on the rocks while the rest of us were having vodka martinis (the logical follow-up to bloody marys) and talking about how she loooooooooooves dry vermouth and it's been so long since she's enjoyed just a simple dry vermouth on the rocks. Ah the memories, she tells us. In fact, she continues, she used to drink vermouth when she was preggers with Mateo, then she'd go and throw up so it wouldn't hurt him. Mateo's facial response to this was priceless.
  

Empathic Teen - Not for Sale

So, the other morning, whilst preparing for their days of school and work respectively, my teen daughter, K, says to my lovely wife, J, "did my mom have a rough night last night?"

J looks up, bewildered. "I don't think so. Why?"

K gestures to the small dry-erase board that is held by an uber-strong magnet to our refrigerator and says, "last night when I went to bed, the board was blank and now it has three booze items listed."

J looks at the board, where we all typically will jot down which grocery items we have just consumed the last of, thus simplifying the shopping for whoever eventually takes on this task. In my handwriting is the following list and nothing more:

Grand Marnier
Absolut Peppar
Bushmills

J laughs and tells K that she's pretty sure that I'm simply preparing for the holidays.

I beam with pride when this tale is later retold to me - my daughter knows what Bushmills is! She is so smart!

A Pig by Any Other Name

As a waiter with a conscience, I am frequently confronted with attending to the various and sundry diet requirements and peculiarities of others and am expected to ensure that narry a tidbit nor a morsel passes into their digestive system.

Most folks with said peculiarities are quite adamant about making their dietetic/allergic/religious restrictions known and expect that they will be honored. I've encountered people who have rattled off lengthy lists of ingredients that they will not eat and those who have handed me typed lists of forbidden ingredients.

Nevermind that I am expected to have a complete understanding of : vegetarianism, veganism, macrobiotics, Atkins, South Beach Diet, gluten-free diets, lactose intolerance, and so on. This includes, but is not limited to, knowing that the pasta bolognese contains the ever so slightest bit of milk in the recipe and that I ought not serve a Hefeweizen to one with a wheat allergy. When our catering director, Anna, began working with us, I had to suggest that she may want to stop suggesting chicken saltimbocca as a potential menu item for those planning bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs, as the dish contains proscuitto and many Jewish folks do not eat pork. Anna had wondered why such an otherwise popular dish was always declined for these particular occasions.

But, as Anna learned, pork is not always called pork. It might be bacon or ham or pancetta or proscuitto. And, while I'll help someone avoid this ingredient if I'm aware that it is not permitted within their belief system, when I'm not informed that they would be endangering the potential for the ultimate afterlife, there's not a whole lot I can do.

I don't personally have any food issues (I make up for it in mental/emotional issues!), but I do my best to be pretty sensitive to those who do. At the same time, I am a firm believer of advocating for oneself, particularly in situations such as this.

Enter blond 30-something man, a customer of mine from last week, who was having dinner with what I presumed to be his wife. They both ordered drinks before dining and, when I asked if they had any questions about anything on the menu, they did not and informed me that they were ready to order. The blond 30-something man ordered the mac & cheese (listed as macaroni and cheese with pancetta on the menu - a winter comfort-food favorite) and his companion ordered one of our signature pasta dishes, also containing pancetta. Either of these items could easily be made without the pancetta and neither the man nor the woman chose to ask any questions prior to ordering.

After serving their piping hot entrees, I stopped by the table once they'd had an opportunity to taste their food. Generally, this is one of the easier parts of my job, as our food is pretty good and we seldom experience food-related mishaps. I noticed that the man's mac & cheese had been pushed away from him, toward the center of the table. Sometimes this is merely an indication that folks are sharing their dishes. When I asked how their dinners were, he picked up his fork and and gently pried away a small piece of pancetta onto the tine. Holding it up so that I could get a closer look, he said, "what's this?"

"Oh, that's pancetta." Answering this question is a little bit nerve wracking because there is always a distinct possibility that I will have a problem on my hands that will require a quick fix. And that will usually entail dealing with someone who would rather have not swallowed an oinker.

"What's pancetta?" Uh oh. I see exactly where this is going.

"Pancetta is an Italian bacon." I've found this to be the most user-friendly reply to this query.

"So, it's...pork?" This guy looks really uncomfortable. I inform him that it is, indeed, pork. He tells me that it is against his religion to consume pork and he can't eat it. I ask him if I may bring him something else instead, but he declines my gesture to remedy the situation. I apologize to him for the inconvenience and he assures me that it was his own fault. While this is true, I opt not to acknowledge that, as I deem it irrelevant at the moment. It wouldn't be that difficult to take the mac & cheese off the bill and bring him a different item (even mac & cheese) that does not contain pork. And I was totally willing to do this. Sure, the guy fucked up, but he doesn't deserve to starve for it.

He insists on going without and continues to reiterate that it was his fault. Finally, I tell him that it doesn't really matter whose fault it is and that I'm happy to bring him something else. Dude continues to play martyr and I let it go. Really, what can I do at this point?

I feel bad for the man, as I see him watching his companion eat. When it comes time for the check, I choose to remove the item from the bill and, even though he's still pulling the it's-all-my-fault card, I tell him that he shouldn't have to pay for something that he isn't able to eat and it was the least I could do. He looks at me sheepishly and I then smile and tell him that if he is not happy with that option, he may wish to take it up with the manager on duty and that would be me. He smiles back at me. He then presents me with a moral dilemma.

"It's just that we don't eat pork at all. It's against our religion. I didn't know that pancetta meant pork."

We? Our? I swear he didn't include his companion in his earlier proclamation of no pork. I would have spoken up if he had and reminded her that her dish also contained pancetta. Oh crap. I'd only five minutes prior cleared away her very empty plate. She ate every bit, probably assuming it was something else. Do I speak up and say something at this point? Do I bring her some syrup of ipecac?

I'm torn and I choose not to say anything. I feel a little awful about this, but he seemed so traumatized earlier and I really didn't want to ruin their night. I don't know if they were Jewish or Hindu or Buddhist or some other sect that does not consume pork and, not being fully versed in the minutae of religions of the world, I have no idea what the ramifications are for such consumption. Is the penalty less stern when the pork is consumed unknowingly?

I was an enabler of sin.

I didn't sleep so well that night.

our restaurant customers say the darndest dumbest things

and here are some examples of them:

1. Customers, after entering the restaurant through the front door, ask the host(ess), who has been in the air-c0nditioned restaurant since the start of her shift, "What's the weather like on the patio?" Some of our hosts are savvy enough to inform the customer that the weather on the patio is not unlike the weather outside the front of the building, which the customer should be quite well acquainted with, seeing as how they just came from there.
   
