I came up with a great idea for a television cooking show. I will be pitching it to Food Network, Fine Living Network, Black Entertainment Television or any private citizen with a transponder who will answer my phone call. I don't think this idea has ever been implemented in the entire history of cooking shows. In my show, I would give my audience a step by step demonstration on how to cook all my favorite dishes. The twist is that this would provide people with a list of steps on how not to cook that particular dish. Every dish I have ever tried to cook has turned into a federal disaster and this would be a good way for me to capitalize on my failcooking. For example, if I were to add chopped tomatoes to something, that would let you know that you would be better off adding grated apples instead. At the end of my show, I would have the studio audience come over, taste my dish and show their appropriately disgusted facial expressions to the camera in order to demonstrate to all of you sitting out there just how bad my food turned out to be.
For now, I'm trying to come up with a recipe for the pilot episode that would perfectly capture the worst of my cooking instincts. I'm thinking the first omelet I ever produced as a graduate student in the US. In my recipe, I used two onions and only one egg, chopped the onions lengthwise and added onions and egg separately to the frying pan. If you refuse to follow those steps to the letter, you should end up with a perfectly delicious omelet.
I will be calling my show "The Opposite of Bad Cooking". I will let you know when to turn on the TV.
PS : A commenter correctly pointed out that the show should be named "The Opposite of Good Cooking". Turns out I also suck at naming food shows about cooking that sucks.
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label food. Show all posts
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
McNuggetini
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tripe and tendon
I tried the Vietnamese beef tripe and tendon noodle soup. Contrary to what I was hoping, tripe and tendon weren't code words for "tenderest cut of filet mignon" and "most succulent and juicy ribeye steak". They actually stood for tripe and tendon respectively. Tripe is apparently cow stomach, which would be okay if you needed a stomach transplant and by a happy coincidence, happened to be in a Vietnamese restaurant. And also happened to be a cow. Tripe was fairly disgusting. Tripe had the texture of a chopped up and sauted bicycle tire tube. It was also bereft of taste. Tripe was the stuff you usually find, pick and throw out of whatever meat-based dish you are eating. So bye bye tripe, it was nice seeing you and have a great life.
Tendon was better. Tendon, which is the connective tissue between bone and muscle and sounds as disgusting as tripe, is actually quite tasty. It is collagen which turns into a melt-in-your-mouth gelatinous mass when slow-cooked and can be tolerated without much difficulty.
Anyways, the point of this exercize was to get to know tripe and tendon and explore the possibility of a long term relationship with these two folks. But as I mentioned, tripe and I turned out to be on totally different wavelengths. Tendon and I, well, we might have something going on. There was definitely some sexual chemistry happening in that bowl. We'll just have to wait and see.
Tendon was better. Tendon, which is the connective tissue between bone and muscle and sounds as disgusting as tripe, is actually quite tasty. It is collagen which turns into a melt-in-your-mouth gelatinous mass when slow-cooked and can be tolerated without much difficulty.
Anyways, the point of this exercize was to get to know tripe and tendon and explore the possibility of a long term relationship with these two folks. But as I mentioned, tripe and I turned out to be on totally different wavelengths. Tendon and I, well, we might have something going on. There was definitely some sexual chemistry happening in that bowl. We'll just have to wait and see.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The Steak Wars
The Subway is my friend. As has been documented extensively on this blog, it is pretty much my only source of animal protein within a two mile radius and that is about equal to the length of my work leash. Anything farther than two miles and it tugs hard on my neck and like in the movies, the car moves ahead without me and I fly out through the rear windshield and fall on the road and you can hear the theater audience laugh it up.
So anyways, the Subway is my best friend forever, or as the kids call it nowadays, my BFF. Now I am a huge steak fan. And Subway used to have this sandwich called the "Steak and Cheese" sub. It cost about five and a half bucks, which was quite reasonable for a blue-collar worker such as I. Then, Quizno's, who is Subway's main challenger in this part of the world, discovered the wonders of television advertising and they began to air these commercials where people would hold a subway and a Quizno's sandwich side by side and scoff derisively at the Subway. Prominently featured was the steak and cheese sub which looked somewhat anemic when juxtaposed with the Quizno's beefier steak sandwich. The final straw that broke Subway's back was a commercial that featured an Oriental woman who rejected a subway sandwich, saying, "I'm a woman, I like my meat" or something to that effect. Now, anyone who's been rejected by an Oriental woman who claims that your meat cannot satisfy her, knows that this can cause all your cell membranes to spontaneously dissolve into a pool of protoplasm and all that is left inside you is a burning pain somewhat like the one you experience during a urinary tract infection. Also, it makes you want to increase the size of your meat in a hope that perhaps this new and improved meat will be better worth a woman's while.
So that is what Subway did. They discarded their older thin sliced steak and cheese sandwich and came up with a brand new one with a thicker cut of steak. And since they were now supplying the world with more meat, they obviously had to raise the price of this sandwich to six and a half bucks. Honestly, I didn't need more meat. I was okay with the previous meat. But hey, if it had to be so, then I guess it would be so. And the new sandwich was a hit. The women quit complaining about inadequate meat and all was right in Subway's world.
So then, Quizno's had to step right back in because it is common knowledge that if you and the other guy have the same size meat, the woman's gonna go to the one who buys her more clothes and takes her to Paris. So Quizno's now began to advertise a novel new sandwich called the "Prime Rib Sandwich with Au Jus". Oh those women. Just can't resist anything on the menu with a French accent. So they went back to Quizno's. Subway was aghast. And you know why? Because the thick cut sandwich Subway had just introduced that they were calling a "steak and cheese", was in fact, to be medically accurate, a prime rib sandwich in the first place. But hey, what the eff, mistakes can be rectified.
So overnight, the Subway "steak and cheese" miraculously turned into a "Prime Rib" sandwich. Praise the Lord!
But sadly, these developments did not have the intended effect on women that Subway had hoped they would. Women continued to stay away. Subway had become a Johnny come lately and women want no part of a Johnny come lately. Late yes, lately no.
So then Subway retired to his parents' basement to ponder over the intricate workings of the feminine mind and to come up with a plan of attack for wooing them over. Summer turned into fall and then winter. Finally, when the first water of Spring broke, it saw a disheveled Subway emerging from his underground cave with a notepad in his hand. "I have it", he exclaimed. "But let me first relieve my bladder".
I was excited to see what Subway had come up with. For, like women, I like my meat too and because of the leash and everything, whatever Subway does has a huge impact on my life. On the day Subway was to reveal the grand new sandwich, I drove to the place wondering what it would be. An ostrich burger with kangaroo bacon and tiger penis mayo? That sounded delicious.
As I walked up to the Subway, I saw a big sign on the door. Beginning today, Subway was offering "The Big Philly Cheesesteak" piled high with meat and cheese. Yes, regionalism, that might possibly work with the fairer sex. The boy next door approach, eh? Wouldn't hurt to try. Also, as a side note, the "Big Philly Cheesesteak" sandwich was so big, so monstrously huge that Subway had been forced to set its price at eight and a half American dollars. That's how gigantic this sandwich was. "Boy oh boy", I said to myself, "if it costs twice as much as the amount I am legally allowed to spend on my lunch everyday, this has GOT to be the most breathtaking sandwich ever".
And it was tasty, let there be no doubts about that. But as I was hammering away at it, I couldn't help but shake off the vague feeling that I knew this sandwich from before. But how could I? I had never ever seen a "Big Philly Cheesesteak" on the menu before. Perhaps from a previous life? "Nah, I must be mistaken", I said, as I wiped my mouth with my shirt sleeve and got up to leave. And then, just as I was releasing the door handle, it hit me. I knew where I had seen that sandwich before. In this very place. It was the original "Steak and Cheese" sandwich that Subway had withdrawn from service after having been accused of meat deficiency. The very same five and a half dollar sandwich. Now selling for eight and a half bucks. And being touted as "Big".
So what is the moral of the story? The moral of the story is Women! They drive the country's economy. I will be the first one to admit that. They are the reason malls, department stores, shopping carts and penis enlargers were invented and we should all be grateful for that. But they are also the reason why the fucking corporations can charge whatever ridiculous amount of money they want for anything and get the fuck away with it.
The Steak Wars are a testament to it.
So anyways, the Subway is my best friend forever, or as the kids call it nowadays, my BFF. Now I am a huge steak fan. And Subway used to have this sandwich called the "Steak and Cheese" sub. It cost about five and a half bucks, which was quite reasonable for a blue-collar worker such as I. Then, Quizno's, who is Subway's main challenger in this part of the world, discovered the wonders of television advertising and they began to air these commercials where people would hold a subway and a Quizno's sandwich side by side and scoff derisively at the Subway. Prominently featured was the steak and cheese sub which looked somewhat anemic when juxtaposed with the Quizno's beefier steak sandwich. The final straw that broke Subway's back was a commercial that featured an Oriental woman who rejected a subway sandwich, saying, "I'm a woman, I like my meat" or something to that effect. Now, anyone who's been rejected by an Oriental woman who claims that your meat cannot satisfy her, knows that this can cause all your cell membranes to spontaneously dissolve into a pool of protoplasm and all that is left inside you is a burning pain somewhat like the one you experience during a urinary tract infection. Also, it makes you want to increase the size of your meat in a hope that perhaps this new and improved meat will be better worth a woman's while.
So that is what Subway did. They discarded their older thin sliced steak and cheese sandwich and came up with a brand new one with a thicker cut of steak. And since they were now supplying the world with more meat, they obviously had to raise the price of this sandwich to six and a half bucks. Honestly, I didn't need more meat. I was okay with the previous meat. But hey, if it had to be so, then I guess it would be so. And the new sandwich was a hit. The women quit complaining about inadequate meat and all was right in Subway's world.
So then, Quizno's had to step right back in because it is common knowledge that if you and the other guy have the same size meat, the woman's gonna go to the one who buys her more clothes and takes her to Paris. So Quizno's now began to advertise a novel new sandwich called the "Prime Rib Sandwich with Au Jus". Oh those women. Just can't resist anything on the menu with a French accent. So they went back to Quizno's. Subway was aghast. And you know why? Because the thick cut sandwich Subway had just introduced that they were calling a "steak and cheese", was in fact, to be medically accurate, a prime rib sandwich in the first place. But hey, what the eff, mistakes can be rectified.
So overnight, the Subway "steak and cheese" miraculously turned into a "Prime Rib" sandwich. Praise the Lord!
But sadly, these developments did not have the intended effect on women that Subway had hoped they would. Women continued to stay away. Subway had become a Johnny come lately and women want no part of a Johnny come lately. Late yes, lately no.
So then Subway retired to his parents' basement to ponder over the intricate workings of the feminine mind and to come up with a plan of attack for wooing them over. Summer turned into fall and then winter. Finally, when the first water of Spring broke, it saw a disheveled Subway emerging from his underground cave with a notepad in his hand. "I have it", he exclaimed. "But let me first relieve my bladder".
I was excited to see what Subway had come up with. For, like women, I like my meat too and because of the leash and everything, whatever Subway does has a huge impact on my life. On the day Subway was to reveal the grand new sandwich, I drove to the place wondering what it would be. An ostrich burger with kangaroo bacon and tiger penis mayo? That sounded delicious.
