Yesterday, in honor of my upcoming birthday, I took the day off from teaching the youth and I got a massage at Lucid in Metuchen-- they have an incredible deal going: five hour-long massages for 200 dollars -- my calf is still sketchy and I strained it a bit playing pickleball on Tuesday and the massage really helped . . . plus, my acupuncturist broke her arm and so she's been on the IR and now I realize how much those needles keep me loose-- and then Ian and I met Alex for lunch in New Brunswick-- he turned twenty today (and I turn 54 tomorrow) and so it was his choice of food for a birthday lunch-- he wanted Mexican food so we perused the plethora of Mexican places in New Brunswick-- oh yes, there are a plethora of authentic Mexican places in New Brunswick, some filled with pinatas-- and since La Catrina was closed until four PM and Taqueria Maria's transformed into a bakery (without informing us) we ended up at a place called La Placita-- which does NOT translate into The Place . . . placita is a little square-- and we loved it . . . I had chorizo enchiladas with mole sauce and the kids had al pastor tacos and everything was superb-- so if you're looking for a cheap "treat yo self day" there you go.
Last night my wife whipped up some Indian food-- chicken tikka masala and daal tarka and some other lentil thing-- and then she realized we didn't have enough naan in the freezer and so I suggested we use some tortillas-- chicken tikka tacos!-- and then, satisfied that I had really helped out with dinner, I went back to drinking my beer and listening to music and watching her cook . . . and then Ian got home and I talked to him for a bit and then I saw that Catherine was doing something weird with flour on the counter and I asked her what she was doing and she said, "I'm making some homemade naan from scratch" and I was like WTF? and a Troy Barnes moment from Communitypopped into my head: after behaving abominably in the video game competition for the inheritance, Pierce's half-brother Gilbert says "Family can make a person do a lot of crazy things" and Troy answers: "I understand . . . I have an uncle who makes his own pizza."
After many fruitless attempts, my wife and I finally got a seat at Salt during happy hour; Salt is an upscale seafood joint in New Brunswick with a small bar and an excellent (but very short) happy hour: it only runs from 3 PM - 5PM . . . perhaps we were able to get a seat because it was bitterly cold and windy-- we barely made it across the bridge with getting frostbite-- but it was worth it, delicious oysters and tuna and rock shrimp and fish tacos . . . and they make some excellent drinks, as well.
Winter Break has arrived: we survived ChatGPTbotgate at school, I survived early morning basketball (and lit it up from outside . . . Merry Xmas from the basketball gods), Alex survived his engineering exams, and-- hopefully-- we'll survive this bomb cyclone super freeze . . . the temperature has dropped precipitously and we're holed up at home-- the dog is bored, Catherine and I are making tacos, Alex and his buddy Gary are watching the Festivus episode of Seinfeld in the basement-- but Ian is at work at the bubble tea place-- I can't imagine many people are coming in because it's so cold and windy but he won't be home until 10 PM, I hope it's not too ugly out then-- anyway, the presents are wrapped and under the tree, there's no school tomorrow, and it's nice to be warm and inside and drinking a beer.
I thought I disliked cooking but it turns out I like to cook if the rest of the family goes to the gym and I can drink, etc. and listen to whatever music I want (at whatever volume I want) and have over two hours to prepare a simple meal (tacos) and then I like cooking.