   
2. "Is that real ice?" This is a frequently heard query regarding ice sculptures as well as a large glass sink of crushed ice holding martini glasses (which exists in the bar where I currently work)...to which I frequently can't help but reply, "Why wouldn't it be?"
   
   
3. "Do you know where the restroom is at?" OK, I hate the whole preposition at the end of a sentence, but give me a break. Of course I know where the restroom is located - I work there! C'mon, folks, don't be so silly. Ask me where it is, don't ask me if I know where it is! And please don't tack an 'at' on the end of the sentence! KThnx.
   
   
4. When they have finished their dinner and their dessert, I always ask if there is anything else I can get for them, hoping that perhaps they will order a glass of port or a nip of scotch to end their evening. At least once a month, however, someone will reply with, "a winning lottery ticket?" and the entire table will burst into laughter as if that is the funniest thing they've ever heard. I refrain from informing them that I could likely retire if I'd had a dollar for every time I'd heard that one.
   
   
5. Folks call on the phone and will ask "How busy will you be at 7 o'clock?" Gee, I dunno, let me pull out my crystal ball and check! I know, on the weekends especially, it is relatively easy to determine that we WILL be busy, just not HOW BUSY. Sure, we can look and see if there are alot of reservations, but sometimes there are a lot of walk-ins as well and sometimes not. C'mon folks, really, how we would be able to give an accurate response to that?
   
   
6. Cutomers will ask me a question about an item on the menu or whether or not we carry a certain item. After responding (with confidence!), some will look at me and say, "are you sure?" Please. If I wasn't certain, I'd say so - or I'd excuse myself to go and make certain. If you ask a question, please just accept the answer that you are given. If someone asks you a question at your job and you answer them promptly and with confidence, how would you feel if they came back with "are you sure?"
   

Hotter.

Through the course of my mucho double shiftage this past week, I ended up working some lunch waitshifts – something I pretty much never do. The lunch crowd is a different breed than the dinner crowd in many ways and the lunch regulars are in an alien class all their own. Those amongst our servers who work lunches regularly have all cataloged the various peculiarities of these regulars and are able to administer individualized service to them sans verbalized requests. Ironically, my four-year tenure at the restaurant was invisible to these lunch regulars who have never seen me before and, on more than one occasion, I was asked “are you new here?”

The three little biddies on table 14 didn’t bother asking if I was a newbie and my fellow lunch workers, Drew (who infamously dodged the butter bitch) and Sherry, who sat them there, knew that these wrinkly, diamond-deckered women were not exactly low-maintenance – they just didn’t bother to tell me so.

Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick and Mini-Beehive arrived before WAY-Too-Tan, but didn’t want anything but water while they waited for their friend to arrive. A few minutes after WAY-Too-Tan arrived, I stopped by the table to see if she would like a beverage.

“She just got here! Give her a chance to look at the menu!” Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick and Mini-Beehive ordered, almost in unison.

I told them that this was no problem and that I’d check back in a few minutes. Later, while I was inputting their order of three identical appetizers and one Caesar salad to share, I learned from Drew that this is the same thing they order every time.

Although I have excellent balance and strong arms, I can only carry three large-sized plates at a time. I’d asked the women if they wanted their salad to be served first and they said no, that they wanted it all at the same time. So I deliberately refrained from placing the salad first, so they wouldn’t think that I was disregarding their wish to have all the food simultaneously. As I’m placing an appetizer plate before each one of them, Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick pipes up, “you forgot our salad.”

“Actually, ladies, I’ll be right back with your salad – I can only carry three plates at a time.”

They said nothing and the look on Mini-Beehive’s face told me that they may or may not have believed that I really didn’t forget about their salad. I returned immediately with a solitary Caesar salad, as well as additional plates and freshly ground pepper. At this point, Mini-Beehive requests a cup of coffee black and asks me to microwave it for 15 seconds so it’ll be hot enough. As this is a frequent request of several of our elderly regulars, I often pre-heat the mug with boiling hot water before pouring the coffee in and decide that I will do this for Mini-Beehive instead of subjecting her coffee to the myriad other flavors roaming around the microwave. All of my other customers have been content with the pre-heated mugs. But not Mini-Beehive. She consumes about one-third of the coffee in the mug and when I offered a refill, she asked that I take her existing coffee and microwave it for another 15 seconds. When Drew and Sherry see me at the microwave, they laugh and remark that they forgot to warn me about her.

“Thanks guys,” I tell them, as they continue chuckling at me.

“At least they’re decent tippers,” Drew advises.

I deposit the freshly nuked coffee in front of Mini-Beehive. A minute later, I return to ensure that her coffee temperature is to her liking.

“It’s okay,” she tells me. I don’t know if that means that it’s okay, meaning just right, or if she means that it’s not what she wants and is tired of me trying to get it right and failing miserably. My guess is that it’s the latter, but also figure that if she wanted me to do something about it, she’d say so. I decide to just leave it at that. As I’m walking away from the table, I hear Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick say to Mini-Beehive, “is your coffee okay?”

“No, it’s not hot enough,” Mini-Beehive confides to her cronies. I make an about-face and return to the table.

“Would you like me to re-warm your coffee?”

“She heard you!” Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick proclaims, clearly mortified.

Mini-Beehive allows me to take her coffee away for another 15 second treatment and I return moments later with a cup that is steaming so much, you’d think it was on fire.

When I check back a moment later, Mini-Beehive frowns at me and tells me that her coffee is fine. Again, as I’m walking away from the table, I get the real scoop.

“It’s too hot now,” Mini-Beehive complains.

“Send it back,” WAY-Too-Tan advises.

I decide not to return to the table and hope that the natural cooling-off process will suffice for Mini-Beehive and her coffee. After clearing away all of their plates, I return with their bill.

WAY-Too-Tan attempts to hand me her credit card, but Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick reaches across the table with an interception. She slaps WAY-Too-Tan’s card out of my hand and tries to give me her credit card instead. Mini-Beehive speaks up, “no, I’m paying…take my card.”

It should go without saying that I really hate it when people fight over the check – particularly when it involves physical contact with my hands (which have been slapped and grabbed before under similar circumstances). If you genuinely want to buy someone’s meal, do it without a production: slip your credit card to your waiter when you have excused yourself from the table to go to the loo (this is what the people with class do). People who make a show of picking up the tab and who grab me/the bill/the other person’s credit card do not impress anyone – they create a situation that is uncomfortable and embarrassing for all. If you don’t see me wearing a shirt with black and white vertical stripes, then it is not part of my job to referee disputes over the bill and I have no grounds on which to determine whose credit card I should accept. A couple of times, I thought I had the perfect solution of taking all of the cards being offered to me and splitting the check, but nobody was happy when I did this – especially me when they left me crappy tips for not doing it the way they wanted.