As I walked up to the Subway, I saw a big sign on the door. Beginning today, Subway was offering "The Big Philly Cheesesteak" piled high with meat and cheese. Yes, regionalism, that might possibly work with the fairer sex. The boy next door approach, eh? Wouldn't hurt to try. Also, as a side note, the "Big Philly Cheesesteak" sandwich was so big, so monstrously huge that Subway had been forced to set its price at eight and a half American dollars. That's how gigantic this sandwich was. "Boy oh boy", I said to myself, "if it costs twice as much as the amount I am legally allowed to spend on my lunch everyday, this has GOT to be the most breathtaking sandwich ever".
And it was tasty, let there be no doubts about that. But as I was hammering away at it, I couldn't help but shake off the vague feeling that I knew this sandwich from before. But how could I? I had never ever seen a "Big Philly Cheesesteak" on the menu before. Perhaps from a previous life? "Nah, I must be mistaken", I said, as I wiped my mouth with my shirt sleeve and got up to leave. And then, just as I was releasing the door handle, it hit me. I knew where I had seen that sandwich before. In this very place. It was the original "Steak and Cheese" sandwich that Subway had withdrawn from service after having been accused of meat deficiency. The very same five and a half dollar sandwich. Now selling for eight and a half bucks. And being touted as "Big".
So what is the moral of the story? The moral of the story is Women! They drive the country's economy. I will be the first one to admit that. They are the reason malls, department stores, shopping carts and penis enlargers were invented and we should all be grateful for that. But they are also the reason why the fucking corporations can charge whatever ridiculous amount of money they want for anything and get the fuck away with it.
The Steak Wars are a testament to it.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Koko
It had been a long saturday. What with the monster rainstorm and the creek graduating to raging river status and lapping at my basement door and the roof starting to leak and then the windows joining the club and me doing a balancing act on my roof beams, trying to find the source of the leak in my attic amidst a garden of shredded cotton and glass wool insulation and then my neighbor's heavy glass patio table with umbrella, blowing clean across his deck and almost onto my deck but narrowly missing it and instead crashing down onto my lawn and breaking into a million shards and my flower pots flying off my deck and deflowering my patio and the DirecTV guy climbing onto my roof and fixing my Indian programming satellite dish and five minutes after his departure, the wind blowing the dish back into a state of inoperability and then, to cap it all, my inability, for the second consecutive day, to kill a single fucking terrorist on my new PS3, I was in no mood to cook. So I decided to go to the Korean barbecue joint I had been thinking of visiting for a long time.
"Bring your own bottle", the sign on the door said. The only bottle I had was an empty bottle of windshield washer fluid. Fortunately, there was a beer store next door. I parked in the 2 hour "customer only" parking next to the restaurant and tolerating a dirty look from the Korean-American waiter standing smoking outside, walked next door. I knew I would be back before the waiter called Seoul and got someone to tow my car. I purchased a case of Stella Artois beer. I have a message for the makers of Stella Artois. Get rid of the Artois, man. People usually only ask for a Stella. The Artois portion is suffering from severe disuse. But Artois is a nice word, lets not waste it. Why don't you come out with a new beer or a brand of mens undergarments and call it Artois. Artwa.
As I walked into the Korean barbecue joint, I was overwhelmed by the smell. It was a nice smell. Most of it was garlic, some of it was onion and the rest was whatever Koreans eat. It was a nice smell and it helped me forget my sorrows and made me hungry. The place was full of Koreans and only Koreans. Most of the diners were seated with big steel vessels in front of them. I decided that I also wanted to eat whatever was in those steel vessels.
They gave me a seat and a menu. It was written in Korean and translated into English. Most of the words translated into English did not light my tube. But I saw the word beef here and there. I know beef. It is cow meat and I like how it tastes. So I called the waitress and asked for "seasoned beef ribs". Instead of saying "Excuse me" and waiting for me to repeat "seasoned beef ribs" in my horrible Indian accent, the Korean waitress immediately opened the menu and said, "Show". Here, this is what I want, I said, pointing to "Seasoned beef ribs". Wokay, only one? she asked. I looked around and finding only me, said yes, wonly one.
There were two strange looking bottles on my table. I picked up the tall bottle, hoping to find out what was inside it. The explanation on the bottle said in these very words, "The seasoning in this sauce bottle will give you a delicious taste of food". I picked up the second bottle. It had the same explanation. I decided not to taste whatever was in those bottles. I did not want those bottles merely giving me a feeling that the food was delicious instead of actually making the food delicious.
Before bringing out my seasoned beef ribs, the waitress brought out 6 dishes of what looked like random accompaniment and laid them out in front of me. I inspected them with a critical eye. I could recognize a few of them. This was clearly sauted bok choy in garlic. That was kimchee for sure. This here looked like some sort of seasoned rice noodles with mushrooms. And that one over there looked like raw shredded cabbage salad with thousand island dressing. But I didn't know what that red stuff was and holy shit, that stuff over there actually looked like...could it be...?
"What is this", I asked the waitress, showing all signs of being extremely turned on. Please God, let it be fried pig's stomach, I prayed. "Seaweed", said the waitress brightly, drowning my dreams in a bathtub. Okay, I said sadly, thank you. I started belting the food. The dried seaweed was actually quite tasty. If some American megacorporation were to produce and market it through a multi-billion dollar ad campaign, I would surely buy it.
A few minutes later, my beef ribs arrived. Sadly, they turned out not to be the stuff in the steel vessel as I had hoped. Also, they did not look like ribs. In my expert opinion,the dish looked like a plate of thinly sliced beef rib-eye sauted with mushrooms and scallions. Basically, it was Philly steak without the cheese. Hell, good enough for me. I grabbed my chopsticks and prepared for battle.
"Do you need a fuck?" said the waitress, with concern in her eyes.
"What?" I said.
"A fuck. Do you need it?"
"No, thanks, I am okay", I replied.
What the fork man, why would she assume that I could not handle a chopstick? To me, it seemed like racial stereotyping. I was still steaming as I began to eat, holding my chopsticks upside down.
The beef was tasty. Not spicy. A bit sweet. But tasty. It tasted Korean. I liked it. I would definitely come here again. I polished off five of the six bowls of random accompaniment and then I polished off the beef. I was content. In between, the owner came by to ask me how I was doing. Fortunately, he did not tell me about his Indian friend like an American would have.
As I walked out of the restaurant, I walked into a group of Korean guys hanging out with a lone American guy. The Koreans were all speaking in Korean. It reminded me of my UMass days when I was the only Marathi guy hanging out with a bunch of Tamilians, trying to make sense of what the fuck they were saying.
That was when I knew what it meant to be American.
"Bring your own bottle", the sign on the door said. The only bottle I had was an empty bottle of windshield washer fluid. Fortunately, there was a beer store next door. I parked in the 2 hour "customer only" parking next to the restaurant and tolerating a dirty look from the Korean-American waiter standing smoking outside, walked next door. I knew I would be back before the waiter called Seoul and got someone to tow my car. I purchased a case of Stella Artois beer. I have a message for the makers of Stella Artois. Get rid of the Artois, man. People usually only ask for a Stella. The Artois portion is suffering from severe disuse. But Artois is a nice word, lets not waste it. Why don't you come out with a new beer or a brand of mens undergarments and call it Artois. Artwa.
As I walked into the Korean barbecue joint, I was overwhelmed by the smell. It was a nice smell. Most of it was garlic, some of it was onion and the rest was whatever Koreans eat. It was a nice smell and it helped me forget my sorrows and made me hungry. The place was full of Koreans and only Koreans. Most of the diners were seated with big steel vessels in front of them. I decided that I also wanted to eat whatever was in those steel vessels.
They gave me a seat and a menu. It was written in Korean and translated into English. Most of the words translated into English did not light my tube. But I saw the word beef here and there. I know beef. It is cow meat and I like how it tastes. So I called the waitress and asked for "seasoned beef ribs". Instead of saying "Excuse me" and waiting for me to repeat "seasoned beef ribs" in my horrible Indian accent, the Korean waitress immediately opened the menu and said, "Show". Here, this is what I want, I said, pointing to "Seasoned beef ribs". Wokay, only one? she asked. I looked around and finding only me, said yes, wonly one.
There were two strange looking bottles on my table. I picked up the tall bottle, hoping to find out what was inside it. The explanation on the bottle said in these very words, "The seasoning in this sauce bottle will give you a delicious taste of food". I picked up the second bottle. It had the same explanation. I decided not to taste whatever was in those bottles. I did not want those bottles merely giving me a feeling that the food was delicious instead of actually making the food delicious.
Before bringing out my seasoned beef ribs, the waitress brought out 6 dishes of what looked like random accompaniment and laid them out in front of me. I inspected them with a critical eye. I could recognize a few of them. This was clearly sauted bok choy in garlic. That was kimchee for sure. This here looked like some sort of seasoned rice noodles with mushrooms. And that one over there looked like raw shredded cabbage salad with thousand island dressing. But I didn't know what that red stuff was and holy shit, that stuff over there actually looked like...could it be...?
"What is this", I asked the waitress, showing all signs of being extremely turned on. Please God, let it be fried pig's stomach, I prayed. "Seaweed", said the waitress brightly, drowning my dreams in a bathtub. Okay, I said sadly, thank you. I started belting the food. The dried seaweed was actually quite tasty. If some American megacorporation were to produce and market it through a multi-billion dollar ad campaign, I would surely buy it.
A few minutes later, my beef ribs arrived. Sadly, they turned out not to be the stuff in the steel vessel as I had hoped. Also, they did not look like ribs. In my expert opinion,the dish looked like a plate of thinly sliced beef rib-eye sauted with mushrooms and scallions. Basically, it was Philly steak without the cheese. Hell, good enough for me. I grabbed my chopsticks and prepared for battle.
"Do you need a fuck?" said the waitress, with concern in her eyes.
"What?" I said.
"A fuck. Do you need it?"
"No, thanks, I am okay", I replied.
What the fork man, why would she assume that I could not handle a chopstick? To me, it seemed like racial stereotyping. I was still steaming as I began to eat, holding my chopsticks upside down.
The beef was tasty. Not spicy. A bit sweet. But tasty. It tasted Korean. I liked it. I would definitely come here again. I polished off five of the six bowls of random accompaniment and then I polished off the beef. I was content. In between, the owner came by to ask me how I was doing. Fortunately, he did not tell me about his Indian friend like an American would have.
As I walked out of the restaurant, I walked into a group of Korean guys hanging out with a lone American guy. The Koreans were all speaking in Korean. It reminded me of my UMass days when I was the only Marathi guy hanging out with a bunch of Tamilians, trying to make sense of what the fuck they were saying.
That was when I knew what it meant to be American.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Roo
I went to this bar today, the Silver Ostrich Pub, just to see what people looked like since I haven't seen people for a while. I was just gonna get a beer and fuck off since the Weather Channel told me that everything that was made of water was supposedly going to turn into ice by 10:00 pm including the road and the rodentia. So I quickly ordered a beer and they asked me, Sir, do you need a menu, and I said sure, because, hey why not look at the menu while I was drinking. So I looked at the menu for a while and the waitress came over and asked me if I was ready to order and I was about to say no, I did not wish for food, but that is when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw this phrase on the menu that said, "Sauted Kangaroo in Dijon sauce" and I said to myself, listen Mac, let's be honest, with your fast fading age and the relatively low life expectancy of people who drink and drive on PA highway 309, do you really think you're gonna find yourself down under at any point in the future?
