"Oh c'mon!" Kelly says as we walk to the Central T stop. "It's great...get it, 'cause it's not really a milestone." "I don't know, hon'," I say, trying to think of a better title. I always hate titling my blogs because they sort of need to be intuitive for me. I was the same way when I was doing my poetry thesis in college...changing the titles as often as I changed my hair (hot pink to shaved to afro to red to shaved again...). We catch the 82 bus and then take the T to Park for dinner.
The restaurant has a retro vibe and antique tchochkes piled in the corners. As soon as we get down the stairs to the actual dining room, Kelly spots two or three people he knows. BFG, who I met at a Gin Event, gets us cocktails as we wait for our table. "Happy anniversary," I say and we clink glasses.
I still cannot believe that we have been together for six months. It seems like only a week or so ago that he was introducing me as "Matt" to impress me with his connections and spilling full glasses of water square into my lap. I can still see his face as he moved with those practiced steps earned in the industry to pat my crotch dry and then freeze with his hands only inches away. "I'm gonna let you do that," he said and hovered by his chair, too embarrassed to sit back down and more shades of red than what is found in the produce aisle.
Kelly orders a rose for the table, goes through the motions, and looks down at his menu already too aware of what he was getting. On our second date, I was told it would months before we could come here because he wanted to make sure I was the one before he "made sweet, sweet mouth-love to a platter of buffalo wings." I agreed whole-heartily because, really, you can't come back from that after watching the person you [insert sex act here] with suck the tender bits off of a drumstick, their face and fingers Oompa Loompa orange with sauce, if you're not committed.
We order a couple of platters of comfort food (one being the mythical wings, which are worth all the hype) and I enjoy the low-light and the choreography of dining with Kelly. Among the talking, pausing to eat when the other person takes up the conversation, I let him take both his water glass and mine ("Yours is nicer 'cause it still has ice," he says and moves my glass closer to him.) and watch as we move from wine stem to water glass to a double wine stem straight to water glass. The conversation dwindles a little and Kelly checks the movie times on his phone. Having done the uber-comfortable couch marathons for the past few dates, it's nice to do something special for our anniversary...even if it's as heteronormative as dinner and a movie.
Kelly pays understanding that I would grab candy and the movie tickets. I wet-nap my hands and the corners of my mouth as he begins the teasing over what I will inevitably grab from the nearby CVS. "You going to get your Werther's Originals?" Kelly asks behind my water glass. "They're bull's-eyes," I defend. "Afraid they'll break your dentures?" "Oh no, I made sure to use my Poli-grip for tonight." Kelly laughs and signs the restaurant copy. Taking my hand, we walk back up the stairs and into the balmy night.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
The smell of baking spices in the air
It's raining and gray. The slightly humid air has the effect of a drunk's breath blowing against the back of your neck while you're wedging yourself up to the bar. But in all of this blandness, the oak tree outside my kitchen window has started turning school bus yellow.
Although autumn and spring are transition seasons that my body hates (spring pollen = sinus headaches; autumn mold = sexy phlegm), they're both seasons that I love. Spring is visually stunning with the new red growth on the trees and the first flowers pushing through the crusting ice. Autumn, however, has the best foods. Growing up in New England, autumn meant apples, cinnamon, ginger, cranberries, pumpkin, allspice, molasses..."Baking spices," Kelly says when I enthuse at the dropping temperature. "Cinnamon, ginger, they're a part of the so-called baking spices." I call them wonderful.
My love for autumn flavors expands from the normal (apple pie) to offensively fake (pumpkin spice latte) to the strange. Virginia, one of the few people I actually like at work, gushed with me during a necessary break from our respective computer screens. Together, we break down the logistics of making an unholy abomination of deliciousness...apple pie sushi. "You could use the pie dough as a nori roll," she says with her eyes alight, "and shred some apple for the rice. Ooh! You should wedge in raisins or walnuts in place of the veggie pieces...make one of those rolls where they make flower shapes when it's cut!" I don't know where the idea came from or how we got side tracked onto it--I just know that there are several golden delicious in my fruit bowl and a pre-made pie crust de-thawing on my counter.
Top 5 Autumn flavors that I will overdose on for the next three months:
5. Maple (I did go to college in Vermont, after all...)
4. Molasses (Boston Molasses Flood or no)
3. Pumpkin
2. Apple (Pink ladies being my favorite for snacking; Macintosh, Golden Delicious, and Granny Smith for baking)
1. Cinnamon
Although autumn and spring are transition seasons that my body hates (spring pollen = sinus headaches; autumn mold = sexy phlegm), they're both seasons that I love. Spring is visually stunning with the new red growth on the trees and the first flowers pushing through the crusting ice. Autumn, however, has the best foods. Growing up in New England, autumn meant apples, cinnamon, ginger, cranberries, pumpkin, allspice, molasses..."Baking spices," Kelly says when I enthuse at the dropping temperature. "Cinnamon, ginger, they're a part of the so-called baking spices." I call them wonderful.