Listmaker, Listmaker, Make Me a List...

My supah-cool friend and schoolmate, Heather (not to be confused with my sister, Heather), turned me on to the website/blog 5ives and I'm having much fun devouring the archives, starting at the very beginning, of course! So far, this is my favorite list of 5ives. You know it's good when you LOL for reals.

Thus, in the spirit of listmaking and as an homage to 5ives, I present for you...Five Lists of Five Things:

Five Creepy People I Have Known

1. My Dad's best friend from pharmacy school
2. The football player from high school with the silver front tooth
3. The Special-Ed teacher at my daughter's school
4. My former boss' bookie
5. My neighbor, Arnie

Five Films I Loved as a Teen

1. The Hunger
2. Harold and Maude
3. Rear Window
4. Valley Girl
5. Breakfast at Tiffany's

Five Stupid Things That Annoy Me More Than They Should

1. When people write 12 p.m. to indicate midnight
2. Misplaced and missing commas & apostrophes
   
3. When police cars turn on their lights just so they can go through a red light and then turn them off once they are through the intersection
4. When the telephone rings before 8 a.m.
5. Prepositions at the end of sentences (i.e. "Where are you at?" Answer: "I'm at the preposition Lost & Found")

Five Delicious Snacks

1. Dried mango
2. Chocolate-chip cookies fresh from the oven
3. Tuna carpaccio
4. Strawberries dipped in sour cream, then dipped in brown sugar
5. Popcorn topped with Penzey's Brady Street Cheese Sprinkle

Five Charming People I've Met

1. Alfonso Cuaron
2. Nancy Pearl
3. David Sedaris
4. Joaquin Phoenix
5. Suzan-Lori Parks

my mom is not amazing

She's actually kinda mean. But that is a rant for a different day.

So I was just having a little snack-attack and decided to bust out the Pineapple Coconut Haagen Dazs that was purchased just this last week. I put a scoop and a half into a medium-sized bowl (I know, in my last post I claimed to "almost never" eat my ice cream out of a dish...here's the sitch: if said ice cream is being consumed a la carte, then it is done so with a teaspoon directly from the carton; when said ice cream is on something or with something, it goes into a dish. kthx).

I then nuked me some Dulce de Leche sauce, busted up some pecan halves, and sliced up a banana for on top. (You think this is a glamorous snack? Ask my mean mom about the time I came home from school, in the seventh grade, and cooked myself up some lobster tails with drawn butter for a snack...).

But as I'm slicing my banana for the top 'o my snack fest, I have this really vivid memory of my mom slicing bananas for the top of my cereal and how I used to marvel at how incredibly fast she'd slice that banana and how she never cut her thumb that she'd use to stop the knife with (nevermind that it was a butter knife - I was pretty wee and all I knew was knife). My mom might have done some good stuff during my childhood, but what I remember when I think of her being amazing is how supah dupah fastly she'd cut that banana and how each and every slice appeared to be the exact same width and how they'd be so perfectly evenly sprinkled across my cereal.

Man, I seriously thought my mom was a culinary genius!

But then I grew up and became kinda culinary genius-ish myself. And I am sad to report that my mom ("whatsa risotto?" "is it EYE-talian?") don't know so much about cooking stuffs.

I am also sad to report that the superfast slicing of a banana is really fucking easy.

Stoopid Haagen Dazs or Stoopid Me?

So, I'm a major whore for expensive ice cream. Shamelessly. And when I was at the Fred Meyer the other day and I had to cruise down the frozen confection aisle on my way out (*confession*: it was grossly out of my way to cruise the frozen goodness, but oh-so-worth-it). Hooray, they had the Haagen Dazs on sale two fer $6 (although it used to be two fer $5 - nothing slips by me, when it comes to ice cream) and it'd be a shame if I walked on by without getting me some of that action.

I peruse the flavors of the mostly picked over pints. Anyone conducting research on the favored flavors of euro-ice cream of the Hawthorne district would have some seriously concrete data here. My inner researcher began to wonder what the pickings over of another, very different, Portland neighborhood would reveal.

I instantly grabbed one of my warm weather faves, Pineapple Coconut, and let it fall into my red basket. Then, for my next pint, I stood there with the freezer door open, vacillating wildly between my other faves for a second choice.

Should I get Dulce de Leche (one of my all-time favorites)?

Coffee (an oldie, but a goodie)?

Creme Brulee?

A sorbet (nah, too healthy)?

Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough (hmmm, haven't had that one in awhile)?

Chocolate Peanut Butter?

Mango?

They seemed to be out of Pistachio (freakin' hippie neighborhood)...

I pick up the yummy Dulce de Leche and throw it into my basket.

I walk maybe two feet away from the freezer and make an about face, pulling the completely fogged-up freezer door back open. I put dear Dulce de Leche back in her spot and pick up Mango, thinking it will go nicely with the Pineapple Coconut (mmmm).

I'm maybe at the end of the aisle when I decide that I might not be in a fruity mood and should have one fruited option (thus, Pineapple Coconut) and one non-fruited option (thus, not Mango). I walk my logical self back down the aisle and re-reopen the freezer door, which is still fogged up.

I stand there for what probably looks to others like a ridiculously long time to make an ice cream-related decision.

At this point I must be literally weighing the pros and cons of each and every remaining flavor that has not had a quickie tour of the innards of my red grocery basket. After what feels like about ten minutes or so, I pressure myself into making a final decision because I'm mortified with myself for taking longer to pick out ice cream than it will take to eat it.

I grab the Chocolate Chip Cookie dough, throw it into the cart and quickly powerwalk toward the checkout. Now, at this point, you'd think I'd be more concerned about PTSD at the Fred Meyer checkout (see also this post) than whether or not I'd made the right decision in my ice cream purchases.

I hesitate for the briefest moment before plunking my embarassing array of goods (ice cream, these Little Debbies Ho-Ho-like things that were supposed to be Ding Dongs, and two bags of these awesome Cheetos "natural" white cheddar puffs - nope, not stoned), thinking maybe I should go back and swap out the Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream for something else.

Then I just came to my senses and paid the man and then got the hell out of there before I could change my mind again.

Flash forward to Sunday when I am touring wine country and sampling many many lovely pinot noirs with my beloved, along with Karen and Patrick. Somehow the subject of ice cream comes up and we end up talking about the Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough flavor.

Flash forward to Sunday evening after wine tasting and I have a vicious hankering for something sweet. I remember the convo of earlier and head for the freezer to have myself some Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream.