My wife and I finally saw The Book of Mormon-- the tickets were a fiftieth birthday present but then the pandemic hit, so I took us nearly two years to see the show-- and despite the weather, we covered a lot of ground in the city yesterday; we took the train in and then walked down to the Rubin Museum, which is chock-full of Indian, Himalayan, Tibetan and Bhutanese religious art . . . it's an aesthetically pleasing meditative multi-story space (unless some lady doesn't read the directions and bangs the water-gong with all her strength, instead of gently tapping it, which knocked me right the fuck out of my hypnotic state) and then we walked back uptown and it was COLD so we stopped for a drink at Hellcat Annie's Tap Room-- a cozy pub with an excellent selection of local beers-- and so I broke the rule I had made earlier in the day and had two beers-- I wasn't going to drink any beer because I didn't want to have to pee or feel bloated once I was stuffed into one of the narrow Broadway theater seats but it was early; then we made our way up to Tacuba Cantina Mexicana, and we had a fantastic meal-- I hard chorizo and octopus tacos and some Mezcal de Leyandas-- both delicious-- and then we went to The Book of Mormon and our seats were good and unobstructed (some douchebag a couple rows over wore his lumpy ski-hat the entire play . . . I can't believe the person behind him didn't let him have it) and the play was ridiculously funny and --surprise! . . . set in Uganda?-- and featured a chubby young Mormon missionary that is pretty much a nicer and more sincere version South Park's Cartman brought to life . . . and while the play might not be totally accurate about Mormonism, it's not totally accurate about anything-- it's just profane and funny-- I'm glad I knew nothing about it, I was often surprised and always laughing and when the play let out, we knew if we wanted to catch the fast train, the 9:56 PM, we would have to book it down to Penn Station, which we did, despite the snow, slush and rain and we made the fast train, got out 20,000 steps-- which always seems to happen when you go to NYC-- and, bonus, Alex picked us up from the train station and we were home before 11 PM . . . which is pretty amazing, to see a 7:00 PM play on 49th Street and be back in Highland Park less than four hours later.
When I make tacos, I use beer as the liquid to absorb the seasonings-- but when my wife is around while I'm cooking, she won't allow me to do this . . . even though she always loves my tacos-- because she claims she doesn't like things cooked with beer (she obviously does) and when I'm around, my wife can't cook anything with milk in it, because I don't like things with milk as an ingredient (even though my wife makes plenty of recipes that contain milk . . . it's reciprocal, if I don't see the milk go into the food, I'm fine with, but if I see it happen, then I don't want to eat it).
This had better be the end of summer (not that threatening the Weather Gods has ever been successful or mentally healthy). I really tried to make the most of the hot weather over this long weekend, but I'm done with it. I strung some lights on our porch, in anticipation of cool fall nights. I used up the final harvest from my wife's garden: I made green salsa and slow cooked pork and tomatillo tacos. Here's the recipe, it's an easy one (if you have a shitload of fresh tomatillos).
I took my son out to Sandy Hook today, to do some surfing. The waves weren't great, but the water was warm. The dog had a great time. We made it home for soccer practice and the turf was scorching hot. Tomorrow we have a game, and it's supposed to be 90 degrees. Thursday, the meteorologists say that fall is coming. I am ready for it. Enough fresh vegetables and hot weather, I'm primed for the mosquitoes and the ticks and the leaves to die. I'm fortified for cold barren dark days. I want the horde of cave crickets in the bike shed to freeze. I'd like some frost on the pumpkin, and some ice on the Raritan. One more day . . . that's all I can tolerate. One more day. You hear that, Weather Gods? One more day . . .
Blogger has been acting weird since Friday, and so I wasn't able to post yesterday or this morning . . . here's what went on:
Soccer practice was cold, wet, and rainy Friday afternoon and I wore my stupid blue jacket that looks like a rain-jacket but is actually just a windbreaker and I froze my balls off.
Saturday I did some rollerblading while listening to 90's instrumental guitar rock (Steve Vai and Joey Satriani) and this was the right music choice;
then, in preparation for the Grant Ave block party, Cat and I went to Cypress Brewery to drink a beer and purchase a growler's worth of 17 Mile IPA and the waitress in the little tasting room greeted us warmly and hugged us and I thought it was Rachel, a teacher from my wife's school and then the waitress left to get our beers and my wife informed that she was NOT Rachel, the teacher from her school-- though she admitted that this person looked just like Rachel-- and so we racked our brains, trying to figure out who had just hugged us, and while we were under a serious time constraint, we were able to discuss our namenesia aloud because our waitress had gone next door to check on a large party that was drinking in the brewing area and she literally had to leave the tasting room and walk outside the building and then enter by the large bay door-- so we discussed and used process of elimination and then I took a stab when she returned with our beers and said, "Are you doing girl's soccer again?" and she said, "No that's Rebecca, we always get mistaken for each other" and that's when I remembered who she was-- she had taught both our kids English in middle school-- but she was wearing a baseball hat and a Cypress Brewery tank-top and jeans, so it was tough to identify her-- normally we would see her in back-to-school-night clothes-- but I got it in time, no harm no foul, and my wife was duly impressed;
today I went to the gym early and lifted, then played 90 minutes of soccer, but I erased all that fitness at lunch-- my son has had a Taco Bell gift card since Christmas (a grab bag gift) and we finally used it, he ate some large hexagonal shaped item with several meats and a giant tortilla chip inside, and Ian and I had quesadillas and tacos-- this is the first time I've had Taco Bell since college and I'll admit it was edible and it hasn't done anything awful to my stomach . . . yet.