My love for autumn flavors expands from the normal (apple pie) to offensively fake (pumpkin spice latte) to the strange. Virginia, one of the few people I actually like at work, gushed with me during a necessary break from our respective computer screens. Together, we break down the logistics of making an unholy abomination of deliciousness...apple pie sushi. "You could use the pie dough as a nori roll," she says with her eyes alight, "and shred some apple for the rice. Ooh! You should wedge in raisins or walnuts in place of the veggie pieces...make one of those rolls where they make flower shapes when it's cut!" I don't know where the idea came from or how we got side tracked onto it--I just know that there are several golden delicious in my fruit bowl and a pre-made pie crust de-thawing on my counter.
Top 5 Autumn flavors that I will overdose on for the next three months:
5. Maple (I did go to college in Vermont, after all...)
4. Molasses (Boston Molasses Flood or no)
3. Pumpkin
2. Apple (Pink ladies being my favorite for snacking; Macintosh, Golden Delicious, and Granny Smith for baking)
1. Cinnamon
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
No. 9
Evie's boobs are so exposed that they are almost the fourth member of our dinner party. Her hair is still salon shiny and she nurses three drinks: a cocktail, an aperitif, and a glass of ice water. "I don't look too Housewives of Jersey, right?" she asks. Kelly and I assure her that she has stopped from reaching the HoJ point-of-no-return, but I can't help but keep looking down at the blue leopard print straining over her chest.
The day has been long and I'm a little cranky. Work hasn't been my favorite thing for a while, and I manage to go another day without (deservingly) eating someone's face or bursting into hysterics. Kelly rushing me to get from work to home to back into the city in record time didn't help, but (as always) he has the best intentions. I would have felt horrible making everyone late for our dinner plans...the nine-course chef's tasting menu. The idea of so many plates makes my head spin and I think it is one of the major factors keeping me from said face-eating (I wouldn't be able to do all those courses if I filled up at work on face marinated in idiocy).
Course #1 - Cocktails
Although not an actual part of dinner, I have come to learn that liquor is often a parenthesis to eating. Taking a seat with Evie at the bar, she flirts casually with the bartender who pours the same aperitif for Kelly and I. For Kel, he makes a bubbly tequila concoction. I get some strange, frozen potion with lemon and absinthe...a little green fairy for the fairy.
Course #2 - Chilled Maine Lobster with matsutake mushroom, Burgundy truffle, and corn jus
We take our seats and stare out into the park. Just before the Statehouse, the street is gorgeous in the late evening and the city blinks to make up for the lack of stars. The waiters, who all know Kelly and Evie, charm us with some stories of a past wedding they all worked together and bring over rolls. "Don't fill up on bread," Kelly warns, but I'm starving. I down my cocktail, a roll, and watch as something bubbly and pink is poured into our flutes.
Course #3 - Roasted codfish with artichokes, preserved lemon, and pickled peppers
The lobster is okay, but shellfish have never really been my favorite. The plates are cleared and I'm asked to approve the white. I stare up at the waiter. "You're kidding, right?" I ask. It's like having someone colorblind assess a Degas or Monet. I try to remember all the steps, but Kelly giggles to himself when I take the four quick, successive sniffs so I know I've forgotten something. The white is poured ("It tastes like fresh band-aid," the wine geeks agree and I shrug. I think it's great.) and the codfish is served. I stuff it quickly into my mouth and use the flake of skin along the top as a pita for my artichoke "burrito".
Course #4 - Whole wheat bigoli with littleneck clams, heirloom tomato, and bottarga
I have no idea what a "bottarga" is, but the pasta is nice. Set into a massive bowl, the center that holds the carb nest topped with tomato is no larger than my fist. I've been dreading not being able to finish, but I polish off the pasta and (like a good Sicilian boy) tear another roll to wipe the sauce off the bowl.
Course #5 - Prune stuffed gnocchi with foie gras, toasted almonds, and VinSanto
There's a choice for some for the fifth course, but I saw "gnocchi" as soon as I sat down and it was decided for me. "The chef here is known for her gnocchi," Evie says. "They switch everything off, but there was almost a riot when she tried to take it off the menu." Our waiter returns and begins to decant the red for the evening. Baring a bright orange eye (representing an apparent fire that ravaged the vineyard) Kelly is called to approve it. He goes through the motions and smiles wide. "Black tar!" he calls. "Oh I have to smell," Evie says and extends her goblet. The wine, a splash of red fresh from the vein, stains the glass and she swirls it expertly. "Black tar!" she calls back. The wine geeks call scent markers back and forth as I fend Kelly away from the gnocchi plated before me with my fork.
Course #6 - Assiette of rabbit with pistachio, baby carrot (kind of sick, right?) and vincotto
The plate seems huge since the rabbit pieces are each no larger than a quarter. The waiter kindly points out the belly (essentially rabbit bacon); loin (agreeably the tastiest part); and the ribs, which look like miniature pork ribs. It takes me a whole two minutes to suck the rabbit off of the ribs and all but lick the plate clean.