Wha the fuh???????

After digging at least 35% of the way into the pint (I almost NEVER eat ice cream out of dishes), I have yet to encounter anything even remotely resembling chocolate chip cookie dough. Okay, well, that's a half-lie, as I did encounter approximately four randomly placed chocolate chips. I double check the label to make sure I hadn't purchased Vanilla Chip.

Nope, label says Cookie Dough on it, plain and simple. So where's my blasted cookie dough, then? I take my ice cream consumption very seriously and this is so not funny. I set the pint down on the counter so it can get all melty-like and I can then give it a proper probing. I figure the ice cream must have melted at some point and all of those heavy globs of cookie dough must have sunk to the bottom and then the ice cream was refrozen and nobody figured I'd be the wiser.

Well, the cookie dough globules were at the bottom alright - all freakin' TWO of 'em!!! Now, if I'd wanted Vanilla ice cream with a few scattered chips and only two miniscule dollops of cookie dough then, damn it, I would have purchased that. But I did not. I purchased Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough and what I got was a scanty imposter. I been robbed.

I can assure you that this most dissatisfied consumer will be contacting Haagen Dazs brass - stat - and informing them of the errors of their cheapass ways. Should I tell them that I have never ever stumbled upon such a calamity when indulging in Ben & Jerry's? Nah, I'll use that as a last resort after I give them an opportunity to make good.

I raise my *Grasshopper to my dearly departed Grandmother, Doris

May 11 was the one-year anniversary of the death of my dear maternal grandmother (see also this post) and as I was speaking to my biodad (not to be confused with my dad, who is my dad - he raised me, taught me, helped me through school, has been emotionally supportive when I needed it most, helped me become me - he has done everything a father should do and so much more, but he was not the one to initially create me...hmm, I see my future Father's Day post here) on the telephone, he told me that his mother (who was, I think, 93 years old) was not doing so well and he believes her to be near the end.

Instantly, I thought to myself that it would be so bizarre if she passed on this day, the exact same day one year later than my maternal grandmother...but I did not utter that thought aloud, as it seemed inappropriate and somehow morbid. Instead, I offered words of support and assurance to my biodad (who I have really only known for about two and half years but, again, this is the subject of another post). I reminded him that she has lived a long, wonderful and happy life and is fortunate that she is still rather healthy and not in pain. He expressed regret that she never really got to know me and I was touched by this - it felt very kind and warm, hearing this.

This conversation reminded me of how important it is to value the people around us who really matter and to tell them that they are loved. I made a point of telling my wonderful wife and fabulous daughter how loved they are and how much I treasure them both. I vowed to myself that I will spend the summer devoting much quality time to those I love the most and that I will let my loved ones know how wonderful I think they are.

I have some regrets that I had some friction with my grandmother a few months before she passed away (I regrettably refer you to this post ) and am happy that I put that behind me and spent some quality time with her before she was gone.

Later that day, I learned that my paternal grandmother passed away earlier in the day. Yes, the exact same day (albeit one year later) that my maternal grandmother had passed away. So, to Dorothy, who I did not know very well at all, I remember you with warmth and love in my heart and may you rest in peace.

*A Grasshopper is a nasty drink that my grandmother used to concoct in the blender around Christmastime. On the day she died, last year, I bought all of the ingredients for this libation and proceeded to whip up a batch in her honor.

Grasshopper

1 1/2 oz. Green Creme de Menthe
3/4 oz. White Creme de Cacao
3 oz. half-and-half

Combine in blender with about one cup of ice. Blend until smooth and then pour into a parfait or margarita glass. Enjoy, if possible. (Note: does not glow in the dark).

Curses! Mother’s Day!

I hadn’t really forgotten to get my mom a Mother’s Day gift; I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. And never mind that it was 10am ON Mother’s Day – I wasn’t going to her house until around 4pm anyway.

So I run to the Fred Meyer to pick up some vegetables to grill that evening at my mom’s – since my daughter, K, is a vegequarium* and I guarantee that the non-meat offerings will be minimal and carb-heavy, rather than fruit/vegetable heavy.

As I start to drive past the garden center, I notice all of the lovely fuchsia plants hanging from the eaves. My mom loves those and I get her one every year, so I make a note to self to stop by there after picking up my groceries and pick out a nice fuchsia plant for Mom.

With about $20 worth of grillable vegetables filling two plastic grocery bags, I roam the aisles of the garden center comparing each and every fuchsia plant so that I can give my Mom the best one there. I narrow it down to two: one of the purple and white color scheme and the other is purple and fuchsia. I decide that they call ‘em fuchsias for a reason and opt for the purple and fuchsia combo. I head toward the makeshift cashier area and stand behind a tall older gentleman with a shopping cart, who is being assisted by the cashier. I put the heavy and awkward fuchsia plant down on my left side, but continue to hold my two bags of groceries on my right.

After about five minutes, the older gentleman in front of me begins to steer his cart away back into the garden center and I realize that I should be standing on the other side of the makeshift cashier stand in order for the cashier to ring me up. I pick up my fuchsia plant and begin to walk toward the counter. But before I can do so, a man of 60 or so hanging onto his last smidgeon of hairline and what appears to be his teen daughter step in front of me with their purchase. When I notice that the cashier is helping them first, I decide to speak up for myself.

“Um, excuse me, am I invisible?”

“No, you’re a pushy bitch.” Receding Hairline clearly has an issue with women standing up for themselves.

“I was waiting in line long before you got here,” I asserted.

“No, you were standing over there,” he gestures to where I was originally standing, “and the line is supposed to be here,” he moves his pointing finger to indicate the spot about a foot and a half from where I was actually standing. Then he adds, “deal with it.”

Now, I have been on both sides of this equation and my experience has pretty much always been that when someone accidentally takes cuts and it’s pointed out to them, they apologize and gracefully allow the person who’d been waiting to go ahead. This has happened to me when I’ve spoken up before and it’s happened when I was oblivious to someone waiting before me. I was really astonished that this guy was not only determined to be helped first, but was calling me names and chewing me out. I just had to speak up.

“I feel really sorry for your wife.” Oh-oh, did I just say that out loud? I must’ve because all of a sudden, Receding Hairline was in my face.

“You know what you are?” clearly this was a rhetorical question, “You are a fucking cunt!”

Holy shit. The wife pity comment must’ve really hit home. I can’t believe he just called me that. I didn’t want this clown to escalate any further and, clearly, it doesn’t take much.

“Get away from me with your filthy mouth.”

He continued with his colorful expletives. Man, I must’ve hit the jackpot – the wife must really hate him and he knows it.