And predictably, the answer was no. So, I grabbed this opportunity to taste the roo. Yes yes, I am ready to order, said I, I want the roo, the roo with the dijon. However, I have a question : Is this actually the roo or just imitation roo, you know, like the flesh of the muskrat infused with roo pheromones? No, I was assured, it was indeed authentic roo. Bring it on, I said. Let us feast.
Eventually the roo came out smothered in brown dijon and shredded lettuce. I severed one of the roo pieces with the aid of a steak knife that I was provided and hauled into it. Let me say this right off the bat. The roo did not guide me to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The roo was okay. It was deftly cooked and was bereft of gut and gristle. However, that was the only kind thing that could be said about it. It had a gamy fishy taste that was more smell than taste. Perhaps it was the culinary crew of the Silver Ostrich pub that was more to blame than the deliciousness of the roo. But basically what I am saying is this : If you have a choice between tasting the roo on PA 309 or traveling to Australia, please choose the latter. I am sure the roo is tastier down under.
And predictably, the answer was no. So, I grabbed this opportunity to taste the roo. Yes yes, I am ready to order, said I, I want the roo, the roo with the dijon. However, I have a question : Is this actually the roo or just imitation roo, you know, like the flesh of the muskrat infused with roo pheromones? No, I was assured, it was indeed authentic roo. Bring it on, I said. Let us feast.
Eventually the roo came out smothered in brown dijon and shredded lettuce. I severed one of the roo pieces with the aid of a steak knife that I was provided and hauled into it. Let me say this right off the bat. The roo did not guide me to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The roo was okay. It was deftly cooked and was bereft of gut and gristle. However, that was the only kind thing that could be said about it. It had a gamy fishy taste that was more smell than taste. Perhaps it was the culinary crew of the Silver Ostrich pub that was more to blame than the deliciousness of the roo. But basically what I am saying is this : If you have a choice between tasting the roo on PA 309 or traveling to Australia, please choose the latter. I am sure the roo is tastier down under.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Lunar dried shrimp noodles with oyster mushrooms eclipse
Today at 8:45 pm, I went outside on my deck. I was afraid it would be cloudy, but it wasn't. I bundled up in my UMass jacket, the only thing that can keep me warm at the bottom of the ocean. I took plastic garbage bags with me because it had rained. I placed those garbage bags carefully on my deck chair. I took a bottle of Smirnoff vodka to accompany me because it was cold. I made myself comfortable. I cleaned my binoculars, adjusted their focus and called up zambezi to find out if he was also on his deck. Oh I forgot, he doesn't have a deck haha. Zambezi didn't answer the phone. He probably has caller ID. I sat on my chair and waited. The moon was bright and full.
At 9:00 pm, the moon was still bright and full. I went inside and logged on to my computer. I reread this blogpost. Alright, it was on Wednesday and not tonight. So, instead of stabbing myself in the chest with the vodka bottle, I went and cooked dinner. I made dried shrimp and oyster mushroom noodles.
Ingredients:
1/2 bag of dried shrimp
1 pack of oyster mushrooms
Chinese chilli paste, 2 tablespoons
4 green chillies
1 pack of one minute Chinese egg noodles
1 cup chopped cilantro
2 cups chopped scallions, hold the rap
1/2 cup soy sauce
1 tablespoon sesame oil
2 cloves garlic
Heat a cup of water in the microwave till it boils. Pour it in a bowl. Add dried shrimp to the bowl. Soak for ten minutes.
Put some water on the boil in a pasta pot. Let's say 4 cups. Let's also say that I am probably guessing because who the hell measures water?
Chop garlic. Chop scallions. Chop cilantro. Chop green chillies. Quick. Chop chop.
Heat sesame oil in a wok on medium heat. Try to keep yourself from repeating the word "wok" just because you are intrigued by how it sounds.
Add garlic, one cup of scallions, oyster mushrooms, green chillies to the oil. Stir fry for a couple of minutes. Add dried shrimp. Stir fry for about 5 more minutes, give or take 10.
Add soy sauce and two tablespoons of red chilli paste. Stir it into the mix.
If the pasta pot is boiling, pour Chinese noodles into it. Wait for a couple of minutes, then drain them. Pour them into the wok.
Stir everything together so intimately that the mushrooms and shrimp have a baby with the noodles and call it Ling. Top everything off with the remaining cup of scallions and cilantro.
Delicious noodles for two are ready for consumption by one because it is only me here. Enjoy with Tsingtao beer.
Watch the eclipse on Wednesday.
At 9:00 pm, the moon was still bright and full. I went inside and logged on to my computer. I reread this blogpost. Alright, it was on Wednesday and not tonight. So, instead of stabbing myself in the chest with the vodka bottle, I went and cooked dinner. I made dried shrimp and oyster mushroom noodles.
Ingredients:
1/2 bag of dried shrimp
1 pack of oyster mushrooms
Chinese chilli paste, 2 tablespoons
4 green chillies
1 pack of one minute Chinese egg noodles
1 cup chopped cilantro
2 cups chopped scallions, hold the rap
1/2 cup soy sauce
1 tablespoon sesame oil
2 cloves garlic
Heat a cup of water in the microwave till it boils. Pour it in a bowl. Add dried shrimp to the bowl. Soak for ten minutes.
Put some water on the boil in a pasta pot. Let's say 4 cups. Let's also say that I am probably guessing because who the hell measures water?
Chop garlic. Chop scallions. Chop cilantro. Chop green chillies. Quick. Chop chop.
Heat sesame oil in a wok on medium heat. Try to keep yourself from repeating the word "wok" just because you are intrigued by how it sounds.
Add garlic, one cup of scallions, oyster mushrooms, green chillies to the oil. Stir fry for a couple of minutes. Add dried shrimp. Stir fry for about 5 more minutes, give or take 10.
Add soy sauce and two tablespoons of red chilli paste. Stir it into the mix.
If the pasta pot is boiling, pour Chinese noodles into it. Wait for a couple of minutes, then drain them. Pour them into the wok.
Stir everything together so intimately that the mushrooms and shrimp have a baby with the noodles and call it Ling. Top everything off with the remaining cup of scallions and cilantro.
Delicious noodles for two are ready for consumption by one because it is only me here. Enjoy with Tsingtao beer.
Watch the eclipse on Wednesday.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Cutting down
On the occasion of Earth Day which was celebrated some time in the past few weeks I don't exactly recall when, I decided to be less of a parasite on the earth and its fragile planetary ecosystem. Towards that end, I decided to consume less non-biodegradable stuff. For starters, I am cutting back on plastic usage. The very first item on the agenda whose usage I decided to cut back on was plastic forks and spoons. Why I use plastic forks and spoons in the first place is a fair question. It is because in my household, we only run the dishwasher once a week. This was done to curtail the consumption of manual labor, also a non-biodegradable and non-renewable resource.
But as a result, every week, we used to find ourselves facing a severe shortage of silverware. That brought about the need for an alternative, namely, plasticware. But not any more. There was a moment in my life yesterday when I looked at the plastic spoon in my hand and bending down on one knee, said to it, "You are the one I will be spending the rest of my life with". And then I kissed it deliciously because it was covered in gravy, with the kitchen faucet presiding over our holy union, shedding tap water of joy. There comes a time in every man's life when he gets tired of eating around with every piece of cutlery he takes a fancy to and for me, this time was that time.
So now this spoon will remain on my person at all times and I have decided that I will use it repeatedly for every culinary assignment or emergency. Why plastic, why not a metal spoon? Again, a fair question. This is because most delicately structured external human organs are built to withstand puncturous pokings from plastic but not from metal. And since plastic requires a thousand years to degrade (a nice round number, thank you Mr Inventor), every plastic spoon I do not discard into the trash from now on will add a thousand more years to the life of my earth. And if you take into account all the times I eat pickles out of a jar with a spoon when I have little else to do, that is some solid anti-aging cream for the planet.
As far as I can see, the only major obstacle to my plan is Chinese take-out food. I am deeply fond of my Chinese brothers and sisters and I am a devoted disciple of St. MSG but sadly, I have to admit that I have found them to be quite indiscriminate in their use of plastic cutlery which they ruthlessly force upon all their clientèle along with the duck sauce which doesn't taste anything like duck. So every time I order Chinese food for take-out, I have to remember to check the package for any plasticware and give it back. Because if I specifically ask them not to add it to the package while ordering, they show an inordinate amount of surprise at my request for me to repeat it without feeling stupid.
Secondly, I have also begun to do volunteer work at the neighbourhood recycling bin and garbage dump. Sometimes when I am going through people's unshredded documents in the recycled paper container, I find that someone has mixed plastic cans along with the paper, yes I said plastic cans, can't you people fucking read, it clearly says "Paper Only" on the cover. Nevertheless, I do my part and remove these cans and restore them to the correct recycling bin. But I know who you are pal, I have your bank statement right here. Two more strikes and you will be getting yourself a new credit card with 0 % APR for the first six months, 14 % after that, and you will NOT have read the fine print.
Just take a few seconds and read what it says on the goddamn container, won't you?
But as a result, every week, we used to find ourselves facing a severe shortage of silverware. That brought about the need for an alternative, namely, plasticware. But not any more. There was a moment in my life yesterday when I looked at the plastic spoon in my hand and bending down on one knee, said to it, "You are the one I will be spending the rest of my life with". And then I kissed it deliciously because it was covered in gravy, with the kitchen faucet presiding over our holy union, shedding tap water of joy. There comes a time in every man's life when he gets tired of eating around with every piece of cutlery he takes a fancy to and for me, this time was that time.
So now this spoon will remain on my person at all times and I have decided that I will use it repeatedly for every culinary assignment or emergency. Why plastic, why not a metal spoon? Again, a fair question. This is because most delicately structured external human organs are built to withstand puncturous pokings from plastic but not from metal. And since plastic requires a thousand years to degrade (a nice round number, thank you Mr Inventor), every plastic spoon I do not discard into the trash from now on will add a thousand more years to the life of my earth. And if you take into account all the times I eat pickles out of a jar with a spoon when I have little else to do, that is some solid anti-aging cream for the planet.
As far as I can see, the only major obstacle to my plan is Chinese take-out food. I am deeply fond of my Chinese brothers and sisters and I am a devoted disciple of St. MSG but sadly, I have to admit that I have found them to be quite indiscriminate in their use of plastic cutlery which they ruthlessly force upon all their clientèle along with the duck sauce which doesn't taste anything like duck. So every time I order Chinese food for take-out, I have to remember to check the package for any plasticware and give it back. Because if I specifically ask them not to add it to the package while ordering, they show an inordinate amount of surprise at my request for me to repeat it without feeling stupid.
Secondly, I have also begun to do volunteer work at the neighbourhood recycling bin and garbage dump. Sometimes when I am going through people's unshredded documents in the recycled paper container, I find that someone has mixed plastic cans along with the paper, yes I said plastic cans, can't you people fucking read, it clearly says "Paper Only" on the cover. Nevertheless, I do my part and remove these cans and restore them to the correct recycling bin. But I know who you are pal, I have your bank statement right here. Two more strikes and you will be getting yourself a new credit card with 0 % APR for the first six months, 14 % after that, and you will NOT have read the fine print.
Just take a few seconds and read what it says on the goddamn container, won't you?