Blogger has been acting weird since Friday, and so I wasn't able to post yesterday or this morning . . . here's what went on:
1) soccer practice was cold, wet, and rainy Friday afternoon and I wore my stupid blue jacket that looks like a rain-jacket but is actually just a windbreaker and I froze my balls off;
2) Saturday I did some rollerblading while listening to 90's instrumental guitar rock (Steve Vai and Joey Satriani) and this was the right music choice;
3) then, in preparation for the Grant Ave block party, Cat and I went to Cypress Brewery to drink a beer and purchase a growler's worth of 17 Mile IPA and the waitress in the little tasting room greeted us warmly and hugged us and I thought it was Rachel, a teacher from my wife's school and then the waitress left to get our beers and my wife informed that she was NOT Rachel, the teacher from her school-- though she admitted that this person looked just like Rachel-- and so we racked our brains, trying to figure out who had just hugged us, and while we were under a serious time constraint, we were able to discuss our namenesia aloud because our waitress had gone next door to check on a large party that was drinking in the brewing area and she literally had to leave the tasting room and walk outside the building and then enter by the large bay door-- so we discussed and used process of elimination and then I took a stab when she returned with our beers and said, "Are you doing girl's soccer again?" and she said, "No that's Rebecca, we always get mistaken for each other" and that's when I remembered who she was-- she had taught both our kids English in middle school-- but she was wearing a baseball hat and a Cypress Brewery tank-top and jeans, so it was tough to identify her-- normally we would see her in back-to-school-night clothes-- but I got it in time, no harm no foul, and my wife was duly impressed;
4) today I went to the gym early and lifted, then played 90 minutes of soccer, but I erased all that fitness at lunch-- my son has had a Taco Bell gift card since Christmas (a grab bag gift) and we finally used it, he ate some large hexagonal shaped item with several meats and a giant tortilla chip inside, and Ian and I had quesadillas and tacos-- this is the first time I've had Taco Bell since college and I'll admit it was edible and it hasn't done anything awful to my stomach . . . yet.
I've been recently appointed the King of Food Safety in my household. This is because I am the only person in the house that knows The Golden Rule of Food Perishability. I have it memorized.
Last Monday we decided to have tacos. But Monday is a very busy night for us. Soccer, tennis, zumba, etc. So two of us had to eat at 5:30 PM and two of us had to eat at 8 PM. This was a food safety dilemma fit for King Solomon. I had to figure out what to do with the meat between the split feedings. Someone not versed in the Golden Rule of Food Safety would have left that stuff out, allowing it to become a Petri dish of multiplying bacteria. But I know better. And I was in charge. I refrigerated the meat and then reheated it for the second mealtime.
Safety first.
I have also been designated as The Biggest Hypocrite in our house, and I have something to report an that front as well. Even though I am the King of Food Safety, I do not subscribe to Divine Hygiene. I recognize that I can make mistakes (and I reflect upon them).
Today, when I got home from school, I conducted a thorough investigation of our dog's "hot spot." Do not be confused. She is not a sexy dog. This is canine terminology for a raw sore that won't heal because of incessant licking. She has one of these "hot spots" on her groin, she licked it raw during the doldrums of the recent rainy days.
Here it is:
Lola's festering sore
My investigation was both visual and tactile, and I am pleased to report that the spot is no longer oozing pus-- or maybe just a slight bit of pus, but it's certainly not festering-- and the sore mainly felt dry to the touch. So it's healing.
I was so pleased with her progress, that I grabbed a celebratory bag of potato chips, sat down in the good chair, put on a podcast, and started chomping away. After I few minutes, I realized I hadn't washed my hands after sticking my fingers in her raw sore. So I got up and washed my hands (though I realized it was too late, far too late).