“Can’t you see there are children around here?” Still, the guy wouldn’t stop. I raised my voice at least one decibel.

“Shut up and get away from me. NOW.”

I don’t know if I caught him off-guard with my raised voice or if he just ran out of expletives to sling at me, but he finally turned around and stomped off. His teen daughter was already in the parking lot waiting for him. Was she embarrassed? Or does she think that this is how one resolves a conflict? The sad thing is that I really did feel sorry for this guy’s wife! Imagine being married to someone who can’t admit to being wrong, considers women who stand up for themselves to be pushy bitches, and is rather quick to spew a string of expletives at anyone who calls him on his rudeness…

I was a little bit addled after this. Not how I imagined my Mother’s Day to begin. Perhaps next year I’ll get my mother something different for Mother’s Day.





*Vegequarium = One who is pretty much a vegetarian, but also eats fish. K was in preschool when she decided to become a vegetarian because her best pal, Fritz, was a vegetarian and she didn’t want to hurt animals. Shortly after this decision was made, we asked her what she wanted for dinner one night and she said, “sushi”! I asked her if she’d decided not to be a vegetarian after all and she looked at me quizzically. I reminded her that sushi is fish, which could be considered an animal. She thought about this for a minute and then said, “since I love sushi, I guess I’ll be a vegequarium then.”

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to...

So I'm almost officially 40 (5/9/06 at 1:14pm) and, so far, it doesn't hurt a bit. I thought 30 would hurt and it didn't, but 30's not old and, well, 40's kinda old. Oh well, I don't feel old yet and that's what really matters, right?

Anyway, I had a lovely party over the weekend for all of my friends to celebrate my aging fabulousness and, since some of my friends were unable to make it due to distance and illness and blasted homework, I thought I'd recreate some of the festivities here so they can attend vicariously. And, I suppose, those of you who did attend and wish to relive it, can do so as well! And those of you who don't know me and read my blog because, well, I don't know why you do, but I welcome you regardless, you can attend my virtual party as well.

The theme of the party was: come as what you wanted to be when you grew up (when you were little). I was a movie star attending the Academy Awards, J was a gas station attendant, Kira was a writer, Anthony was a magician, Galen was a pilot and so was Patrick, Karen was I Dream of Jeannie, Dennis was a philosopher, Dad and Jan were a cowboy and cowgirl respectively, Max was Wonder Woman, Jen was Strawberry Shortcake, Kristen was a construction worker, Julie was a punk rocker, Michael was a professor, Pat was a nuclear physicist, Damion was Daisy Duke, Diana was Madonna, the other Damien was a chef, Heather was supposed to be a gypsy but then showed up as a librarian, Sarah was perfect, Gregory couldn't come but dressed up as a Solid Gold Dancer at home, Whitney said she was coming as a tree and then didn't dress up, and several others didn't dress up 'cause they were shy or party poopers or whatever. Well, I'll give Laurie and Erique a break since they came directly from the airport and had been travelling all week - I'm just glad they came!

The party was held in a wonderful party room in a local Portland restaurant that had a fireplace, leather couches, comfy chairs adjacent to a bar, several cocktail tables for your dining pleasure (table tops were sprinkled with a variety of Hershey's kisses - including the yummy carmel ones!), and a big plasma screen tv on which we showed David Bowie videos and Brady Bunch reruns. We brought our own cds to play for the party and here is some of what we played:

• The Smiths
• The Postal Service
• Pink Martini
• The Garden State Soundtrack
• David Bowie
• Carla Bruni

Speaking of cds, we gave out a party favor to each and every guest (and some of the restaurant employees, too!) that was a compilation cd with one song from every year I've been alive. We named it "DJ Bad Kitty's Picks of a Lifetime" and here's what is on it:

1966: I Want You by Bob Dylan

1967: Happy Together by The Turtles

1968: Dear Prudence by The Beatles

1969: The Boxer by Simon & Garfunkel

1970: Cracklin' Rosie by Neil Diamond

1971: Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves by Cher

1972: Walk on the Wild Side by Lou Reed

1973: Daniel by Elton John

1974: Band on the Run by Paul McCartney and Wings

1975: Fame by David Bowie

1976: Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen

1977: Strawberry Letter 23 by The Brothes Johnson

1978: Take a Chance on Me by Abba

1979: A Message to You, Rudy by The Specials

1980: Love Will Tear Us Apart by The Joy Division

1981: Radio Free Europe by REM

1982: More Than This by Roxy Music

1983: Smalltown Boy by Bronski Beat

1984: Song to the Siren by This Mortal Coil

1985: Kiss Me on the Bus by The Replacements

1986: Real Wild Child by Iggy Pop

1987: Ahead by Wire

1988: Birthday by The Sugarcubes

1989: Here Comes Your Man by The Pixies

1990:Cuts You Up by Peter Murphy

1991: Until the End of the World by U2

1992: The Drowners by Suede

1993: Noel, Jonah and Me by The Spinanes

1994: Sour Times by Portishead

1995: Thirty Three by Smashing Pumpkins

1996: Is That All There Is? by John Parish and PJ Harvey

1997: Sleep on the Left Side by Cornershop

1998: Waltz #2 by Elliott Smith

1999: Babylon by David Gray

2000: Good Fortune by PJ Harvey

2001: Mad World by Gary Jules

2002: Slow Burn by David Bowie

2003: The District Sleeps Alone Tonight by The Postal Service

2004: Run by Snow Patrol

2005: We Both Go Down Together by The Decemberists

2006: Twin Cinema by The New Pornographers

and the following Bonus Tracks (cause there was extra room that I didn't want to go to waste):

Soul Meets Body by Death Cab for Cutie

Thursday by Morphine

New Career in a New Town by David Bowie

Supernova by Liz Phair

Cannonball by Damien Rice

If She Wants Me by Belle & Sebastian

The Killing Jar by Siouxsie & the Banshees

Ball of Confusion by Love & Rockets

Crimson and Clover by Joan Jett

Tears Run Rings by Marc Almond

The food was awesome and looked beautiful! We had: cold tarragon poached salmon with an aioli dipping sauce, eggplant stuffed with goat cheese, an Isreali cous cous salad with kalamatas and roasted red bell peppers, a caprese salad, hot curried oysters, a gorgeous fresh fruit platter with tons of BERRIES, miniature spanakopita triangles, and an assortment of six or seven fabulous cheeses that included a Stilton with mango that was so delicious. And the cake, which we got from Polly's Cakes was to die for!!! It was the coolest looking cake ever...essentially if Dr. Seuss and the Mad Hatter got together and had a baby and it was a cake, it would be my birthday cake! Polly's Cakes have been featured on The Food Network and in several food magazines of note. Polly was very kind and down to earth and very easy to work with. Most importantly, the cake was delicious! One layer was chocolate cake with chocolate mousse filling and the other was a passionfruit-coconut cake with a coconut cream filling.