Friday, January 05, 2007
Messy Eaters
There is a bar in downtown Philly I visited last Sunday, called "Chickie's and Pete's", that boasts of having "a washbasin in the center of the room for messy eaters". I don't see any benefit in having such a washbasin for messy eaters. And my opinion on this topic was vindicated by the fact that during my entire time there, I did not see a single messy eater avail himself of this opportunity to wash himself up at this basin. After all, if someone were a messy eater, would this person actually get up from his table and use that washbasin, in the process, broadcasting to the world his inability to transfer food safely from the plate to the mouth? I think not.
Or for that matter, if a bar proudly advertised itself as having "special window seats for people with a flatulence problem", would you openly patronize these flatulent-friendly seats?
Actually I'm not so sure, knowing you, you probably would, if you were really gassy.
Or for that matter, if a bar proudly advertised itself as having "special window seats for people with a flatulence problem", would you openly patronize these flatulent-friendly seats?
Actually I'm not so sure, knowing you, you probably would, if you were really gassy.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Sal & Carvao
Now would be a good time for me to talk about Sal & Carvao because it's that special period right before Thanksgiving and Christmas when people make their travel plans and this is where I would like you to go this holiday season. Sal & Carvao is a Brazilian "churrascaria", or what Americans would call a "steakhouse". It is a Chicago-based purveyor of gastronomical delights. The Sal stands for salt, Carvao stands for charcoal and the "&" stands for "&cute Indigestion". It's funny how the Brazilian language works. Or Portuguese, if you are one of those insufferable pricks who immediately began scribbling a comment criticizing my knowledge of world geography.
As you enter the restaurant, the first thing you observe is a glass enclosure with a real fire burning inside and a slab of unidentifiable meat dangling over it and melting fat falling onto the flames. About the ambience, yes, the place is very ambient. It is also very Brazilian with elongated pieces of Brazil hanging off the walls and fuck it, I have no clue about the ambience of the place. I did not notice my surroundings. I was there for the food. And that was all I was interested in.
This is how it works. First you go to the salad bar and load up with the greens. You may grab unlimited amounts of the stuff. A word of advice, do not do that. You will realize why as the story progresses. After you have raided the salad bar, it is time for the main course. The main course consists of meat and lots of meat. Fifteen different types of meat, to be exact. Just like the salad bar, one's consumption of the stuff is limited merely by one's willpower and strength of character.
Now I realize that there are vegetarians among you who, at this very moment, are waving your lettuces and turnip greens at me and going hello gawker, I am not interested in listening to your stories about all this meat nonsense. Please, leaf eater, I hate to do this, but just for today, why don't you point your mouse at the "next blog" button in the top left corner, 'cause I've got to get this off my chest. But hey, come back tomorrow. I will be done with my meat story by then.
But returning to the scene unfolding back in the churrascaria, this is what happens during the main course : Servers come around to your table at regular intervals and ask you whether you wish to partake of the slab of meat that happens to be present on their person at that particular moment. If you reply in the affirmative, they slice off a portion onto your plate. Then they move on and more servers arrive to take their place, carrying even more meat of a different variety.
And oh, what variety. Flank steak. Filet Mignon. Pork tenderloin. Monk fish. Not lungfish, by the way, and I am talking to you, jackass colleague, who kept yelling at the lungfish guy to come over. Chicken legs. Garlic Steak. Beef Ribs. Sirloin. Rump Steak. Sausage. Lamb chops. Baby back ribs. Salmon. I can't even fucking remember what the remaining two cuts were. All hot juicy, flavorful and all you can fucking eat, sorry Africa. Actually, the entire thing makes you feel like you're in the middle of a Roman orgy without all the nudity.
For every load of meat, the meat bearer simultaneously holds four different types of meat impaled on four different skewers depending on their doneness : rare, medium rare, medium and well done. You have to let the guy know how well you like your meat done and he slices from the correct skewer. Now for the million dollar question, when do you stop eating, if ever? Well, theoretically, you could eat all evening and through the night and into next morning because you are allowed to do that. But after a given point, the body begins to exhibit symptoms of what they call meat poisoning, also known in German as Fleischvergiftung, yeah I know, it seems incredible that such a thing actually exists, the most common symptom being a noticeable feeling of stomach fullness.
That is when you pick up the card resting on the table by your side, oh I forgot to tell you about the card, it is round and red on one side and green on the other, and when it rests green side up, servers continue to serve you meat, but once you are done eating either to take a bathroom break or to swallow the meat your mouth is already full of, you turn it and let it rest with the red side up. That is when the servers stop serving you. But please do not fool around with the card, yes obviously I thought it would be a good idea to, you know, keep it green and wait for the server to arrive and then turn it red just as he was about to open his mouth. Been there, done that, not funny.
A word of warning, though. Be prepared for a shock when they present you with the check. A 100 dollars apiece. Yes, now it makes sense, all that unlimited meat. Luckily when we entered the place we were not aware of the monetary implications involved and only came to know about them after the devouring had ended. I do not anticipate gaining access to the company credit card anytime in the near future. Or even the more distant future for that matter, the one where we will all be mere heads enclosed in hemispherical glass cases and supported by robotic spider bodies.
But hey, go there at least once during this lifetime if you are in Chicago. Downtown Chicago. I don't know exactly where, ask the goddamn Iraqi cab driver but please don't ask him how the food is because trust me, he hasn't eaten there and if you were fiscally responsible, neither would you. But don't listen to me, go there anyways.
As you enter the restaurant, the first thing you observe is a glass enclosure with a real fire burning inside and a slab of unidentifiable meat dangling over it and melting fat falling onto the flames. About the ambience, yes, the place is very ambient. It is also very Brazilian with elongated pieces of Brazil hanging off the walls and fuck it, I have no clue about the ambience of the place. I did not notice my surroundings. I was there for the food. And that was all I was interested in.
This is how it works. First you go to the salad bar and load up with the greens. You may grab unlimited amounts of the stuff. A word of advice, do not do that. You will realize why as the story progresses. After you have raided the salad bar, it is time for the main course. The main course consists of meat and lots of meat. Fifteen different types of meat, to be exact. Just like the salad bar, one's consumption of the stuff is limited merely by one's willpower and strength of character.
Now I realize that there are vegetarians among you who, at this very moment, are waving your lettuces and turnip greens at me and going hello gawker, I am not interested in listening to your stories about all this meat nonsense. Please, leaf eater, I hate to do this, but just for today, why don't you point your mouse at the "next blog" button in the top left corner, 'cause I've got to get this off my chest. But hey, come back tomorrow. I will be done with my meat story by then.
But returning to the scene unfolding back in the churrascaria, this is what happens during the main course : Servers come around to your table at regular intervals and ask you whether you wish to partake of the slab of meat that happens to be present on their person at that particular moment. If you reply in the affirmative, they slice off a portion onto your plate. Then they move on and more servers arrive to take their place, carrying even more meat of a different variety.
And oh, what variety. Flank steak. Filet Mignon. Pork tenderloin. Monk fish. Not lungfish, by the way, and I am talking to you, jackass colleague, who kept yelling at the lungfish guy to come over. Chicken legs. Garlic Steak. Beef Ribs. Sirloin. Rump Steak. Sausage. Lamb chops. Baby back ribs. Salmon. I can't even fucking remember what the remaining two cuts were. All hot juicy, flavorful and all you can fucking eat, sorry Africa. Actually, the entire thing makes you feel like you're in the middle of a Roman orgy without all the nudity.
For every load of meat, the meat bearer simultaneously holds four different types of meat impaled on four different skewers depending on their doneness : rare, medium rare, medium and well done. You have to let the guy know how well you like your meat done and he slices from the correct skewer. Now for the million dollar question, when do you stop eating, if ever? Well, theoretically, you could eat all evening and through the night and into next morning because you are allowed to do that. But after a given point, the body begins to exhibit symptoms of what they call meat poisoning, also known in German as Fleischvergiftung, yeah I know, it seems incredible that such a thing actually exists, the most common symptom being a noticeable feeling of stomach fullness.That is when you pick up the card resting on the table by your side, oh I forgot to tell you about the card, it is round and red on one side and green on the other, and when it rests green side up, servers continue to serve you meat, but once you are done eating either to take a bathroom break or to swallow the meat your mouth is already full of, you turn it and let it rest with the red side up. That is when the servers stop serving you. But please do not fool around with the card, yes obviously I thought it would be a good idea to, you know, keep it green and wait for the server to arrive and then turn it red just as he was about to open his mouth. Been there, done that, not funny.
A word of warning, though. Be prepared for a shock when they present you with the check. A 100 dollars apiece. Yes, now it makes sense, all that unlimited meat. Luckily when we entered the place we were not aware of the monetary implications involved and only came to know about them after the devouring had ended. I do not anticipate gaining access to the company credit card anytime in the near future. Or even the more distant future for that matter, the one where we will all be mere heads enclosed in hemispherical glass cases and supported by robotic spider bodies.
But hey, go there at least once during this lifetime if you are in Chicago. Downtown Chicago. I don't know exactly where, ask the goddamn Iraqi cab driver but please don't ask him how the food is because trust me, he hasn't eaten there and if you were fiscally responsible, neither would you. But don't listen to me, go there anyways.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Gas and pizza
Today gas prices miraculously dropped to below $3.00 a gallon, thus falling more than 30 cents below its peak price from a month ago. I do not know if we withdrew our troops from some oil-rich country we invaded or if we invaded an oil-rich country who was happy to be invaded or if an oil-rich country took pity on our gas prices and invaded us, but hello operator, please connect me to the White House so I can express my gratitude. Who knows, maybe Americans just got rid of their Chevys and started using Hondas instead.
Yesterday was scavengers day at the office. What happens is, every week we have our customers coming here to be trained on our software and along with educating them, we also feed them, clothe them and medicate their anal fissures just like Jesus and the Buddha ordered us to. Wednesday is pizza day when they order pizza for the customers being trained. Wednesdays I do not bring lunch money. What I do instead is, I wait for their lunch to get over and then I run over to the training room and scavenge the leftover pizza.
But word of free pizza spreads like herpes at a frat house party. So, there is stiff competition for the leftover slices from the rest of my office colleagues. If I am late, not only will I not get the choice slices topped with mushrooms, pepperoni, sausage and whale penis, if I am extraordinarily late, I might not even get to scavenge the plain cheese pizza.
The trick, therefore, is to recognize the exact moment when our customers are done with their lunch and then make like the wind. I have developed a technique. Most men, after consuming pizza and soda, withdraw to the restroom. Luckily, my cubicle is closest to the restroom. So, when I start to hear the dulcet sounds of rapid fire sequential flushes emanating from the restroom, I know that lunch has been consumed and soon the pizza will be unprotected and ready to be pillaged.
This technique has worked well for me in the past. However, during a few recent Wednesdays, I have been observing that the accuracy of restroom flushes as a measure of lunch culmination has been compromised, thus leading to a number of unimpressive pizza harvests for me. Upon further investigation, I concluded that one of my co-scavenging colleagues surreptitiously bribed the office pizza procurer into not procuring soda along with the pizza, which, as a result, greatly reduced the post-pizza restroom excursions of our customers, thus, foiling my elaborate plan.
Obviously I have been outmaneuvered for the time being. But my brain is now working overtime in order to figure out a Plan B. Free pizza, as they say, is the mother of all invention.