I do this belated post haste handwashing all the time (and I'm sure my readers do it as well). I replace the ballcock assembly in the toilet, go downstairs, toss the old ballcock in the garbage, see a cookie on the counter, eat the cookie, and then realize I haven't washed my hands. Then I rush to the sink and wash my hands, like the washing can retroactively remove the bacteria from the food, though I've already swallowed it.
This is medieval logic, similar to the belief that if you rub a special ointment on a dagger that has caused a wound, you will heal the wound. I will keep you posted on the consistency of my diarrhea.
My wife is an excellent cook-- creative, efficient, and unflappable. Her skills are crucial in the fall, when our house is extraordinarily busy. She's usually consumed by teaching elementary school math and science, running the community garden, and directing the school garden club. The boys and I are consumed by soccer. Despite these hurdles, she whips up meal after meal, day after day-- often without any help. This fall she worked around four soccer schedules: Alex played JV soccer, Ian played middle school soccer and for a club team, and I coached the middle school team and the in-town travel team. She's also the go-to person for help with school work (I'm more of a school work consultant, good for specific questions but not really capable of sustained service). Catherine times our family dinners around games, practices, and buses. She's the household MVP, keeping us full and healthy. We rarely ordered pizza.
Years ago, at the end of a similarly busy soccer season, Catherine went on a two-week cooking strike. She decided there was a lack of appreciation for all the planning, shopping, prepping and cooking she had been doing. It was a difficult period. The scab labor was unskilled, surly, and mainly underage. Negotiations were tense. Meals were lame. We survived but did not thrive. The boys and I learned our lesson: it is difficult to plan and serve delicious healthy meals all week. Though we learned our lesson, we didn't learn how to actually pull it off.
Last year when the season ended, we preempted any sort of labor dispute by announcing that we would do the cooking and dinner clean-up for a week. The end of the season coincides with Catherine's birthday, so not only did we avoid a cooking strike but we also provided her with a birthday gift. That's a win-win.
This year for Catherine's birthday, I upped the ante. Not only would I cook for a week, but I would also plan the menu and do the shopping. At the grocery store. Now I know-- truly know-- what it takes to cook various, creative, delicious and healthy meals for a week. It takes the planning skills of Hannibal, the scope and courage of Alexander the Great, and the confidence of Napoleon. And running a campaign like this is stressful, and the best way to relieve stress while you cook dinner is to imbibe. So you'll also need the liver of Winston Churchill.
Tuesday: leftovers . . . everyone had something planned
Wednesday: grilled shrimp, snap peas, and thin-sliced crispy potatoes
Thursday: grilled chicken, broccoli and rice
Friday: out to dinner . . . yes!
The second step was the hardest (behind butterflying, pounding, and marinating the chicken breasts . . . so gross). The second step was to go to the real grocery store . . . the big ShopRite in Edison. We have a small Stop & Shop in town which I can handle-- I know where things are and there isn't a big selection, but the big ShopRite in Edison is much cheaper than the Stop & Shop in town. Catherine gave me an out on this one: she said I could do the week's shopping at the smaller, more familiar store, but I decided it was time to man-up. If I was going to do it, I was going to really do it. She told me that there were a couple of products that wouldn't be in the main store. They would be located somewhere called "the annex." The "annex" was connected to the main store by a passageway akin to King's Crossing Platform 9 ¾. I would have to sprint towards an aisle of cat food and hope for the best.
There was a point during my shopping trip when I nearly broke down and quit. I almost shed tears. Seriously. You'd cry too. The store was huge, disorganized, and there were too many choices. I was in there forever, wandering. I actually found the annex (and bought some facial tissues . . . but I never found the 9-volt batteries). And even after all that time in the store, I still had to stop at the Garden Farm Market on my way home for produce because I couldn't find anything decent at ShopRite.
Why was it taking so fucking long to buy some basic shit? Why are food stores insane?