Course #7 - Calotte de boeuf featuring petite frites, arugula, and braised short rib
Another huge plate with teenie meat, I can almost hide one of the calottes under the stack of frites. I pop the entire bundle in my mouth as Kelly and Evie's eyes widen. "It tastes like raspberry compote!" Evie squeals as she sips the now sweeter red. I try to see for myself, but the liquor has caught up to me and my small portions. I sit as straight as possible, convinced that if I give just an inch that I'll be a giggling mess under the table. Kelly assesses me with an arched eyebrow (I hate that he reads people so well) and shares a secret smile.
Course #8 - Artisanal cheeses
The cheese expert, Brie, (I can't recall if they have an official title, but I'm sure they do) is a long-time friend of both wine geeks and our dinner conversation degrades to Kelly singing "I think we're alone now", much to the delight of the woman next to us who claims that particular song as her Karaoke jam. The three of us each pick a cheese and two others are selected by the professional Brie. "You know I used to go to school near the Von Trapp Farmstead," I slur to Brie, who claps my shoulders in a hug and laughs. "Too cool," she says and moves her cart onto the next table.
Course #9 - Chocolate marquis with roasted white chocolate, basil, and anise hyssop
The dessert is a little strange, but I drunkenly shovel it into my mouth. As it is a belated birthday celebration for Evie and Kel, theirs come with knobby candles that they blow out carefully as to not smudge the chocolate writing on the plate. I down the rest of my ice water, hoping to end the inevitable hangover before it comes, and give myself the hiccups instead. The night ends and Kelly and I kiss Evie good-bye, slinking back to the Park St. station giggling and satisfied.
2007 Panevino Ogu Isola dei Nuraghi - A delicious red that actually does have a slight asphalt taste that softens as it aerates. I feel the need to point out that one of the scent notes discussed was baby diaper (not here, but it has apparently appeared in the past). To quote Kelly, "Poopy diaper is the best!" Who'd have thunk it?
The day has been long and I'm a little cranky. Work hasn't been my favorite thing for a while, and I manage to go another day without (deservingly) eating someone's face or bursting into hysterics. Kelly rushing me to get from work to home to back into the city in record time didn't help, but (as always) he has the best intentions. I would have felt horrible making everyone late for our dinner plans...the nine-course chef's tasting menu. The idea of so many plates makes my head spin and I think it is one of the major factors keeping me from said face-eating (I wouldn't be able to do all those courses if I filled up at work on face marinated in idiocy).
Course #1 - Cocktails
Although not an actual part of dinner, I have come to learn that liquor is often a parenthesis to eating. Taking a seat with Evie at the bar, she flirts casually with the bartender who pours the same aperitif for Kelly and I. For Kel, he makes a bubbly tequila concoction. I get some strange, frozen potion with lemon and absinthe...a little green fairy for the fairy.
Course #2 - Chilled Maine Lobster with matsutake mushroom, Burgundy truffle, and corn jus
We take our seats and stare out into the park. Just before the Statehouse, the street is gorgeous in the late evening and the city blinks to make up for the lack of stars. The waiters, who all know Kelly and Evie, charm us with some stories of a past wedding they all worked together and bring over rolls. "Don't fill up on bread," Kelly warns, but I'm starving. I down my cocktail, a roll, and watch as something bubbly and pink is poured into our flutes.
Course #3 - Roasted codfish with artichokes, preserved lemon, and pickled peppers
The lobster is okay, but shellfish have never really been my favorite. The plates are cleared and I'm asked to approve the white. I stare up at the waiter. "You're kidding, right?" I ask. It's like having someone colorblind assess a Degas or Monet. I try to remember all the steps, but Kelly giggles to himself when I take the four quick, successive sniffs so I know I've forgotten something. The white is poured ("It tastes like fresh band-aid," the wine geeks agree and I shrug. I think it's great.) and the codfish is served. I stuff it quickly into my mouth and use the flake of skin along the top as a pita for my artichoke "burrito".
Course #4 - Whole wheat bigoli with littleneck clams, heirloom tomato, and bottarga
I have no idea what a "bottarga" is, but the pasta is nice. Set into a massive bowl, the center that holds the carb nest topped with tomato is no larger than my fist. I've been dreading not being able to finish, but I polish off the pasta and (like a good Sicilian boy) tear another roll to wipe the sauce off the bowl.
Course #5 - Prune stuffed gnocchi with foie gras, toasted almonds, and VinSanto
There's a choice for some for the fifth course, but I saw "gnocchi" as soon as I sat down and it was decided for me. "The chef here is known for her gnocchi," Evie says. "They switch everything off, but there was almost a riot when she tried to take it off the menu." Our waiter returns and begins to decant the red for the evening. Baring a bright orange eye (representing an apparent fire that ravaged the vineyard) Kelly is called to approve it. He goes through the motions and smiles wide. "Black tar!" he calls. "Oh I have to smell," Evie says and extends her goblet. The wine, a splash of red fresh from the vein, stains the glass and she swirls it expertly. "Black tar!" she calls back. The wine geeks call scent markers back and forth as I fend Kelly away from the gnocchi plated before me with my fork.