There were two games that we had going and people seemed to enjoy them both, even though some dubbed one of the games as "too hard." One was a photo board that J put together of a bunch of pictures of me over the years and ten of the pics had a post-it with a letter on it and folks were asked to put those ten in chronological order. And, nope, my dad didn't win this one (maybe it was too hard after all) - my friend, Heather, did! Her winning strategy was to gauge by the fashions above all else.

The other game was a quiz about me. It had 20 questions and the winner got 11 right! Here's the quiz:

If Bad Kitty were to go through the McDonald’s drive-thru, what sort of condiment would she want for her fries?
a) Ranch dressing
b) ketchup
c) mayonnaise
d) are you nuts? Bad Kitty wouldn’t be caught dead at the McDonald’s drive-thru!

How many tattoos does Bad Kitty have?_______ Tiebreaker: What are they and where are they located?

Bad Kitty drinks:
a) scotch
b) bourbon
c) gin
d) beer
e) yes

Where, other than Portland, has Bad Kitty lived?
a) Seattle
b) Eugene
c) San Francisco
d) Los Angeles

Name one of Bad Kitty’s favorite flavors of ice cream (include brand):

What cheesy pop-culture tv show does Bad Kitty actually enjoy watching?
a) The OC
b) Family Guy
c) American Idol
d) That 70s Show

What get-rich-quick scheme did Bad Kitty consider when she was an undergrad?
a) selling her eggs
b) robbing a bank
c) Amway
d) Taking all of her books to Powell’s and selling them

Bad Kitty has met all but one of the following famous people. Which one has she never met?
a) Luke Perry
b) Courtney Love
c) Tom Selleck
d) Joaquin Phoenix
e) Ellen DeGeneres

What is Bad Kitty’s favorite color?
a) Royal blue
b) orange
c) green
d) magenta

Bad Kitty’s favorite strip-club in Portland is:
a) The Acropolis
b) The Dolphin
c) Sassy’s
d) Magic Garden

When in Vegas, Bad Kitty’s favorite table game is:
a) blackjack
b) roulette
c) craps
d) poker

Bad Kitty’s favorite “guilty pleasure” singer from her childhood is:
a) David Cassidy
b) Jim Croce
c) Don McLean
d) John Denver

One of Bad Kitty’s favorite writers is:
a) Iris Murdoch
b) John Steinbeck
c) Virginia Woolf
d) Anton Chekov

Bad Kitty’s favorite Broadway show is:
a) Oklahoma
b) A Chorus Line
c) 42nd Street
d) The Producers

Bad Kitty’s daughter was conceived via what combination:
a) Fellini films and a fine chianti
b) Andy Warhol films and tequila
c) Peter Greenaway films and gin martinis
d) David Lynch films and microbeer

Bad Kitty met her partner:
a) at a bowling alley
b) through a personals ad
c) at work
d) at a lesbian bar

Bad Kitty has worked at all but one of the following Portland restaurants:
a) The Heathman Hotel
b) Pazzo
c) Paparazzi
d) The airport Sheraton
e) The Chart House
f) Saucebox
g) Wild Abandon

Which of the following is Bad Kitty’s favorite Grateful Dead song?
a) Sugar Magnolia
b) Casey Jones
c) Truckin’
d) None of the above. There is only one Garcia she loves to hear sing and it's not Jerry!

Bad Kitty has fallen prey to all of the following fashion fads except:
a) leg warmers
b) 80s “sun” lightened big permed hair
c) Acid washed jeans
d) Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” girl look
e) Ray Ban sunglasses

Bad Kitty loves all of the following kitties except:
a) Hello
b) Patience Phillips (Catwoman)
c) Mortimer
d) Josie

So thanks for coming to my party! Happy Birthday to Me!

the perils of hard butter

I arrived in an inexplicably good mood. It was Friday night, I was prepared to be busy, I was ready to make some money.

When I first arrive to the restaurant for my shift, I have something of a ritual - a routine that keeps me on track and ready for the onslaught, whatever that may entail. I check the dry-erase board to update myself on what we are out of, which seafood is starring in the seafood salad that eve, and find out what the soup of the day happens to be.

Then I do some fact checking.

If the board declares that our soup is presently green split pea with ham but, when I open the lid of the soup vat, it more closely resembles clam chowder, then I must do some editing as well. When this is the case, I then taste the soup (ok, yeah, sometimes I taste the soup even when it does resemble what it's rumored to be...quality control, you know?). I let my tastebuds determine the flavor and then I seek out assistance from the kitchen staff to confirm my assumptions. Often, I must inquire of several different folks in checkered pants before I find one who is able to name that soup. It doesn't end there, though. I also find out if the soup contains any meat or any dairy and, if so, how much and what kind. Trust me, I think I've met every "food issue" on the planet.

As I leave the kitchen feeling pretty well-informed about what is coming out of the kitchen doors, I head to the host podium to scan that night's reservations and learn more about what will be coming through the front doors.

"Maaaaaaaaammmmm."

I believe I am being summoned. Being called "ma'am" isn't such a horrible thing (oh, I've been called worse), but something in the voice just had this certain...I dunno...hint of desperation or something. So instead of reviewing that night's reservations, I head to table 27 (which "belongs" to the closing lunch server, Drew, for the record) and find myself face-to-face with a woman in her late 60s/early 70s sporting the most disgruntled look on her face. Uh-oh, this is not the picture of a happy camper. And whatever has her so upset is about to become my problem.

"May I help you?" I offer, with some reluctance that - hopefully - remains undetected.

"Can I get some butter that isn't hard?" the woman barks - more of a demand than a question.

"Actually, all of our butter is hard like that - we keep it refridgerated. I'm sorry."

People make this request on occasion and are typically understanding when I explain the situation to them. If I have the time and I like the people, I will show them my trick of placing the ramekin of hard butter on top of an unlidded teapot - this will soften butter in about ten minutes, but something told me not to go there this time.

"Well, then bring me some more butter," the Charmer on table 27 demanded.

"Sure, no problem."

I began to count my blessings that she wasn't my table and that my interaction with her would be only temporary. I return with another ramekin containing one pat of butter and placed it next to the ramekin already on her table that held a half pat of butter still. The Charmer looks at the ramekin with disdain.

"That's all you brought me?"

This is a trap. I can tell. Refusing to fall for such an obvious set-up, I sidestep the bait.

"Would you like me to bring you some more?" I offer politely.