The new episode of Freakonomics tackles this question. In it, business Professor Michael Roberto makes a pitch:
ROBERTO: “I’d like to open a new kind of grocery store. We’re not going to have any branded items. It’s all going to be private label. We’re going to have no television advertising and no social media whatsoever. We’re never going to have anything on sale. We’re not going to accept coupons. We’ll have no loyalty card. We won’t have a circular that appears in the Sunday newspaper. We’ll have no self-checkout. We won’t have wide aisles or big parking lots. Would you invest in my company?”
This store sounds like a train-wreck. But it turns out that this is a successful business. It's a description of Trader Joe's.
I highly recommend "Should America be Run by . . . Trader Joe's?" It's Freakonomics at its best. The topic sounds boring: grocery stores. But there's a compelling narrative, and an explanation of how you can succeed in a low margin, super-competitive, rather bland business. Trader Joe's is killing it in terms of sales per square foot. How the fuck do they do it?
There are no sales, no discounts, no Whole Foods/Amazon algorithmic data tracking. When you enter the door, you've joined the club. It's kind of fun. Sometimes there's free coffee. There are lots of employees and they are instructed to drop everything and help you if you need help. The last time we were there, my wife couldn't find blue cheese. An employee told my wife that she would go in the back and find the blue cheese for her, and then she told my wife to keep shopping and I'll find you and give you the blue cheese. Brilliant. My wife continued to shop and because the store is small, with no annex, the employee was able to easily find my wife and give her the blue cheese.
During my ShopRite shopping epic, I wandered the meat section at for fifteen minutes, looking for ground pork. I was obviously bewildered. I stumbled on someone who might have been the butcher and asked him if they had ground pork. He said, "Nope. None of that today." Do they ever have ground pork? Could he go in the back and get some? Could he grind some for me? I have no clue and I didn't ask. He didn't offer any more information. I bought some ground turkey instead.
Trader Joe's offers a limited selection of each product and they may switch out a product at any time-- although they always have the staples-- but because the food is good and because you haven't worn yourself out looking for things, when the product you want isn't there, you might actually try something new. The store encourages experimentation. And it's small enough to browse but large enough to have everything you need (especially if it's a branch that sells alcohol). They have three kinds of salsa instead of seventy kinds. And they don't cater to everyone. There's an ethnic bent to the food and if you don't like it, you can shop elsewhere. I've only been inside a Trader Joe's once, and I was slightly overwhelmed-- but I get slightly overwhelmed when I enter any new place, especially when people are frantically buying things . . . it's because I vividly imagine the environmental disaster we are rushing towards. This is more of a "me" problem than a problem with Trader Joe's, and now that I've learned about the store through a podcast, I'm more inclined to go there. Ridiculous, but a little background knowledge goes a long way with me.
Trader Joe's is small on purpose. A typical grocery store carries 35,000 different items. Trader Joe's carries 3000. There aren't that many aisles-- I could walk up and down every single one without suffering a panic attack. And they rush you through the line. No weird interactions where you have to "borrow" the cashier's club card. I don't need to develop that kind of intimacy with someone I just met. If I see them on the street, am I obligated to lend them my umbrella? You don't have a card? Do you want to sign up? Uh . . . maybe? I made that mistake once. There's a Trader Joe's up the road from us now, in North Brunswick. I might go there. On my own. And buy some food. Coming from me, that's a bold statement.
Once I made the menu and purchased all the food, the week went fairly smoothly. Or it appeared smooth from my perspective. I only lost my shit twice. The reason for the smoothness was the lubricant: alcohol. I don't know how people who cook every night don't become raging alcoholics.
My thought process always went something like this: time to cut and pound the chicken! Yuck! Gross! You know what would help with a task this time-consuming and disgusting? Some music. And a beer. It's almost five o'clock.
The only night I didn't drink last week was Tuesday. Leftovers night. Soccer night. I now realize that soccer practice and the fact that my wife does most of the cooking are what stand between me and daily drinking. I know daily drinking doesn't always indicate alcoholism, but it's a step in that direction. And it makes you fat. If I had to cook every meal every night, with only my children to help (who are incredible at disappearing whenever there is work to be done) then my alcohol consumption would triple.