Course #6 - Assiette of rabbit with pistachio, baby carrot (kind of sick, right?) and vincotto
The plate seems huge since the rabbit pieces are each no larger than a quarter. The waiter kindly points out the belly (essentially rabbit bacon); loin (agreeably the tastiest part); and the ribs, which look like miniature pork ribs. It takes me a whole two minutes to suck the rabbit off of the ribs and all but lick the plate clean.
Course #7 - Calotte de boeuf featuring petite frites, arugula, and braised short rib
Another huge plate with teenie meat, I can almost hide one of the calottes under the stack of frites. I pop the entire bundle in my mouth as Kelly and Evie's eyes widen. "It tastes like raspberry compote!" Evie squeals as she sips the now sweeter red. I try to see for myself, but the liquor has caught up to me and my small portions. I sit as straight as possible, convinced that if I give just an inch that I'll be a giggling mess under the table. Kelly assesses me with an arched eyebrow (I hate that he reads people so well) and shares a secret smile.
Course #8 - Artisanal cheeses
The cheese expert, Brie, (I can't recall if they have an official title, but I'm sure they do) is a long-time friend of both wine geeks and our dinner conversation degrades to Kelly singing "I think we're alone now", much to the delight of the woman next to us who claims that particular song as her Karaoke jam. The three of us each pick a cheese and two others are selected by the professional Brie. "You know I used to go to school near the Von Trapp Farmstead," I slur to Brie, who claps my shoulders in a hug and laughs. "Too cool," she says and moves her cart onto the next table.
Course #9 - Chocolate marquis with roasted white chocolate, basil, and anise hyssop
The dessert is a little strange, but I drunkenly shovel it into my mouth. As it is a belated birthday celebration for Evie and Kel, theirs come with knobby candles that they blow out carefully as to not smudge the chocolate writing on the plate. I down the rest of my ice water, hoping to end the inevitable hangover before it comes, and give myself the hiccups instead. The night ends and Kelly and I kiss Evie good-bye, slinking back to the Park St. station giggling and satisfied.
2007 Panevino Ogu Isola dei Nuraghi - A delicious red that actually does have a slight asphalt taste that softens as it aerates. I feel the need to point out that one of the scent notes discussed was baby diaper (not here, but it has apparently appeared in the past). To quote Kelly, "Poopy diaper is the best!" Who'd have thunk it?
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Sari, I thought that was my plate...
"Do you want to go back to my place, or go out?" Kelly nudges me with his knee. "Let's go out and eat quickly," I say with a sigh, "So that way we can come back for wine and not have to burn down your apartment afterwards." He smiles wide and gives me another jostle of his knee. "That's why I love you," he laughs. We gather our things, he straightens his spine--steeling himself--as he locks the door behind us, and we walk down to the restaurant. I hold his hand to keep him calm, and Kelly takes a deep breath to prepare himself. It had been his suggestion, true, but I know deep down he was hoping I would say "Oh no, hon', we don't have to go there." Outside, he composes himself quickly and holds the door open for me.
I have eaten a lot of weirdish things before and after I started dating Kel. Quail, rabbit, goat, pheasant...okay, well, weirdish for me and other non-foodies. (I know plenty of people who don't like lamb, let alone billy goat's gruff in a tangy yogurt sauce.) I've had raw shellfish every way possible. I've eaten skinny steel-colored fish deep fried like fish fries. I've expanded my pallet extensively and gotten a chance to feed my tongue's travel lust. By this point I've eaten most of Europe, some of the Middle East, and a large portion of Asia. Central America has been visited by way of Mexico (chocolate covered ants and bad take-out), but I haven't gotten a chance to expand into South America despite the Brazilian barbecue in my neighborhood. After I seriously started dating Kelly, I thought that it'd be a chance to find the perfect places for my wander-taste...and it's been true for many. Best sushi places, great steaks and cheeses, his friend Myra Ellen runs the best sandwich shop I've ever been to...but my favorite cuisine has been brushed over until that night.
Despite the rampant poverty and other less-than-savory issues, I've always been fascinated by India. The language, the religion, the customs, the culture...and the food. I understand that, unless my friend Shyam is making it for me, the samosa that I'm eating isn't really Indian, but it's close enough. I almost put out a personal ad for an Indian boyfriend just so I would be kept in naan for the rest of my potentially carb-overloaded life. His mother could have called me the "white devil subverting my precious beta, may he burn in hell for all eternity" to my face...I would have gladly answered to it and still washed the dishes so long as she threw a buttery slab in my direction.
According to Kelly, many industry people have issues with Indian because of the strength of the spices used. Cumin, cardamom, exotic smells that I think are heavenly apparently burn out any wine-person's nostrils and make their eyes water. It makes sense, I suppose, if you focus your senses to a laser focus that a handful of curry could be a bad thing...but I just can't see it.