Yesterday was scavengers day at the office. What happens is, every week we have our customers coming here to be trained on our software and along with educating them, we also feed them, clothe them and medicate their anal fissures just like Jesus and the Buddha ordered us to. Wednesday is pizza day when they order pizza for the customers being trained. Wednesdays I do not bring lunch money. What I do instead is, I wait for their lunch to get over and then I run over to the training room and scavenge the leftover pizza.
But word of free pizza spreads like herpes at a frat house party. So, there is stiff competition for the leftover slices from the rest of my office colleagues. If I am late, not only will I not get the choice slices topped with mushrooms, pepperoni, sausage and whale penis, if I am extraordinarily late, I might not even get to scavenge the plain cheese pizza.
The trick, therefore, is to recognize the exact moment when our customers are done with their lunch and then make like the wind. I have developed a technique. Most men, after consuming pizza and soda, withdraw to the restroom. Luckily, my cubicle is closest to the restroom. So, when I start to hear the dulcet sounds of rapid fire sequential flushes emanating from the restroom, I know that lunch has been consumed and soon the pizza will be unprotected and ready to be pillaged.
This technique has worked well for me in the past. However, during a few recent Wednesdays, I have been observing that the accuracy of restroom flushes as a measure of lunch culmination has been compromised, thus leading to a number of unimpressive pizza harvests for me. Upon further investigation, I concluded that one of my co-scavenging colleagues surreptitiously bribed the office pizza procurer into not procuring soda along with the pizza, which, as a result, greatly reduced the post-pizza restroom excursions of our customers, thus, foiling my elaborate plan.
Obviously I have been outmaneuvered for the time being. But my brain is now working overtime in order to figure out a Plan B. Free pizza, as they say, is the mother of all invention.
Friday, July 28, 2006
This and that
I just saw that someone from NASA reached this blog after having googled for "dal shortage". It gets me kinda worried because if NASA rocket scientists are clueless on how to tackle this problem, having resorted to googling for a solution, we might as well look forward to changing our lifestyle to one that does not involve consumption of dal, perhaps even taking to cannibalism (no mother, I wasn't just looking for an excuse to eat people).
On the other hand, it might just have been a NASA janitor surfing the web. Maybe NASA should put these janitors to work growing some dal instead of frittering away their time surfing the web. Mmmm fritters. Good bye till march, fritters, I will miss you.
Oh, and my neighbourhood Indian restaurant owner had absolutely no idea of the dal famine currently descending upon the pressure cookers of the world. I told him the breaking news and he was all like "No you lie, you lying liar", and I was like "Man my blogpost on this issue got linked at desipundit and all, where have you been, you should get someone to periodically turn the rock you are living under". And then, just to prove my point, I took out the packet of dal I now keep in my shirt pocket for emergencies, carefully withdrew a handful and threw it in the air. And all the Indian diners leapt up from their tables, and as they clawed around on the floor, trying to grab those precious seeds and stuff 'em inside their pockets, I saw the man turn sheet white, an amazing feat for him because he has a kind of "wheatish complexion", to quote his shaadi.com profile. But sadly, I am not sure if his place will survive the calamity. I hope it does because that place has the best Indian food.
Secondly, I don't know if you've already seen this but Israel will be defended by Captain Birdbrain and his band of yogic-flying superheroes who, coincidentally, I just wrote about a few days ago. That is all. I am sorry if you expected much more.
Thirdly, I have been linked to by the kind people at gilli.in. Thank you for the traffic. I remember when I was in graduate school I was exposed to a lot of gilli this and gilli that in the company of my Tamil friends but I never quite came to know what the word meant. Most of the time it played out in the form of Tamfriend1 saying something to Tamfriend2 and Tamfriend2 with a look of exasperation, saying "gilli" as if to say "c'mon now, how could you even say that". However, I might have been mistaken, it could have been a different but similar sounding word.
On the other hand, it might just have been a NASA janitor surfing the web. Maybe NASA should put these janitors to work growing some dal instead of frittering away their time surfing the web. Mmmm fritters. Good bye till march, fritters, I will miss you.
Oh, and my neighbourhood Indian restaurant owner had absolutely no idea of the dal famine currently descending upon the pressure cookers of the world. I told him the breaking news and he was all like "No you lie, you lying liar", and I was like "Man my blogpost on this issue got linked at desipundit and all, where have you been, you should get someone to periodically turn the rock you are living under". And then, just to prove my point, I took out the packet of dal I now keep in my shirt pocket for emergencies, carefully withdrew a handful and threw it in the air. And all the Indian diners leapt up from their tables, and as they clawed around on the floor, trying to grab those precious seeds and stuff 'em inside their pockets, I saw the man turn sheet white, an amazing feat for him because he has a kind of "wheatish complexion", to quote his shaadi.com profile. But sadly, I am not sure if his place will survive the calamity. I hope it does because that place has the best Indian food.
Secondly, I don't know if you've already seen this but Israel will be defended by Captain Birdbrain and his band of yogic-flying superheroes who, coincidentally, I just wrote about a few days ago. That is all. I am sorry if you expected much more.
Thirdly, I have been linked to by the kind people at gilli.in. Thank you for the traffic. I remember when I was in graduate school I was exposed to a lot of gilli this and gilli that in the company of my Tamil friends but I never quite came to know what the word meant. Most of the time it played out in the form of Tamfriend1 saying something to Tamfriend2 and Tamfriend2 with a look of exasperation, saying "gilli" as if to say "c'mon now, how could you even say that". However, I might have been mistaken, it could have been a different but similar sounding word.
Cops
The first thing I saw when I entered the Subway parking lot yesterday was two cop cars parked side by side with cops inside. I slid my car into a parking spot but my windows were open because lately, it's been hot like the fucking desert here and I don't like to turn on the air conditioning because I'm trying to conserve gas which rightfully belongs to all those 5 miles per gallon Hummer owners. Poor things. We all need to chip in and contribute in order to keep those guys operational. America, freedom and bare-breasted justice demands it.
So then I was gonna pull up my windows before getting out of the car because I could see a "Raj for Congress" campaign bus parked nearby and politicians being so free with our money and all, what's to stop them from being similarly free with our cars and wives as well?
But then I realized that the cops were there and man, if Raj managed to get away with my car with those cops watching, he surely deserved to own it and not only that, I would even vote for his carjacking ass. So I left the windows open and went inside the Subway. But just as I was ordering my sandwich, who should enter it, the Subway, not the sandwich, but those same goddamned cops. What the fuck, cops, I said to myself, can't I even trust you to spend some time maintaining law and order and keeping an eye on things without getting hungry?
And after a while, with my anger gradually subsiding, I began to think clearly and realized that with cops around and all, today was obviously not a good day for stealing quarters from the cystic fibrosis fund. So I didn't do it and someone with cystic fibrosis probably owes me one. Furthermore, Raj hadn't taken a fancy to my car. I doubt Raj would have been able to drive stick shift anyways. He seems to have been born and brought up in this country because he is quite good looking and he doesn't give other Indians the evil eye. Plus there is a Peter or Paul in his name, I forget which.
PS : I chose cystic fibrosis because of my hypothesis that there was about one chance in a million that one of my readers would know someone with cystic fibrosis and get offended. However, if there is anyone here who does know someone with cystic fibrosis, please let me know, so I can change it to something more obscure like pellagra or goitre, although I am not sure if there are goitre or pellagra foundations.
So then I was gonna pull up my windows before getting out of the car because I could see a "Raj for Congress" campaign bus parked nearby and politicians being so free with our money and all, what's to stop them from being similarly free with our cars and wives as well?
But then I realized that the cops were there and man, if Raj managed to get away with my car with those cops watching, he surely deserved to own it and not only that, I would even vote for his carjacking ass. So I left the windows open and went inside the Subway. But just as I was ordering my sandwich, who should enter it, the Subway, not the sandwich, but those same goddamned cops. What the fuck, cops, I said to myself, can't I even trust you to spend some time maintaining law and order and keeping an eye on things without getting hungry?
And after a while, with my anger gradually subsiding, I began to think clearly and realized that with cops around and all, today was obviously not a good day for stealing quarters from the cystic fibrosis fund. So I didn't do it and someone with cystic fibrosis probably owes me one. Furthermore, Raj hadn't taken a fancy to my car. I doubt Raj would have been able to drive stick shift anyways. He seems to have been born and brought up in this country because he is quite good looking and he doesn't give other Indians the evil eye. Plus there is a Peter or Paul in his name, I forget which.
PS : I chose cystic fibrosis because of my hypothesis that there was about one chance in a million that one of my readers would know someone with cystic fibrosis and get offended. However, if there is anyone here who does know someone with cystic fibrosis, please let me know, so I can change it to something more obscure like pellagra or goitre, although I am not sure if there are goitre or pellagra foundations.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Some bad news
Hello my fellow Indians from the US, the UK and everywhere else around the world except India. It is never a pleasant experience for anyone to be the purveyor of bad news but today I will regretfully don that mantle for the common good. My friends, listen up and please sit down or stand up depending on whether you are in the habit of suddenly sitting down or standing up when you hear really bad news.
Here is the bad news. India has, or soon will, stop exporting dal to the United States. I hear a collective gasp of horror from myself which drowned out the gasp I am sure simultaneously issued forth from your frozen lips. Yes it is true. India will no longer export any more dal to the US until March 2007. That is about 7 months from now. Sadly I did not hear a gasp of horror from my American audience. In order to elicit that gasp, I will elaborate upon the extraordinary nature of the news I just conveyed.
Imagine, dear American reader, if, someday, suddenly all the cows in America were to disappear, lets say, through alien abduction, along with all the burger buns wrapped around them. Not only that, let us imagine a scenario where ketchup, mustard and french fries were to suffer from a severe shortage due to a late monsoon playing havoc with the ketchup and mustard crops and France, finally having had enough of Bill O'Reilly's hissy-fits, refusing to ship their fries to the US. And finally, imagine if all the chickens in the country were to be afflicted by sinus infections, thus rendering them unsuitable for consumption and fornication. (Note that I purposely didn't say bird flu because I did not want to raise the terror alert level and make you want to go out there and invade China's bird population)
How, pray shuddering American, would you react to such a situation? Yes, that is right, you would be aghast, fearing for the future, wondering how to feed your pets and your family. Because that is the exact equivalent of the perplexing bind the average Indian in the US now finds himself in.
Yes, dal is the Indian's ground beef and chicken cordon bleu, all in one. It is a good source of protein. It is quick to cook, fills the belly and helps you in maintaining a spotless colon. Which is why every Indian will take this news of a dal shortage very seriously.
But all is not lost, friend Indian. It is not time to panic yet. Listen up and stop weeping. Go to your neighbourhood Indian store. It is still selling toor dal, only now it is called "toovar" for some reason, probably something to do with the export ban. The price is higher now, it costs about 4 and a half dollars for a packet small enough to fit comfortably inside your spotless colon, not that I am trying to give you any ideas. I don't know how much it used to cost before but I assume it was much cheaper than that. It is a fact of life that one only begins to notice the price of things after they become pricey. So anyways, my point is, go to your Indian store and snap up all the dal you can find. Oh do not worry about your fellow Indians. They will eat cake.