"Well, I just don't understand why you bring it to me in these little bits!"

For the record, "these little bits" consisted of single tablespoon-sized squares of solid fat. The Charmer's face was reddening - she was actually getting really angry about this!

"Honestly? We don't want to waste it. So we're happy to bring you more if you intend to use it, but think it foolish and wasteful to bring a lot at each request."

I knew that I was playing Russian Roulette here. Sometimes it works in your favor to explain the rationale to a customer and sometimes not. It's about a fifty/fifty shot, but it's so gratifying when, upon explaining the whys of something that doesn't make sense to someone, they get it and calm down. I should have known that I'd be playing with fire to try to make sense of anything to the Charmer.

"Ohhhhhhh, you don't want to WASTE any of it, huh? Well, in that case, forget it. I don't want it."

And the Academy Award for best meltdown over butter goes to...The Charmer!!!!! [raging applause]

The Charmer jerks her head to the left, refusing to look in my direction, as if to punctuate her retracted request. I want to laugh out loud, but I don't. As I'm walking away from the table, the oh boy from inside my head somehow is uttered audibly from my mouth. Out of prinicple and professionalism, I hope the Charmer didn't hear me.

I return to the kitchen, fill a ramekin with as much butter as will fit, and return to table 27 where Charmer, who sees me approaching with about 1/3 cup of butter, turns her head away again, refusing to watch me honoring her initial request. Knowing it won't make any difference at this point, I politely inform her that if she needs more, just to let me know. I notice that she has since acquired a dining companion and a walker.

As luck would have it, Drew needs me to take over table 27 so he can get off the clock and run errands before his dinner shift begins. Somehow I knew this would happen. After the Charmer's grievances regarding her takeout order, I was thoroughly convinced that the Charmer just liked to hear herself when she becomes exasperated. There was no amount of kindness or additional service to appease this woman. I watched them from afar while I conducted my opening sidework and ventured near table 27 only when necessary. At my offer of a bag for her to-go boxes (into which she'd placed all of the butter I'd brought her), the Charmer grabbed the plastic bag out of my hand saying, "give me that," while handing me the guest check presenter and saying, "you take this."

After scraping every dust bunny from my wallet to make change for her hundred dollar bill on her $30 tab, I approached the table with a smile (yay! they're leaving soon!), told them thank you and placed the change tray on the table. As I was about to make a mad dash as far away from this toxic woman as possible, she says to me, but without really looking at me, "Help him with his coat. He can't get his arm into the hole."

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo my mind and body are screaming.

But, in retrospect, Dining Companion has done nothing wrong aside from having lunch with the wicked witch of the west. He looks helpless and frustrated trying repeatedly to get his arm to coincide with his jacket pocket without success. As much as I don't want to do this, I gingerly reach for his jacket and try and scoot the armhole closer to his actual arm. Naturally this feat requires more than merely holding the jacket still. After resituating the position of his jacket on his opposite shoulder and doing something of a six-point turn, then holding the armhole still with my left hand and practically holding hands with the old man with my right, I was finally able to steer his arm into his jacket. Not sure what to do next and receiving no verbal feedback from either Charmer or D.C., I happen to notice that the walker is more than arm's length from the gentleman. Apparently desperate to end this transaction on a positive note, I gesture to the walker and ask the man, "Do you need this moved closer to you?"

Silence.

As tempted as I am to just bolt away, I don't. I repeat my question, uncertain as to whether or not D.C. is even capable of hearing me. Realizing that it's been a full eight minutes since she'd had an outburst, Charmer barks at me, "He can get that himself."

The Tipping Point

The next time you're considering deliberately withholding a gratuity from your waiter -or intentionally leaving less than 15%- I ask you to think about a few things first before you embark on this drastic maneuver.

First of all, if you are considering leaving anywhere between 0-14%, there must have been something that went wrong or was not handled well or was not to your liking...Are you certain that whatever has upset you is, indeed, your waiter's fault? Because if not, it's truly unjust to reduce her/his income for something that was completely beyond her/his control. For example, if s/he was incredibly busy and running around, but you think that your food took a long time, it probably wasn't your server's fault. Think about it. Waiters don't make the food, waiters pay attention to what you ordered and communicate that to the kitchen. After that point, it's out of their hands and if the food takes awhile, that most likely = kitchen's fault, not waiter's fault, so don't dock the waiter's pay for that. If they're super busy, then they're very likely doing their best and isn't that good enough? What about when you're really busy at work doing whatever it is that you do and suddenly you find yourself with more work than usual, do you think it's fair when people get upset with you for not being as fast as you usually are? Of course not. Would it be fair to dock your pay if all of your work is not getting done as quickly as usual due to an increase in business (or someone calling in sick and you have to pick up their slack?)? No, of course not. So don't do that to your waiter. They don't deserve it any more than you do. And remember, waiters have to pay taxes on their tips whether they make them or not. That's right. The IRS presumes that waiters are making tips on every table and waiters are expected to pay taxes on a certain percentage of their net sales regardless of how much they actually made. Bear in mind, too, that waiters are required to distribute a portion of their tips to other workers (many of whom never pay taxes on their tips, but that's another rant altogether): bussers, hosts, bartenders, sommelier, expediter, kitchen, etc. These folks expect their due cut (and are entitled to it) no matter what percentage of tips the waiter has accrued.

And what if the service really is lousy and it really is the server's fault? (i.e. you saw your food sitting in the service window while your waiter chatted away with the hostess, all the while oblivious to your cooling food slowly becoming less appetizing while you sat...) Well, this is why restaurants have managers and owners and you should speak to them and let them know what went wrong. Merely leaving a crappy tip will not effectively communicate anything and will certainly not incite a behavioral change on the waiter's behalf.

And remember: if you can't afford to tip, then you can't afford to dine out.

sleepy in Seattle

I frequently drive back and forth from Portland to Seattle, where I attend graduate school. Often, I'll stay the night in a hotel so that I can arrive the night before my class and not have to feel rushed in the morning. Last weekend, I spent the night in a hotel near the airport, rather than one near the university. The deal that I found on Sidestep was just too good to pass up and I liked the idea of my drive ending a half an hour sooner than it would if I drove all the way to the university.