The restaurant is fairly new and set up a little cramped. The two women speaking Spanish at the table touching ours sniff as we sit down and complain loudly about the girl dining behind us talking about the Swiss economy and human rights violations. Kelly agonizes over the least offensive item as I switch from staring down the entirety of India in every meat offered. I finally pick the lamb Vindaloo and rub Kel's knuckles across the table. "Thanks for doing this," I tell him and he nods. Suddenly, a light hits his eyes and he licks his lips. "What's that?" he asks the waitress, pointing to the bright orange, creamy drink someone at the Swiss violation's table sucks through their neon straw. "Mango lassi. You want one?" He nods excitedly and I smile, glad to have found at least one offensive item to bribe him with at a later date.
I have eaten a lot of weirdish things before and after I started dating Kel. Quail, rabbit, goat, pheasant...okay, well, weirdish for me and other non-foodies. (I know plenty of people who don't like lamb, let alone billy goat's gruff in a tangy yogurt sauce.) I've had raw shellfish every way possible. I've eaten skinny steel-colored fish deep fried like fish fries. I've expanded my pallet extensively and gotten a chance to feed my tongue's travel lust. By this point I've eaten most of Europe, some of the Middle East, and a large portion of Asia. Central America has been visited by way of Mexico (chocolate covered ants and bad take-out), but I haven't gotten a chance to expand into South America despite the Brazilian barbecue in my neighborhood. After I seriously started dating Kelly, I thought that it'd be a chance to find the perfect places for my wander-taste...and it's been true for many. Best sushi places, great steaks and cheeses, his friend Myra Ellen runs the best sandwich shop I've ever been to...but my favorite cuisine has been brushed over until that night.
Despite the rampant poverty and other less-than-savory issues, I've always been fascinated by India. The language, the religion, the customs, the culture...and the food. I understand that, unless my friend Shyam is making it for me, the samosa that I'm eating isn't really Indian, but it's close enough. I almost put out a personal ad for an Indian boyfriend just so I would be kept in naan for the rest of my potentially carb-overloaded life. His mother could have called me the "white devil subverting my precious beta, may he burn in hell for all eternity" to my face...I would have gladly answered to it and still washed the dishes so long as she threw a buttery slab in my direction.
According to Kelly, many industry people have issues with Indian because of the strength of the spices used. Cumin, cardamom, exotic smells that I think are heavenly apparently burn out any wine-person's nostrils and make their eyes water. It makes sense, I suppose, if you focus your senses to a laser focus that a handful of curry could be a bad thing...but I just can't see it.
The restaurant is fairly new and set up a little cramped. The two women speaking Spanish at the table touching ours sniff as we sit down and complain loudly about the girl dining behind us talking about the Swiss economy and human rights violations. Kelly agonizes over the least offensive item as I switch from staring down the entirety of India in every meat offered. I finally pick the lamb Vindaloo and rub Kel's knuckles across the table. "Thanks for doing this," I tell him and he nods. Suddenly, a light hits his eyes and he licks his lips. "What's that?" he asks the waitress, pointing to the bright orange, creamy drink someone at the Swiss violation's table sucks through their neon straw. "Mango lassi. You want one?" He nods excitedly and I smile, glad to have found at least one offensive item to bribe him with at a later date.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Kept company
"Hey sailor, looking for a good time?" Kelly calls out the window to his friend Liam. A tower of a bear (or wolf, rather...I need to check my gay field guide), Liam smiles wide and calls something back that I can't hear over the radio. Kelly parks the car and gets out to do the gay greet (a kiss on the cheek and a sassy back-handed compliment). We get his bags into the car; shift from one topic to another, all of which I wouldn't be able to repeat without changing the security settings on this blog to "mature"; and head off for what Kelly has described as "Iron Chef with booze".
The dynamic changes as soon as Liam and Kelly start to catch up. In our relationship, I'm an Ionic column...pretty in a simple way, but mostly I'm just there to be supportive. With Liam, Kelly fades a little himself, becoming more reserved (if only by a breath). He blushes at some of the more off-colored comments and looks at me as if he expects me to be offended. (He clearly hasn't gotten to know Samantha very well...) "I told you he'd be like this," Kelly says with a half-hearted sigh. We get to the restaurant/bar/hotel (?) and Liam manages to say "hello" properly. He lifts me three feet off of the sidewalk and squeezes me in a bear hug that breaks everything from T1 to L5 of my spinal column. "It's so great to finally meet you, dearheart."
Inside, we do a shot of something banana and cognac (much to Kel's disgust) and Kelly orders the first round: gimlet for him, aviation for me, and something bright pink and fruity for Liam. After introducing us to a few groups of people, Kelly gets sucked into industry talks and I get prepared to do my usual people watching. Liam grabs my neck in a buddybuddy squeeze and I almost forget that for once, I'm not alone at one of these things. "Oooh, take a look at that one!" He hisses, pointing out a man in a button-down done from the top button down, khakis that hit two inches too high above the knee, and shoes that are only appropriate to wear as you lash your sailboat to the dock. "Very J.Crew," I tell him and roll my eyes, snickering into my drink. Liam snorts and sips his, shaking his head. "J.Crew has more style than that."