The two nights that I grilled were a double whammy. I normally like to have a beer when I grill . . . it's quiet and relaxing out on the porch; I can look over my sprawling bamboo plants into Donaldson Park. The dog accompanies me and occasionally descends from the porch to chase a squirrel off the property. A warm grill on a cold night, it's the life. But I normally have one beer while I grill. Because my wife is inside managing the other things. The vegetables, the rice, the potatoes, making the salad. whatever. Reminding the kids to finish their homework. Meanwhile, I'm "grilling," which includes a lot of staring into the park and enjoying the fresh air. Occasionally, I'll flip something. But grilling when you are also cooking other things inside the house is not relaxing. It's frantic. And when you're in and out so many times, feeling the pressure to get everything ready at the right time-- doing math, subtracting the minutes that the potatoes will be done from the amount of time it takes to grill shrimp-- then you might grab another beer as you pass by the fridge . . . or another glass of wine. Or another tequila, lime, and seltzer. It's dangerous.
I only lost my cool twice. Once was when I tasked Alex with cooking the snap peas while I finished grilling the shrimp. He decided they were burning-- even though we agreed we wanted them undercooked and crispy-- and he poured a bunch more olive oil in the pan. The peas turned out fine, but sort of drenched in oil. I snapped at him over those snap peas, and I shouldn't have. I told him he should have asked me before doing anything so radical, but then I changed my mind. Chefs get irate in the heat of the moment. I apologized and told him it was good that he took some initiative. Normally when I cook, I ask Catherine a million questions and it drives her crazy. Cooking is experimental, and Alex went for it. Next time he might know better.
The other time I got annoyed is when I was serving dinner and Catherine was fooling around on the computer. The house rule is that you're not supposed to be fooling around on the computer when dinner is served. This house rule is mainly designed for me, so when I chastised her, I had an out-of-body experience. It was like I was her, chastising me.
I'm going to chastise myself now. Time to get off the computer and do the dishes. And miracle of miracles, Catherine has already done the grocery shopping.
I've been out hiking with the dog and I get home and open the fridge and I spy a box . . . a box in a bag . . . a styrofoam container-- and what's inside? what could be inside? what sort of leftovers? Thai food? I can't remember . . . yes! . . . leftover al pastor tacos and rice from La Catrina in New Brunswick . . . and so my breakfast plan transformed from the usual greek yogurt and peanut butter to a plate of pork, pineapple, rice, fried eggs and a tortilla . . . and it was delicious.
I've been out hiking with the dog and I get home and open the fridge and I spy a box . . . a box in a bag . . . a styrofoam container-- and what's inside? what could be inside? what sort of leftovers? Thai food? I can't remember . . . yes! . . . leftover al pastor tacos and rice from La Catrina in New Brunswick . . . and so my breakfast plan transformed from the usual greek yogurt and peanut butter to a plate of pork, pineapple, rice, fried eggs and a tortilla . . . and it was delicious.
I am in an awful relationship with the hot sauce from Taco House, our new favorite hole-in-the-wall authentic taqueria in New Brunswick-- when you get tacos to go, they give you a couple sauce containers of green salsa, which is zesty and just a little bit spicy, you can use as much of it as you want on your tacos and they also give you a couple containers of the red sauce, and a couple containers of this stuff is overkill because you can't use very much of it, as it is very, very hot (but also very very tasty) and so once the tacos are done, there is still plenty of red sauce, which I always place carefully in the refrigerator so I can consume it later . . . and then my wife and kids watch me eat the red sauce in various amounts for the next few days and these endeavors always end in tears-- I'm crying, my kids are yelling at me to stop eating the sauce, and my wife just shakes her head in bewilderment-- and then last night, after dipping chips in the sauce while we watched an especially stressful episode of Better Call Saul, my stomach gave out and I threw the sauce away (after Alex ate some . . . he's an idiot too, but he drank some milk-- yuck!-- and it assuaged the pain) and I'm still suffering the consequences of the sauce this morning, but if it were still in the fridge, I would pour some on my eggs . . . this is one of those reciprocally abusive relationships where the only answer is a clean break, the next time I get tacos from Taco House, I'm going to have to refuse the red sauce.