There is but one problem. Dal Eaters Against Stockpiling and Price Gouging (DEASPG) has ordered all Indian groceries not to dispense more than two bags of dal per person. So by the time you finish reading this and head off to the Indian store, it is imperative that you raise a decent sized Indian family. And then, look for all the Indian stores within a 50 mile radius and make the rounds with each family member going into each store in turn to receive his or her allotted ration of dal. Take a pickup truck. Remember, March is a long way off. In between there is Thanksgiving and turkey stuffed with dal, Christmas with the dalnog and boy, let's not forget the Superbowl dal shots. Halftime this year will be tinged with sadness. There will be rice, but where, oh where will be the dal?
I guess the only solace one can find during this troubling time is in the fact that one's car runs on gasoline and not dal.
Here is the bad news. India has, or soon will, stop exporting dal to the United States. I hear a collective gasp of horror from myself which drowned out the gasp I am sure simultaneously issued forth from your frozen lips. Yes it is true. India will no longer export any more dal to the US until March 2007. That is about 7 months from now. Sadly I did not hear a gasp of horror from my American audience. In order to elicit that gasp, I will elaborate upon the extraordinary nature of the news I just conveyed.
Imagine, dear American reader, if, someday, suddenly all the cows in America were to disappear, lets say, through alien abduction, along with all the burger buns wrapped around them. Not only that, let us imagine a scenario where ketchup, mustard and french fries were to suffer from a severe shortage due to a late monsoon playing havoc with the ketchup and mustard crops and France, finally having had enough of Bill O'Reilly's hissy-fits, refusing to ship their fries to the US. And finally, imagine if all the chickens in the country were to be afflicted by sinus infections, thus rendering them unsuitable for consumption and fornication. (Note that I purposely didn't say bird flu because I did not want to raise the terror alert level and make you want to go out there and invade China's bird population)
How, pray shuddering American, would you react to such a situation? Yes, that is right, you would be aghast, fearing for the future, wondering how to feed your pets and your family. Because that is the exact equivalent of the perplexing bind the average Indian in the US now finds himself in.
Yes, dal is the Indian's ground beef and chicken cordon bleu, all in one. It is a good source of protein. It is quick to cook, fills the belly and helps you in maintaining a spotless colon. Which is why every Indian will take this news of a dal shortage very seriously.
But all is not lost, friend Indian. It is not time to panic yet. Listen up and stop weeping. Go to your neighbourhood Indian store. It is still selling toor dal, only now it is called "toovar" for some reason, probably something to do with the export ban. The price is higher now, it costs about 4 and a half dollars for a packet small enough to fit comfortably inside your spotless colon, not that I am trying to give you any ideas. I don't know how much it used to cost before but I assume it was much cheaper than that. It is a fact of life that one only begins to notice the price of things after they become pricey. So anyways, my point is, go to your Indian store and snap up all the dal you can find. Oh do not worry about your fellow Indians. They will eat cake.
There is but one problem. Dal Eaters Against Stockpiling and Price Gouging (DEASPG) has ordered all Indian groceries not to dispense more than two bags of dal per person. So by the time you finish reading this and head off to the Indian store, it is imperative that you raise a decent sized Indian family. And then, look for all the Indian stores within a 50 mile radius and make the rounds with each family member going into each store in turn to receive his or her allotted ration of dal. Take a pickup truck. Remember, March is a long way off. In between there is Thanksgiving and turkey stuffed with dal, Christmas with the dalnog and boy, let's not forget the Superbowl dal shots. Halftime this year will be tinged with sadness. There will be rice, but where, oh where will be the dal?
I guess the only solace one can find during this troubling time is in the fact that one's car runs on gasoline and not dal.
Friday, July 21, 2006
In remembrance
Today is a sad day, a day of sorrow, a day of mourning. Today is the day we eulogize the passing of Harry Olivieri, the inventor of the Philadelphia cheesesteak.
Philadelphia is a grand old city. It is chock full of history. History with a big crack down its middle. History that can be viewed in art form and misunderstood. History full of rolling hills and lazy arthritic deer. Black history. White history. But there is only one kind of history in Philadelphia that can be smothered with onions and cheese and devoured to the accompaniment of beer. That is the Philadelphia cheesesteak.
I remember the first time I had a Philadelphia cheesesteak. It was four years ago and I had just arrived in this city, hungry, scared, broke and with a car full of plastic rectangles I had purchased in Walmart and didn't want to throw away when I moved. I had been unemployed for four months and had forgotten what meat looked like. Or cheese.
That is why when the city embraced me with open arms and handed me a big cheesesteak, I did not know what to do with it. I held it against the light and it was beautiful. I sniffed it and it smelt of happiness. I grazed my lips against it and it tasted of sunshine. I placed it on the carpet and knelt in reverence. I kept it on paper and traced its outline. I sang to it. I fixed it a bubble bath and lowered it into the bathtub. It sank to the bottom. That was not a smart thing to do. I went and bought another.
I ate this one. Anyone who's ever eaten a Philly cheesesteak can never have amorous relations with an ordinary sandwich with the same passion again. The combination of thinly sliced ribeye steak, cheese, onions and sometimes mushrooms, depending on whether you are gay or not, on a long roll is something every person on this planet needs to experience at least once during his lifetime.
This is historic Pat's King of Steaks, the place in South Philadelphia where the first ever cheesesteak was invented by Mr Harry Olivieri and his brother, Pat. I once biked 30 miles from Valley Forge to Pat's Steaks and back. It was my pilgrimage, my homage to this extraordinary sandwich that is virtually a food group for most Philadelphians, along with pizza, beer and hookers.
Rest in peace Mr Olivieri. Thinly sliced. Smothered in onions. And drizzled with cheese, of course.
Philadelphia is a grand old city. It is chock full of history. History with a big crack down its middle. History that can be viewed in art form and misunderstood. History full of rolling hills and lazy arthritic deer. Black history. White history. But there is only one kind of history in Philadelphia that can be smothered with onions and cheese and devoured to the accompaniment of beer. That is the Philadelphia cheesesteak.
I remember the first time I had a Philadelphia cheesesteak. It was four years ago and I had just arrived in this city, hungry, scared, broke and with a car full of plastic rectangles I had purchased in Walmart and didn't want to throw away when I moved. I had been unemployed for four months and had forgotten what meat looked like. Or cheese.
That is why when the city embraced me with open arms and handed me a big cheesesteak, I did not know what to do with it. I held it against the light and it was beautiful. I sniffed it and it smelt of happiness. I grazed my lips against it and it tasted of sunshine. I placed it on the carpet and knelt in reverence. I kept it on paper and traced its outline. I sang to it. I fixed it a bubble bath and lowered it into the bathtub. It sank to the bottom. That was not a smart thing to do. I went and bought another.
I ate this one. Anyone who's ever eaten a Philly cheesesteak can never have amorous relations with an ordinary sandwich with the same passion again. The combination of thinly sliced ribeye steak, cheese, onions and sometimes mushrooms, depending on whether you are gay or not, on a long roll is something every person on this planet needs to experience at least once during his lifetime.
This is historic Pat's King of Steaks, the place in South Philadelphia where the first ever cheesesteak was invented by Mr Harry Olivieri and his brother, Pat. I once biked 30 miles from Valley Forge to Pat's Steaks and back. It was my pilgrimage, my homage to this extraordinary sandwich that is virtually a food group for most Philadelphians, along with pizza, beer and hookers.
Rest in peace Mr Olivieri. Thinly sliced. Smothered in onions. And drizzled with cheese, of course.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Invention of the week
Tequila shots with hot lime pickle. Try it. More delicious than idli-stuffed burritos, more intoxicating than ten week old rasam.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Subway
I saw something bizarre today in the Subway restaurant near my workplace. Most days I go to that Subway restaurant to get my lunch. In case there's anyone in my audience who just emerged from a coma, just to update you, Subway is a chain of fast food joints in the US and India (I think) that sells sandwiches. And also, hey buddy, you made it! Welcome back to the world. You really need to take a shower.
But coming back to the point, there's this Subway I go to everyday. And if my ethicity-sniffing senses are right, it used to be manned by a Punjabi couple. In case you are a Desi who is thinking of opening an eating joint in the US of A, let me give you a word of advice on behalf of all food-lovers. Please don't. Desis and eating joints don't go well together. This couple was mean, man. First of all, they had this sign dangling very conspiciously on the counter that said "No Subway coupons will be accepted here. Coupon holders will be incinerated and their ashes scattered into the Schuylkill river". See, the problem with a Subway restaurant not accepting coupons is that you basically eliminate 50% of your prospective clientele right there. 'Cause correct me if I'm wrong, but most people who go to a Subway for lunch are those (like me) who have spent all of yesterday evening tearing up every newspaper from last week hunting for a "free 21 Oz drink with every footlong Sub" coupon.
Secondly, the couple was extremely stingy with the veggies. Once there was a guy ahead of me in the queue and he inquired if he could have extra onions on his meat. Paji snapped, "Yes, but it will cost you extra". "C'mon Paji", I told him through telepathic channels, "he's just asking for extra onions, not the crushed diamond dressing. Don't be such a cheapskate".
Plus, the Subway didn't have any employees other than those two. So it took a hell of a long time to get your sandwich. Not surprisingly, the damn thing didn't do a lot of business and pretty soon it was taken over by new management. Now, with the current owners, who are American by the way, you can have as many onions as your breath can withstand. All coupons are welcomed, even those that are a product of your own artistry. Sometimes the owner even offers you a free drink if you're a regular customer. And I'm sure, someday, if you were to request the crushed diamond dressing, they'd bring you a bucketful to dip your face into. As a result, business is now booming and even though the lines are still long, the extra employees they've hired make sure that you get your sandwich in a matter of minutes. Moral of the story : The customer really is king.
Anyways. That was all tangential and not really pertinent to the issue. The strange thing I saw there today was this : a newspaper review of the restaurant hanging on its wall. That's it, that's what I saw. The reason I find this bizarre is because, see, Subways are not really known for their high-end gourmet meals. In fact, one of the basic tenets of a fast food chain such as Subway is that every restaurant in the chain should serve food that is virtually indistinguishable from that served in any other franchise of that chain. So what is the fucking use of a review? And what's it gonna look like anyways?
"The bread .... lets see.. Looked and tasted like Subway bread - 5 stars. The tuna ..... yes, pretty much smelt like Subway tuna - 5 stars. The cheesesteak .. hmmm... much better than what it should have tasted like. Not conforming with Subway standards - 2 stars."
And that's why it was kinda strange. But you know what, if the guy really needed to review an inexpensive fast food chain, 'cause he was too cheap to do a decent restaurant, he should have reviewed McDonalds. 'Cause I often eat there and I really want to know if the McD's near my workplace serves severed fingers with their burgers. Or human blood. That's all the information I really need to know. Screw the taste or how many pickles they put on the bun. Just tell me if there are human organs in my fries or not. Now that's a review I can use.
But coming back to the point, there's this Subway I go to everyday. And if my ethicity-sniffing senses are right, it used to be manned by a Punjabi couple. In case you are a Desi who is thinking of opening an eating joint in the US of A, let me give you a word of advice on behalf of all food-lovers. Please don't. Desis and eating joints don't go well together. This couple was mean, man. First of all, they had this sign dangling very conspiciously on the counter that said "No Subway coupons will be accepted here. Coupon holders will be incinerated and their ashes scattered into the Schuylkill river". See, the problem with a Subway restaurant not accepting coupons is that you basically eliminate 50% of your prospective clientele right there. 'Cause correct me if I'm wrong, but most people who go to a Subway for lunch are those (like me) who have spent all of yesterday evening tearing up every newspaper from last week hunting for a "free 21 Oz drink with every footlong Sub" coupon.