Besides, the last time I drove up, I stayed in my favorite inn in the U-District and arrived a little bit later than I'd anticipated. As a result, I woke up the night innkeeper upon arrival and he was pretty disgruntled with me for doing so. At first, I felt badly about this. I hate to be awakened any more than the next guy and will duly explain this to anyone who phones my house before 9am. But, wait a minute...He's at work and he is there to do a job, right? And his job is to be the night innkeeper, right? So now I'm thinking that if getting a decent and uninterrupted night's sleep is part of his typical work shift (during which he is presumably being paid), then I'm suddenly not feeling so bad that I woke him up. After all, do I ever get to sleep at work? Let me see here...um, nope, I don't. Do most people get to sleep at work? Nope again. So at this point I have no sympathy for this groggy innkeeper as I inform him that, in the future, I shall stay elsewhere. But wait a minute...now he gets his uninterrupted night of sleep and I am inconvenienced by staying somewhere more expensive and less ideally located. That hardly seems fair.

So I stayed near the airport last time and, as I was checking out, I inquired of the clerk as to the whereabouts of the nearest Starbucks. I know. I know. All these years of listening to me bitch about Starbucks and here I am pining for one. Let me explain: I'm needing coffee (badly) and I refuse to drink any of that Folger's crap which automatically rules out several places where coffee is available. I want decent coffee. I want espresso. But I completely recognize that hoping for something akin to Stumptown, Vivace, or Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf is way too much to ask and I know that I could likely chance it with some local rendition of an espresso cafe and maybe hit the jackpot, maybe end up with something along the lines of acidic sludge (or, worse yet, coffee-flavored water). But with Starbucks, I know what to expect. No surprises.

I about fell over when the clerk replied that there were NO STARBUCKS IN THE VICINITY.

"You're joking," I deadpanned.

"No, I think the nearest one is at the Tacoma Mall." She was dead serious.

So here I am, in the vicinity of the SEATTLE airport and no Starbucks nearby. Something is very wrong with this picture.

No zzzzzzzz and Sleater-Kinney sushi

I love insomnia. Actually, I don't love it, per se, but I do suspect that it is something akin to Linus and that damn blanket for me. Sometimes I just can not, for the life of me, make sleep happen. It just simply won't. Now is one of those times. Oddly, I think that the wandery, racing thoughts have something to do with it. Last night, for example, I was laying there thinking, amongst other things, "damn it, what the hell is Jerud's middle name?" And it was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't quite access it. Then it came to me. Burton. His middle name is Burton. And it's not that I really needed to know that, nor was I planning on using that information for anything, I just couldn't shut my mind down because I didn't know the answer to the question. I know what you're thinking. . . it's no wonder I can't sleep since there are so many questions that I don't know the answer to. Yeah, I know.

The other night, Kira and I got to go out for sushi. Not that that is so unusual, really, but this time we had actual reasons. I was feeling under the weather -ok, like total crap- and, despite my very good intentions of making the really yummy mac and cheese from Noble Rot, I just couldn't do it. Plus I was craving miso - or a good chicken matzoh ball soup, but that is a whole other rant. The other reason was to honor Kira's kick assedness on her project for her language arts class in which, on four separate categories with a possible five points each, she received six points for three of the categories and five on the other. Kira's awesome. So we're sitting there in Mio Sushi on Hawthorne (yes, we drove...I'm sick, remember?) drowning my pending ailment in soy bean curd broth and celebrating Kira's awesomeness and in walks Carrie Brownstein, guitarist for Sleater-Kinney. She's there to pick up some take out and, while looking quite adorable in her loose jeans and down puffy jacket, she pretty much blends in with all of the other Portlanders. Thing is, the only other time I've seen a member of Sleater-Kinney about town and not on stage was in Mio Sushi on Hawthorne about a year ago when we saw Janet Weiss, the drummer, dining there with some friends.

My newest issue of Vanity Fair arrived in yesterday's mail. The cover is their pre-Oscar pull-out showcasing ten Hollywood starlets. And with the exception of the three (3!) ethnic chicks, they are ALL BLONDS! wtf? Since I have not yet had a chance to read the accompanying article, the exact criteria for coverdom inclusion remains a mystery. Some of the celeblets are established household names (Uma Thurman and Claire Danes), whereas others are more up-and-coming (Ziyi Zhang and Sienna Miller). But why not a better balance with a brunette or two? How about Natalie Portman and Fairuza Balk? They wouldn't even have to throw out two blonds in order to squeeze the other two in - I mean, it's a pull-out cover, there's plenty-o-room! Perhaps I shall write them and address this oversight. OK, I know I never will, but I like to think that I might, that I'm inclined to.

J is making me watch The Bachelorette. Alright, so she's not making me, but if it weren't for her, I'd probably have never known that the show existed at all. Well, except when Meredith was on, but that's 'cause she's from Portland and I like knowing about things from Portland. So I'm on the couch studying and Jillynn informs me that this season's bachelorette is Jen, who was slated to marry Andrew Firestone and who has been on the cover of People magazine almost as many times in the past year as Johnny Depp has. "That's nice, honey," I tell J, as if I really don't give a shit. But this thing is a trainwreck and I can't sit in the same room and not watch it. As an added bonus, I invented a drinking game to accompany said program:

-take one drink every time someone speaks of "taking things to the next/another level"
-take two drinks every time the word "connection" is uttered
-take three drinks every time the phrase "the most ________rose ceremony EVER" is announced

I should turn all tv shows into drinking games!

oysters, muscadet and Christmas in February

Why even bother calling it a Christmas party when it's being held in February? Why bother calling it a Christmas party when some of the attendees do not even celebrate Christmas? Is it a Christmas party because we received gifts (bonuses)? Or is it a Christmas party because that's what everyone else does? And is it my imagination or were people a little awkward around each other? How is it that, during any given shift, we will typically blather incessantly to one another, the only lulls in conversation emerging on account of more pressing (work related) tasks arising, and -yet- when we are thrown a Christmas party in February, our conversations are forced and topics elude us? Is it because of the presence of the significant others? Is it because we are not wearing black? Is it because we are eating and drinking openly and not on the sly? Or is it just because?

Nonetheless, the "Oysters and Muscadet" event at Carafe was a most welcome departure. The muscadet was crisp and tasty, albeit white, as muscadets will be. The oysters were lovely and exquisite and I could have consumed another two flights. Instead, I had the pleasure of enjoying the increasingly difficult-to-obtain fois gras, which has become the foodie equivalent of the Salem Witch Trials. While I must admit to feeling an eensy bit conflicted over the PETA vs. fois gras (and those who love it, consume it, sell it) conflict because I can so often side with the environmentally-oriented peeps when they go up against the man, I'm afraid (this time) my inner foodie gets to win this round. This means that I can relax and enjoy my fois gras with pleasure, rather than guilt. (J even tried some!!! And liked it!! Yay J!)

It's what's for breakfast...

The problem with protein fruit shakes, bottled in recycleable 16 oz. plastic easy-to-hold containers, is that they so often taste chalky. Delicious in flavor, yet chalky in texture...Why is that?