In the course of drinking too much, I found another non-foodie to add to my list of foodie friends. For all the wonderful things I can list about Kelly's friends, they all have the same item that could go in the center chunk of the pro-con Venn diagram...they're all foodies. Michael and Karen (the first two members of Kelly's "family" that I've met) are another pairing of foodie/non-foodie, and my first introduction into the Wine Widows Club. "I swear, sometimes it's like another language," Karen once told me. "You pick it up after a while...but still, I remember sitting there with all of his wine friends and not knowing what to say."
I lose sight of Kelly within an hour (a new record), but still have Liam to keep me company. "It's such a small town," he says and orders us another drink of something that I can't name but belongs on Carmen Miranda's head. "I can't go anywhere without running into someone I've boffed." I laugh, if only because Kelly has run into some industry person at almost every night/morning we've risked outside his apartment. "You have no idea," I tell him and wave to two more of Kel's friends that I've come to know over the past few months...two more of my new foodie friends.
The dynamic changes as soon as Liam and Kelly start to catch up. In our relationship, I'm an Ionic column...pretty in a simple way, but mostly I'm just there to be supportive. With Liam, Kelly fades a little himself, becoming more reserved (if only by a breath). He blushes at some of the more off-colored comments and looks at me as if he expects me to be offended. (He clearly hasn't gotten to know Samantha very well...) "I told you he'd be like this," Kelly says with a half-hearted sigh. We get to the restaurant/bar/hotel (?) and Liam manages to say "hello" properly. He lifts me three feet off of the sidewalk and squeezes me in a bear hug that breaks everything from T1 to L5 of my spinal column. "It's so great to finally meet you, dearheart."
Inside, we do a shot of something banana and cognac (much to Kel's disgust) and Kelly orders the first round: gimlet for him, aviation for me, and something bright pink and fruity for Liam. After introducing us to a few groups of people, Kelly gets sucked into industry talks and I get prepared to do my usual people watching. Liam grabs my neck in a buddybuddy squeeze and I almost forget that for once, I'm not alone at one of these things. "Oooh, take a look at that one!" He hisses, pointing out a man in a button-down done from the top button down, khakis that hit two inches too high above the knee, and shoes that are only appropriate to wear as you lash your sailboat to the dock. "Very J.Crew," I tell him and roll my eyes, snickering into my drink. Liam snorts and sips his, shaking his head. "J.Crew has more style than that."
In the course of drinking too much, I found another non-foodie to add to my list of foodie friends. For all the wonderful things I can list about Kelly's friends, they all have the same item that could go in the center chunk of the pro-con Venn diagram...they're all foodies. Michael and Karen (the first two members of Kelly's "family" that I've met) are another pairing of foodie/non-foodie, and my first introduction into the Wine Widows Club. "I swear, sometimes it's like another language," Karen once told me. "You pick it up after a while...but still, I remember sitting there with all of his wine friends and not knowing what to say."
I lose sight of Kelly within an hour (a new record), but still have Liam to keep me company. "It's such a small town," he says and orders us another drink of something that I can't name but belongs on Carmen Miranda's head. "I can't go anywhere without running into someone I've boffed." I laugh, if only because Kelly has run into some industry person at almost every night/morning we've risked outside his apartment. "You have no idea," I tell him and wave to two more of Kel's friends that I've come to know over the past few months...two more of my new foodie friends.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
bi-bim-bap-shoo-bop-da-bop
It feels like 11pm. It's really only 7 or 8, but it feels like 11. Work has been a nightmare and I have spent the past week coming in early to rewrite a 200+ page multi-client report worth at least $50,000 in four days. I sag into the booth, stare into the pickled broccoli, and listen to Kelly ramble about salt. "It's the reason China was able to build the Great Wall They had a monopoly on salt and iron which was needed to process salt This actually allowed people to start raising cattle and horses domestically in the first place..."
The waiter returns with miso soup and two stone bowls. They remind me of the metal and wood steaming platters that keep fajitas warm. The bowls are huge and filled with rice, vegetables, and a half-cooked egg arranged on the top. I break the egg and let the yoke color the rice. Kelly's ramblings have turned into some strange cousin of scat.
"I'm sorry, hon'. What'd you say?" I ask him. "It's bibobop," he repeats. "I'm sorry, what?" "Bi-bim-bap. Bibimbap." He scrapes the rice crusting along the inside of the bowl and mixes it so the rest has a chance to turn into crunchy sheets. "It's Korean comfort food." I shovel some into my mouth, careful not to burn myself on the bowl. Despite the strange name and presentation, it might be the most normal thing I have eaten with Kelly. (It's essentially fried rice from the local Chinese Take-out.)
"You should write more about my birthday," he says, a little miffed I haven't explained the bone marrow story in more detail. "I don't know, Kel," I say and stab at a zucchini. "It's sort of in the past." "Well, David Sedaris writes in the past." I don't argue and wonder what the brown tendril is that I have wrapped around my chopstick. It's almost vegetable in appearance, but I've learned that you can't really ask questions in Chinatown. (Well you can, but the answers aren't what you want to hear.)