Secondly, the couple was extremely stingy with the veggies. Once there was a guy ahead of me in the queue and he inquired if he could have extra onions on his meat. Paji snapped, "Yes, but it will cost you extra". "C'mon Paji", I told him through telepathic channels, "he's just asking for extra onions, not the crushed diamond dressing. Don't be such a cheapskate".
Plus, the Subway didn't have any employees other than those two. So it took a hell of a long time to get your sandwich. Not surprisingly, the damn thing didn't do a lot of business and pretty soon it was taken over by new management. Now, with the current owners, who are American by the way, you can have as many onions as your breath can withstand. All coupons are welcomed, even those that are a product of your own artistry. Sometimes the owner even offers you a free drink if you're a regular customer. And I'm sure, someday, if you were to request the crushed diamond dressing, they'd bring you a bucketful to dip your face into. As a result, business is now booming and even though the lines are still long, the extra employees they've hired make sure that you get your sandwich in a matter of minutes. Moral of the story : The customer really is king.
Anyways. That was all tangential and not really pertinent to the issue. The strange thing I saw there today was this : a newspaper review of the restaurant hanging on its wall. That's it, that's what I saw. The reason I find this bizarre is because, see, Subways are not really known for their high-end gourmet meals. In fact, one of the basic tenets of a fast food chain such as Subway is that every restaurant in the chain should serve food that is virtually indistinguishable from that served in any other franchise of that chain. So what is the fucking use of a review? And what's it gonna look like anyways?
"The bread .... lets see.. Looked and tasted like Subway bread - 5 stars. The tuna ..... yes, pretty much smelt like Subway tuna - 5 stars. The cheesesteak .. hmmm... much better than what it should have tasted like. Not conforming with Subway standards - 2 stars."
And that's why it was kinda strange. But you know what, if the guy really needed to review an inexpensive fast food chain, 'cause he was too cheap to do a decent restaurant, he should have reviewed McDonalds. 'Cause I often eat there and I really want to know if the McD's near my workplace serves severed fingers with their burgers. Or human blood. That's all the information I really need to know. Screw the taste or how many pickles they put on the bun. Just tell me if there are human organs in my fries or not. Now that's a review I can use.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Spinach mushroom soup
Ingredients :
1 packet of fresh spinach, pre-washed. Not the frozen shit. Use the frozen shit for your science experiments.
1 packet of mushrooms. I like the Shiitakes, but white mushrooms should do as well. As long as you don't go shroom-hunting yourself.
1 pack of vegetable broth. Or you could use water instead. Note, however, that soup made from water will taste like water whereas soup made from vegetable broth will taste like soup.
1 sad-looking tomato half you find in your fridge that's been there since who the fuck knows.
1 not-so-sad looking tomato half you bought yesterday 'cause the sad one's not gonna be enough for the soup.
2 cloves of garlic
1 teaspoon of garlic powder
4 serrano chillies, also known as "those chillies you get in the Indian store"
Some salt, pepper (use discretion)
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon chilly powder
1 sprig of cilantro also known as coriander leaves if you're a fob like me
1 wife who loves you
Procedure :
Retrieve wife who loves you from the living room and through the correct combination of ingratiating remarks and thinly veiled threats to chop off your own fingers by mistake, get her to slice tomatoes, chillies, cilantro and mushrooms for you. In case wife who loves you isn't available or doesn't exist, slice tomatoes, chillies, cilantro and mushrooms using your nails and teeth. Sorry, I can't trust you with a knife if you're a man like me.
Take a big vessel. I mean, a huge one, the biggest one you own. I personally like my pasta-cooking pot. Add olive oil and turn on the heat to high. Add spinach. Saute.
Realize too late that you've forgotten to ask wife to chop garlic cloves. Carefully hold garlic cloves in right hand, open the trash receptacle and throw them inside. Add garlic powder to the spinach instead.
Once spinach attains the color and texture of the bottom of an ill-maintained swimming pool in Pune (green and mushy), add mushrooms. Saute some more. Reduce heat to medium high.
Add salt and pepper. Add soy sauce.
Open packet of vegetable broth making sure you spill some in the process. Spillage will only make your soup taste better, or so they say, they being me. Empty vegetable broth inside vessel.
Add chopped tomatoes, chillies and chilly powder. Reduce heat to low medium.
Cover and cook for 15 minutes or so till tomatoes have given their all to the soup. Using a spoon, taste for correct proportion of salt. After screaming aloud in pain because you didn't wait for it to cool, taste it again, this time first blowing on it before shoving it into your mouth.
Garnish with chopped cilantro.
Delicious soup is ready. Will feed 6 people for a single meal, or 3 people for two meals or 2 people for 1 meal if one of them happens to be me.
1 packet of fresh spinach, pre-washed. Not the frozen shit. Use the frozen shit for your science experiments.
1 packet of mushrooms. I like the Shiitakes, but white mushrooms should do as well. As long as you don't go shroom-hunting yourself.
1 pack of vegetable broth. Or you could use water instead. Note, however, that soup made from water will taste like water whereas soup made from vegetable broth will taste like soup.
1 sad-looking tomato half you find in your fridge that's been there since who the fuck knows.
1 not-so-sad looking tomato half you bought yesterday 'cause the sad one's not gonna be enough for the soup.
2 cloves of garlic
1 teaspoon of garlic powder
4 serrano chillies, also known as "those chillies you get in the Indian store"
Some salt, pepper (use discretion)
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon chilly powder
1 sprig of cilantro also known as coriander leaves if you're a fob like me
1 wife who loves you
Procedure :
Retrieve wife who loves you from the living room and through the correct combination of ingratiating remarks and thinly veiled threats to chop off your own fingers by mistake, get her to slice tomatoes, chillies, cilantro and mushrooms for you. In case wife who loves you isn't available or doesn't exist, slice tomatoes, chillies, cilantro and mushrooms using your nails and teeth. Sorry, I can't trust you with a knife if you're a man like me.
Take a big vessel. I mean, a huge one, the biggest one you own. I personally like my pasta-cooking pot. Add olive oil and turn on the heat to high. Add spinach. Saute.
Realize too late that you've forgotten to ask wife to chop garlic cloves. Carefully hold garlic cloves in right hand, open the trash receptacle and throw them inside. Add garlic powder to the spinach instead.
Once spinach attains the color and texture of the bottom of an ill-maintained swimming pool in Pune (green and mushy), add mushrooms. Saute some more. Reduce heat to medium high.
Add salt and pepper. Add soy sauce.
Open packet of vegetable broth making sure you spill some in the process. Spillage will only make your soup taste better, or so they say, they being me. Empty vegetable broth inside vessel.
Add chopped tomatoes, chillies and chilly powder. Reduce heat to low medium.
Cover and cook for 15 minutes or so till tomatoes have given their all to the soup. Using a spoon, taste for correct proportion of salt. After screaming aloud in pain because you didn't wait for it to cool, taste it again, this time first blowing on it before shoving it into your mouth.
Garnish with chopped cilantro.
Delicious soup is ready. Will feed 6 people for a single meal, or 3 people for two meals or 2 people for 1 meal if one of them happens to be me.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Indian restaurants
The Philadelphia suburb that is my workplace contains very few eating joints. I never bring a tiffin, so I eat out everyday. There's a Subway, a Wendy's and finally, a Mexican restaurant. The Mexican place has got okay food. As in, you can get by if you don't try out any bizarre menu items, for example, the Fajita sandwich. I had it once and it was like biting into a live cow, which it probably was. That place is owned by an Indian guy. Now I have no problems with an Indian guy owning a Mexican restaurant. But the problem is, the restaurant kitchen is adjacent to the parking lot, and the moment you park your car and get out, you are treated to hideously loud Bollywood fillum music. And you can imagine the cooks inside doing the Ganpati kite-flying dance to Anu Malik and telling each other sardarji jokes as they roll up a Burrito Grande. Not very authentic Mexican, this image. But the food, as I said, is okay.
Then there's this other place, also Indian-owned. This joint is entirely Indian inside-out, as it is not only Indian owned, but also has Indian food. In fact, it might be the best place to get Indian food in or around Philadelphia. But as is to be expected, it suffers from poor Indian management. These poor Indian management techniques can be summarized in four words : "The customer is never right".
I used to go to this place very often, like once every week. And I used to order take-out on the phone, so that it would be ready by the time I got there. They had these "lunch specials", consisting of a veg / non veg menu item + paratha + rice + dal makhani, all this for about 8 bucks. If you bought the same menu item at regular price, it would cost you 16 bucks or so. So, naturally, I used to get the lunch special, enunciating it clearly during order-giving time so as not to cause any confusion.
So one day, I ordered the lamb roganjosh lunch special on the phone as usual, and then after 10 minutes, I drove there to pick it up. The bill said 16 bucks. "Hello", I said to the manager, "This says 16 bucks. I ordered the lunch special, which is 8 bucks".
The manager blinked at me. "No, you didn't, you ordered from the regular menu", he said.
"Well, I didn't", I said. "In fact, you can ask whoever it is who took the order and he will tell you that I ordered the lunch special."
"I took the order", he said, "And I'm telling you that you didn't."
Fuck, I thought. What a pain in the ass. I wasn't about to pay 8 bucks more 'cause the guy's deaf. I persisted on.
"Ok, lets think about this for a second", I said. "Why in God's name would I order from the dinner menu if I could get the same damn thing for a smaller price as a lunch special, especially since it also happens to be lunchtime right about now?"
"Well, I don't know but you didn't order the lunch special", he said. It was like his brain was stuck in an intergalactic wormhole. I tried a different angle. It was high time I tried a different angle because the place was filling up with waiters who were pushing and jostling, everyone trying to get a front-row seat for the argument.
"Ok now let me put it to you this way : Would it make better business sense for you, if I paid you extra today for the lamb, got pissed off and never came back here again, or...." The manager interrupted, his ego having just shoved a cattle prod up his butt.
He yelled, "Yes, yes, you go away..." This time I interrupted him.
"Hold on, let me finish what I'm saying. So would it make better business sense for you to piss me off today so that I never come back, or would it be better if you just gave me my lunch special today and I kept coming back every thursday as I usually do? What would make more sense for you financially?"
I had him there. He had no reply for me. Finally, with a weary look of defeat, so deliciously piteous that I could barely restrain myself from going over and licking it off his face with my tongue, he said to the waiter nearest him, "Go, get this guy his lunch special".
Fuck, it was an awesome victory. And the food was all the more tasty, laced as it was, with half an hour's worth of acrimonious debate.
Then there's this other place, also Indian-owned. This joint is entirely Indian inside-out, as it is not only Indian owned, but also has Indian food. In fact, it might be the best place to get Indian food in or around Philadelphia. But as is to be expected, it suffers from poor Indian management. These poor Indian management techniques can be summarized in four words : "The customer is never right".
I used to go to this place very often, like once every week. And I used to order take-out on the phone, so that it would be ready by the time I got there. They had these "lunch specials", consisting of a veg / non veg menu item + paratha + rice + dal makhani, all this for about 8 bucks. If you bought the same menu item at regular price, it would cost you 16 bucks or so. So, naturally, I used to get the lunch special, enunciating it clearly during order-giving time so as not to cause any confusion.