When I first got my Father's Day T-Shirt, I was confused-- Tantalum? Cobalt? What?-- but then I noticed that the abbreviations-- "Ta" and "Co"-- spelled out the word "TaCo," and I love tacos, so that made perfect sense . . . and then the day after Father's Day, I held up my Father's Day T-Shirt and said, "This reminds me of the credits on Breaking Bad," and my wife and kids looked at me like "Duh" and I said, "And I love Breaking Bad . . . this is a great t-shirt!"
The directions on the Colavita rigatoni are too ambiguous: "cook to desired tenderness," while the sign on the bathroom at Tacoria Mexican Kitchen in New Brunswick is way too specific: "El Bano; Where Tacos Go to Rest."
Yesterday, for my wife's birthday, we went on a West Village food tour that transmogrified into a West Village bar crawl; here is the itinerary, in case you want to replicate it without a guide (and without all the historical anecdotes about the neighborhood, which our tour guide provided; they were quite fascinating: astronomical real estate prices, gay pride landmarks, the site of Operation Midnight Climax, the site of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, the Friends apartment, and lots of 18th and 19th century landmark building) so to begin, we took the 8:48 AM train with two other couples (Mel/Ed and Ann/Craig) and took the subway down to Christopher Street and met our tour guide (Ian) and then we ate rice balls and soppressata at Faicco's Italian Specialties (super delicious) wandered the neighborhood a bit and then had some sensational empanadas and plantain chips and a very expensive mojito at Havana Alma de Cuba, next was Hudson Bagel for an everything bagel with cream cheese, which seemed silly to us, but the other folks on the tour, who hailed from Mississippi, were very impressed and said they were much better than the bagels at Kroger; then we took a detour through Washington Square Park, listened to some outdoor piano, and saw the new Ai Weiwei sculpture under the arch; then falafel and lamb shawarma at the original Mamoun's Falafel-- a place we are familiar with because there is a franchise in New Brunswick -- and the main thing to remember about Mamoun's is do not eat the hot sauce, it's very very hot . . . of course, I always break this rule, in honor of manliness, and yesterday was no exception, and I will say that the falafel at the original location did taste a bit better than the stuff they offer in New Brunswick, at this stage Cat went rogue and ran next door and bought some Belgian pomme frites for the group to share, and this made everyone very happy (and quite full) but we had to stuff in a sliver of artichoke pizza from the eponymously named Artichoke Basille's Pizza (which we all agreed was tasty but very rich, a sliver was more than enough) and a cupcake from Molly's Cupcakes; we all agreed the food tour was a lot of fun, and we also agreed that it was really strange to see just how many food and walking tours were ambling through the Village (with aspiring actors as guides) and it made us realize that though the city is only a fourteen dollar train ride away and we totally take it for granted and mainly complain about the crowds and the prices, it's a place that people from all over the world come to visit; the strangest moment on the food tour was when the young woman from the Mississippi crew showed us a weird picture of what looked like an S&M dungeon and explained how it was her favorite bar in New Orleans because some horrific murders had taken place there in the 18th century; she went into great detail about this, and it would have been creepy, except that she described the place in a wonderfully serene Deep Southern drawl-- cognitive dissonance-- anyway, after that we went to a number of bars: Fat Cat, which was a weird and grungy underground space with live jazz, pool, shuffleboard, and ping-pong; then the Duplex, a flamboyant lounge with 80's music videos and excellent cocktails, then we ate more food (Tacombi . . . delicious fish and chorizo tacos) and finished the night at The Garret, a packed speakeasy style joint that you have to enter by walking through the Five Guys (turn left by the fryer) and by the time we left, fairly soused from all the Norse Whisperers and Full Brazilans, there was a long line to get in, which ran parallel to the line for burgers-- weird-- and on the way home we found out that Ann had gone to highschool with one of my fraternity brothers-- my little brother, in fact-- so that fact provided us with much amusement until we got back to New Brunswick and mustered strenght for the walk across the bridge and up the hill . . . I was a little groggy today and a lot poorer-- alcoholic beverages cost an arm and a leg in these areas-- but it was a great reminder of all the things packed into a small space in New York (next time we go to that area, we're going to drag the kids along and make them go to the Tenement Museum, so they can see a historically accurate sweatshop and get inspired to attend college).