My first "weird food" incidence was going for dim sum in Chinatown with Samantha, Sean, and their friend Ashley. The walls were blood red and covered with gilded mirrors. The tanks were filled with live fish and waiters ( I suppose you could call them that) pushed their carts between tables. The four of us were the only people in the entire restaurant that were not Asian. Sean had been several times before, so I trusted him when he picked out rice balls wrapped in lotus leaves. "What's this?" I asked him, pointing to the meat inside the rice ball. Sean shrugged and continued to shovel tripe into his mouth with glee. I decided not to ask any further questions when a cart went by with phoenix claws.
If dim sum was my formal announcement, then Kelly's birthday was my debutant ball of weird food. Going to Evie's restaurant, we sat at the bar and picked at cheese platters, duck, and sweetbread. "It's cow thymus," Kelly says as the bartender puts down the plate. It looks like a giant hushpuppy soaked in gravy and sprinkled with peas. "Grammy always says that you can't say you don't like it if you don't try it." I finish my glass of something pink (I assume it was a rose, but Kelly has pointed out mistakes in past posts) and scoop out a bite with my fork. It's softer and spongier than what I expected. The gravy is super savory and sharp, cutting through the strange texture of the sweetbread. I manage to eat it without freaking out, but think twice for going in again and decide to stick with the duck.
A few more glasses and Kelly and I go off alone to get drinks. This begins the infamous "Bone Marrow Incident". Taking a taxi, we take the first seats empty at the bar and I let Kelly's friend (he knows EVERYONE) make us cocktails that have as much liquor in them as a Long Island. "I'll also get an order of fries and the bone marrow," Kelly says. The words "bone marrow" are said as if they were some luxurious treasure...the Tut's tomb of food. His order comes with the bones arranged in a neat row, a pile of cut baguette pieces set up artfully behind them. "You have to try it," Kelly said and spooned some of the marrow straight from the bone onto a slice of bread. I've never been a hungry drunk (sometimes I'll snack, but I never had a "I must EAT!" moment), but I remembered Grammy's advice and copied his movements with only a little hesitation. The marrow was good, but reminded me too much of a savory jello. It had a grainy texture and taken straight from the bone was a little too ghoulish for my inebriated mind to grasp.
"So what do you think?" Kelly asks me about the bibimbap. I pop the brown tendril into my mouth carelessly, relieved it's a vegetable of some kind. "It really is Korean comfort food," I tell him.
The waiter returns with miso soup and two stone bowls. They remind me of the metal and wood steaming platters that keep fajitas warm. The bowls are huge and filled with rice, vegetables, and a half-cooked egg arranged on the top. I break the egg and let the yoke color the rice. Kelly's ramblings have turned into some strange cousin of scat.
"I'm sorry, hon'. What'd you say?" I ask him. "It's bibobop," he repeats. "I'm sorry, what?" "Bi-bim-bap. Bibimbap." He scrapes the rice crusting along the inside of the bowl and mixes it so the rest has a chance to turn into crunchy sheets. "It's Korean comfort food." I shovel some into my mouth, careful not to burn myself on the bowl. Despite the strange name and presentation, it might be the most normal thing I have eaten with Kelly. (It's essentially fried rice from the local Chinese Take-out.)
"You should write more about my birthday," he says, a little miffed I haven't explained the bone marrow story in more detail. "I don't know, Kel," I say and stab at a zucchini. "It's sort of in the past." "Well, David Sedaris writes in the past." I don't argue and wonder what the brown tendril is that I have wrapped around my chopstick. It's almost vegetable in appearance, but I've learned that you can't really ask questions in Chinatown. (Well you can, but the answers aren't what you want to hear.)
My first "weird food" incidence was going for dim sum in Chinatown with Samantha, Sean, and their friend Ashley. The walls were blood red and covered with gilded mirrors. The tanks were filled with live fish and waiters ( I suppose you could call them that) pushed their carts between tables. The four of us were the only people in the entire restaurant that were not Asian. Sean had been several times before, so I trusted him when he picked out rice balls wrapped in lotus leaves. "What's this?" I asked him, pointing to the meat inside the rice ball. Sean shrugged and continued to shovel tripe into his mouth with glee. I decided not to ask any further questions when a cart went by with phoenix claws.
If dim sum was my formal announcement, then Kelly's birthday was my debutant ball of weird food. Going to Evie's restaurant, we sat at the bar and picked at cheese platters, duck, and sweetbread. "It's cow thymus," Kelly says as the bartender puts down the plate. It looks like a giant hushpuppy soaked in gravy and sprinkled with peas. "Grammy always says that you can't say you don't like it if you don't try it." I finish my glass of something pink (I assume it was a rose, but Kelly has pointed out mistakes in past posts) and scoop out a bite with my fork. It's softer and spongier than what I expected. The gravy is super savory and sharp, cutting through the strange texture of the sweetbread. I manage to eat it without freaking out, but think twice for going in again and decide to stick with the duck.