So one day, I ordered the lamb roganjosh lunch special on the phone as usual, and then after 10 minutes, I drove there to pick it up. The bill said 16 bucks. "Hello", I said to the manager, "This says 16 bucks. I ordered the lunch special, which is 8 bucks".
The manager blinked at me. "No, you didn't, you ordered from the regular menu", he said.
"Well, I didn't", I said. "In fact, you can ask whoever it is who took the order and he will tell you that I ordered the lunch special."
"I took the order", he said, "And I'm telling you that you didn't."
Fuck, I thought. What a pain in the ass. I wasn't about to pay 8 bucks more 'cause the guy's deaf. I persisted on.
"Ok, lets think about this for a second", I said. "Why in God's name would I order from the dinner menu if I could get the same damn thing for a smaller price as a lunch special, especially since it also happens to be lunchtime right about now?"
"Well, I don't know but you didn't order the lunch special", he said. It was like his brain was stuck in an intergalactic wormhole. I tried a different angle. It was high time I tried a different angle because the place was filling up with waiters who were pushing and jostling, everyone trying to get a front-row seat for the argument.
"Ok now let me put it to you this way : Would it make better business sense for you, if I paid you extra today for the lamb, got pissed off and never came back here again, or...." The manager interrupted, his ego having just shoved a cattle prod up his butt.
He yelled, "Yes, yes, you go away..." This time I interrupted him.
"Hold on, let me finish what I'm saying. So would it make better business sense for you to piss me off today so that I never come back, or would it be better if you just gave me my lunch special today and I kept coming back every thursday as I usually do? What would make more sense for you financially?"
I had him there. He had no reply for me. Finally, with a weary look of defeat, so deliciously piteous that I could barely restrain myself from going over and licking it off his face with my tongue, he said to the waiter nearest him, "Go, get this guy his lunch special".
Fuck, it was an awesome victory. And the food was all the more tasty, laced as it was, with half an hour's worth of acrimonious debate.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
An encounter with the Third Kind
When I visited India this December, on the way I made a stopover in Switzerland, you know, just to be able to write in my resume that yes, I have been to Switzerland, even if it was only for a couple of days. 'Cause boy, if you haven't been to Switzerland, and people who've been to Switzerland come to know about it, they will embark on this lengthy narrative of the time they were there and what they did and why you should really visit this awesome place if you ever go there and why haven't you been there yet, don't you have a sense of adventure at all, are you poor, etc, etc. So the stopover was mostly a tool which would enable me to tell such people to shut the fuck up, that yeah I have, in fact, been to Switzerland.
But it was nice. Yeah, apart from the fact that it snowed all the three days I was there and the glacier I climbed up on top of (by climbing up I mean took a cable car) was so goddamn cold that my tongue got stuck to the roof of my mouth, it was a nice trip. Beautiful glaciers, great mountains and nice food. Speaking of food, anyone who is planning to go to Der Schweiz, here's a tip for you. Bring along with you an idli-dosa making kit and an electric cooking range. 'Cause my God, is the food freaking expensive. And my problem is that whenever I travel somewhere, I like to experience the native culture in its entirety. Which includes the food. So I won't live like a backpacker, you know, go to a McD's or live on toast and jam. I like to go to the neighbourhood restaurants and feed on the local delicacies.
In this case, it was a problem because the food was so costly. So the second day we were there, we decided to have dinner in the hotel lounge. There is some psychopathic section of my brain which somehow manages to convince me everytime I take a vacation or go somewhere that no matter how expensive food might be outside the hotel, the restaurant inside the hotel will sell it to me cheaper since I am staying there. And this, even after finding out that the miniature Jack Daniels in the hotel room cost as much as a real bottle of Jack Daniels would in a liquor store.
So my wife and I, we entered the hotel lounge and were led to our seats. We were then handed the menus, which allowed us to look at them, quickly do a Swiss Franc to dollar conversion and realize that the house of cards I had built in assuming that the food would be cheaper here had just come tumbling down. I had never seen food cost so much anywhere else in the world.
There are two kinds of people in this world, based on their reaction to an overpriced menu in a decent restaurant. The first kind rip their dignity out of its hiding place deep within their souls, skewer it with the steak knife and leave the restaurant, only pausing long enough for their picture to be taken by hotel management in order to be sent to the "Cheapskates Weekly", which is a magazine every restaurant in the world subscribes to.
The other kind, which I belong to, experience a sensation akin to what you would experience if someone tried to steal your wallet out of your pants pocket and managed to steal your pants along with it. A stunned disbelief, followed by a feeling of abject poverty and shame. But, after that initial wallop, we stiffen our lips and go along with it. Hell, if I'm gonna fall off a cliff, I'm gonna enjoy the scenery as I do that. So we drape the napkin over our quaking knees, call the waiter and proceed to order a lavish spread despite the strong dent it's gonna make in our bank balance.
So I ordered the lamb something, my wife ordered the vegetarian something and food was being consumed by both of us, when I observed another Indian couple enter the restaurant. Look at that, I said to my wife, how innocent, how fragile, how hungry they look, little do they know what's in store for them. I was interested in watching their reaction to the menu. What kind of human were they? I was curious. Luckily, they were assigned a table next to us.
The wife went first. Covering her mouth with her hand, no doubt, in order to utter an expletive, she pointed to the menu with eyes rolling around. The husband looked subdued. He read to the end of the menu and then turned it over in a frantic hope that the back of the card held the secret low low costing menu no one else knew about. No such luck. Been there, done that.
The waiter appeared. The husband asked, "Is this all you have?"
The waiter deemed that question unfit to be answered and stayed silent.
After pausing for a while, the husband said, "You know, I'm not very hungry, do you have salads?"
The waiter replied, "Sure, we can make one for you."
The husband said, "How much would it cost?" The waiter told him how much. The husband took a moment to ponder this information.
"Do you have any pastas?"
The waiter pointed to the menu. "Here".
The husband looked at the item he was pointing to and said, "You know, I'm not really that hungry, I don't need all that meat in my pasta."
The waiter, rising to the occasion, said, "Well, we can make a pasta with no meat.
"I don't want vegetables, either", said the husband preemptively.
"You just want steamed pasta?" queried the waiter with a hint of nausea.
"What else can you put on it?", asked the husband.
"Well, we can put some tomato sauce on it. Spaghetti with tomato sauce. Would you like that?", asked the enterprising waiter.
The husband brightened. "Yes, that sounds good. How much would that be? "The waiter told him. Apparently it wasn't that bad 'cause the waiter wrote it down in his notebook.
"And for you, ma'am?", asked the waiter. "I will just have a coke", replied the wife. "Can you bring an extra plate please?"
Brilliant, I said to myself, making a note in my head about this third kind of diner I had just discovered. Got to try this out tomorrow.
But the next day, all my plans pretty much went down the drain because as you know, it's difficult to change oneself. Once a splurger, always a splurger.
But it was nice. Yeah, apart from the fact that it snowed all the three days I was there and the glacier I climbed up on top of (by climbing up I mean took a cable car) was so goddamn cold that my tongue got stuck to the roof of my mouth, it was a nice trip. Beautiful glaciers, great mountains and nice food. Speaking of food, anyone who is planning to go to Der Schweiz, here's a tip for you. Bring along with you an idli-dosa making kit and an electric cooking range. 'Cause my God, is the food freaking expensive. And my problem is that whenever I travel somewhere, I like to experience the native culture in its entirety. Which includes the food. So I won't live like a backpacker, you know, go to a McD's or live on toast and jam. I like to go to the neighbourhood restaurants and feed on the local delicacies.
In this case, it was a problem because the food was so costly. So the second day we were there, we decided to have dinner in the hotel lounge. There is some psychopathic section of my brain which somehow manages to convince me everytime I take a vacation or go somewhere that no matter how expensive food might be outside the hotel, the restaurant inside the hotel will sell it to me cheaper since I am staying there. And this, even after finding out that the miniature Jack Daniels in the hotel room cost as much as a real bottle of Jack Daniels would in a liquor store.
So my wife and I, we entered the hotel lounge and were led to our seats. We were then handed the menus, which allowed us to look at them, quickly do a Swiss Franc to dollar conversion and realize that the house of cards I had built in assuming that the food would be cheaper here had just come tumbling down. I had never seen food cost so much anywhere else in the world.
There are two kinds of people in this world, based on their reaction to an overpriced menu in a decent restaurant. The first kind rip their dignity out of its hiding place deep within their souls, skewer it with the steak knife and leave the restaurant, only pausing long enough for their picture to be taken by hotel management in order to be sent to the "Cheapskates Weekly", which is a magazine every restaurant in the world subscribes to.
The other kind, which I belong to, experience a sensation akin to what you would experience if someone tried to steal your wallet out of your pants pocket and managed to steal your pants along with it. A stunned disbelief, followed by a feeling of abject poverty and shame. But, after that initial wallop, we stiffen our lips and go along with it. Hell, if I'm gonna fall off a cliff, I'm gonna enjoy the scenery as I do that. So we drape the napkin over our quaking knees, call the waiter and proceed to order a lavish spread despite the strong dent it's gonna make in our bank balance.
So I ordered the lamb something, my wife ordered the vegetarian something and food was being consumed by both of us, when I observed another Indian couple enter the restaurant. Look at that, I said to my wife, how innocent, how fragile, how hungry they look, little do they know what's in store for them. I was interested in watching their reaction to the menu. What kind of human were they? I was curious. Luckily, they were assigned a table next to us.
The wife went first. Covering her mouth with her hand, no doubt, in order to utter an expletive, she pointed to the menu with eyes rolling around. The husband looked subdued. He read to the end of the menu and then turned it over in a frantic hope that the back of the card held the secret low low costing menu no one else knew about. No such luck. Been there, done that.
The waiter appeared. The husband asked, "Is this all you have?"
The waiter deemed that question unfit to be answered and stayed silent.
After pausing for a while, the husband said, "You know, I'm not very hungry, do you have salads?"
The waiter replied, "Sure, we can make one for you."
The husband said, "How much would it cost?" The waiter told him how much. The husband took a moment to ponder this information.
"Do you have any pastas?"
The waiter pointed to the menu. "Here".
The husband looked at the item he was pointing to and said, "You know, I'm not really that hungry, I don't need all that meat in my pasta."
The waiter, rising to the occasion, said, "Well, we can make a pasta with no meat.
"I don't want vegetables, either", said the husband preemptively.
"You just want steamed pasta?" queried the waiter with a hint of nausea.
"What else can you put on it?", asked the husband.
"Well, we can put some tomato sauce on it. Spaghetti with tomato sauce. Would you like that?", asked the enterprising waiter.
The husband brightened. "Yes, that sounds good. How much would that be? "The waiter told him. Apparently it wasn't that bad 'cause the waiter wrote it down in his notebook.
"And for you, ma'am?", asked the waiter. "I will just have a coke", replied the wife. "Can you bring an extra plate please?"
Brilliant, I said to myself, making a note in my head about this third kind of diner I had just discovered. Got to try this out tomorrow.
But the next day, all my plans pretty much went down the drain because as you know, it's difficult to change oneself. Once a splurger, always a splurger.
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