A few more glasses and Kelly and I go off alone to get drinks. This begins the infamous "Bone Marrow Incident". Taking a taxi, we take the first seats empty at the bar and I let Kelly's friend (he knows EVERYONE) make us cocktails that have as much liquor in them as a Long Island. "I'll also get an order of fries and the bone marrow," Kelly says. The words "bone marrow" are said as if they were some luxurious treasure...the Tut's tomb of food. His order comes with the bones arranged in a neat row, a pile of cut baguette pieces set up artfully behind them. "You have to try it," Kelly said and spooned some of the marrow straight from the bone onto a slice of bread. I've never been a hungry drunk (sometimes I'll snack, but I never had a "I must EAT!" moment), but I remembered Grammy's advice and copied his movements with only a little hesitation. The marrow was good, but reminded me too much of a savory jello. It had a grainy texture and taken straight from the bone was a little too ghoulish for my inebriated mind to grasp.
"So what do you think?" Kelly asks me about the bibimbap. I pop the brown tendril into my mouth carelessly, relieved it's a vegetable of some kind. "It really is Korean comfort food," I tell him.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Wine: a study
"Sorry, the place is a mess," Kelly says as he opens the door to his apartment. There is a half-empty suitcase on his couch, the cat is gone, and his bed is torn apart. The mattress is naked, the surface picked out in ugly flowers, and piled with clothes.
"Come on, I need help picking out a suit," he says half in the closet. He grabs his dress shirts in bunches and lays them out on the already cluttered bed. The colors are all bright blues, purples, and pinks done in stripes, checks, plaids, and some patterns that are a mixture of both. His nightstand (a collection of wooden vintner's boxes) is broken in half and opened to show his collection of ties. It's another jumble of bright colors and patterns.
I have been helping him prepare for his Advanced tests for the past month. Well, by helping I mean going with him to study groups and calming him down as he worries about something I'm sure he already knows by heart. ("What if they ask me to name all the [insert grape] in [insert country/region]?" "Kel, you have an IQ of 300, you know that stuff." "What if it's all French? You know I'm an Italophile..."). I've watched him and his fellow sommeliers sit in front of glasses of wine and play the drinking version of Guess Who?! I've seen a full, formal table service performed step-by-step...even using a wine basket (which, apparently, is a useless piece of wicker/wire that no one uses anyway...sort of like taking advanced Calculus and being an English major).
Kelly matches shirts and ties in patterns that make my eyes hurt. Stripes with plaids in a giant swath of various purples. I match a solid blue shirt with a paisley-esque tie, but he vetos it and pulls another shirt to replace the blue. "That's too boring," he says. I sigh and step aside, offering a few comments when I can and watch him pack.
He'll be gone for the week and returning Saturday night. I keep trying to be as helpful as possible, but I know I'm just a blanket...something comforting just to have around. He pours two glasses of a pinot noir from Napa (a rarity in Mr. Old-world's fridge) and I drink as he finishes packing. In the morning, he will rush to grab his three bags, thrust a few CDs into my hands that he needs returned to the library, and empty the few items in his fridge into my car: two cheeses from our Othello picnic, a quarter gallon of whole milk, and the half-finished bottle of pinot noir.
"Come on, I need help picking out a suit," he says half in the closet. He grabs his dress shirts in bunches and lays them out on the already cluttered bed. The colors are all bright blues, purples, and pinks done in stripes, checks, plaids, and some patterns that are a mixture of both. His nightstand (a collection of wooden vintner's boxes) is broken in half and opened to show his collection of ties. It's another jumble of bright colors and patterns.
I have been helping him prepare for his Advanced tests for the past month. Well, by helping I mean going with him to study groups and calming him down as he worries about something I'm sure he already knows by heart. ("What if they ask me to name all the [insert grape] in [insert country/region]?" "Kel, you have an IQ of 300, you know that stuff." "What if it's all French? You know I'm an Italophile..."). I've watched him and his fellow sommeliers sit in front of glasses of wine and play the drinking version of Guess Who?! I've seen a full, formal table service performed step-by-step...even using a wine basket (which, apparently, is a useless piece of wicker/wire that no one uses anyway...sort of like taking advanced Calculus and being an English major).
Kelly matches shirts and ties in patterns that make my eyes hurt. Stripes with plaids in a giant swath of various purples. I match a solid blue shirt with a paisley-esque tie, but he vetos it and pulls another shirt to replace the blue. "That's too boring," he says. I sigh and step aside, offering a few comments when I can and watch him pack.
He'll be gone for the week and returning Saturday night. I keep trying to be as helpful as possible, but I know I'm just a blanket...something comforting just to have around. He pours two glasses of a pinot noir from Napa (a rarity in Mr. Old-world's fridge) and I drink as he finishes packing. In the morning, he will rush to grab his three bags, thrust a few CDs into my hands that he needs returned to the library, and empty the few items in his fridge into my car: two cheeses from our Othello picnic, a quarter gallon of whole milk, and the half-finished bottle of pinot noir.
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