Monday, May 26, 2008

Armadillo Willy's, Santa Clara

- or -

"There Are Times When You Need to Type AND Eat Barbecue"

The word of the day is to get caught up here. So I head over to Willy's, with their free Wi-fi connection, to get some barbecue and some signal. (The closest one to my place is Homestead and Kiely). They're running a 25th anniversary promotion right now, which means that I'll get a free drink when I get there. (And yeah, yeah, this one doesn't have Dew, they have Pepsi, I know. I just don't feel like driving to hell and back.)

I order a smoked brisket plate (I don't feel like eating a sandwich and it's easier to type and eat with a fork) with two corn muffins and a piece of Texas toast. US$12.

It's exactly what you'd expect. The meat is flavorful, smooth and smokey. The muffins have just the smallest hint of grit. Oh yeah, and the Pepsi's unlimited.

I spend a few hours straightening things up here as the PA plays 80's music (right this second it's Frida's "I know there's something going on," and now Elvis Costello's "Watching the Detectives." Dig that two times, Feddy).

Which means I'm all caught up. And full.

But the culinary wonderment of today isn't finished ...

This evening Cap'n Happy is serving:
* Barcelona bread
* Ferran inspired scallops
* Pasta with veggies
* Chicken Parmesan

With an extra-large serving of how hard he's looking for girlfriends, but failing, I'm sure.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

3 solo and other ramblings

Hello sir,

I’ve been lax in writing, partly because we haven’t had lunch together in 3 weeks, and also because I’ve been busy with track (practices and meets - now over), and French (final exam a couple nights ago).

On my last three trips to Cupertino, I’ve had lunch solo. The first two I opted for quick and picked up a tuna salad bagel sandwich from Noah’s which I took to my office. I’ve had plenty over the years, always on a sesame bagel, toasted with everything. They’re pretty good - tasty. The first week, I was down there on a Wednesday (which is why we didn’t hook up that week). The sesame bagels didn’t look great (minimal sesame seeds), so I went for a whole wheat sesame bagel (which also has sunflower seeds on it). When I got back to my office and took a bite, it was not good. It wasn’t bad, but it was far from what I was used to. I believe the problem was that the bagel wasn’t toasted, which is key to it being good. [There is also the possibility that the bagel had been toasted, but I ended up standing around the parking lot talking to Alex for too long (who I ran into sitting outside Pizza my heart next door), and the bagel got soggy. I don’t think this is the case however, as I’ll explain shortly. The other possibility is that whole wheat sesame rather than sesame changed the dynamic, but I don’t think so.]

The next Monday I stopped in for the same thing again (but went for a regular sesame bagel). Made sure I said “toasted, with everything”. Despite saying “with everything”, they always ask you item by item, whether you really want everything or not. Noah’s employees must be trained to do this because I’ve said “toasted with everything” at every Noah’s I’ve ever been to, and always get the “lettuce?, tomatoes? onions? ....” routine. This time the sandwich/bagel was as expected (tasty), and also came wrapped in a little sort of foil wrapper. [The one the previous week didn’t come wrapped in foil which is why I’m more convinced they didn’t toast it - though I don’t remember ever getting one wrapped in foil, but that may be because I don’t usually get them to go - they are better more freshly toasted.]

Finally, the most recent Monday, as I pulled into Cupertino I felt like eating a burrito and had this vague memory of a chain burrito place near Hobees. Chain burrito places are usually disappointing, but I had no idea where else to go and was once again in a hurry. Sure enough there is an Una Mas there. Like most chain burrito places, they had stupid names for each and every burrito, so you have to read them all to find what you want. I prefer authentic taquerias that have straight forward menus. You start with a rice and bean burrito, perhaps cheese comes on the base model. If you want guacamole or sour cream pay extra. Pick the kind of meat you want on it, done. It took me awhile, but eventually I found the rice and bean model. It took longer because it wasn’t listed first or last (like at most chain places), but about 3/4 of the way down the nonsense burrito list. I think it was called the fresca (why call it the “fresh” burrito? are the others not fresh? the whole cutesy name thing for burritos is dumb.) I asked them to put cheese and guacamole on it too. My competent server asked if I wanted sour cream - no thanks. Turns out this mean “the works” which is listed on the menu, but with no explanation of what it is - dumb. The burrito was okay. Not bad, not that good either. They have a salsa bar there which is a great idea because I like lots of salsa, and can get it myself, I don’t have to keep going back up to the counter to beg for more. Unfortunately the salsa wasn’t all that great either. I tried two, the spicy red and the (un-labeled) tomatillo? The red was the better of the two, but a little bit odd, I’m not sure how to describe it. The tomatillo had way too much garlic in it (at least I think that was the problem). I love garlic, but this just wasn’t good. All in all, every thing was okay - it was the burrito equivalent of Starbucks (almost).

Other bits of random info. On the Wednesday I was in Cupertino, I stopped by and ate at Tommaso’s in SF on the way home. This was a treat - they’re not open on Monday, so I don’t get in there much. I didn’t have to wait long for a table, maybe 10 minutes. There were two guys standing behind me waiting for a table as well, I didn’t get a look at them on the way in but as they walked past me to be seated, my brain noted “hey, that’s John Waters”, and just to drive the point home, as he was standing right in front of me, a woman that was joining them for dinner arrived and he put his hand out to shake hers and said “Hi, I’m John Waters.” I had the special pizza of the month, corn, tomato, cilantro, (which I’ve had before and also make myself). It was good all around. It is a good combo, and the particular pizza I had was good by Tommaso’s standards, which means great compared to the rest of the world. The one thing I think I figured out is that they make the pizza slightly different than I do. I mix the corn, tomatoes and cilantro together and let it sit in a bowl. The flavors sort of mix together and I bake everything on the pie. I think Tommaso’s bakes the corn and tomato on the pie (but keep them separate before baking) and then add on the cilantro at the end. I like my way better.

I do from time to time listen to KFJC online. When I was in high school in the late 70s, I listened to the station a lot (they had a few punk/new wave shows), and then in the 80s, Alex was the art director for the station (and I had a pile of station t-shirts). I remember we were excited when one of the early Police? (someone else?) albums (singles?) came out and there was a KFJC button on the cover. I just googled it to see if I could find it, but no luck. Anyway, radiodavidbyrne is good this month. Usually he has a theme, but none listed this month. I think it is a random sampling of recent (diverse) pop hits. Most are really good, the only bad one is a BSpears number. I’m not picking on it because it is BSpears, it just happens to be really bad independent of who was responsible. The show is only ever two or three hours long, and he only changes them once a month, so I do have to move around to other stations (his recent Nino Rota show was great.) I often pick WNYU or WFMU because they’re right above his show in iTunes if you sort by bitrate. They’re typical college stations - a variety of shows, some good some bad. If the show is bad, I just click on another station. I also listen to piratecatradio, or KPOO if I can actually get them online (their biggest problem is that they broadcast via Windows Media Player which last time I checked was a POS on the Mac, and when I try via iTunes, it usually says the server cannot accept any more connections - stop the presses, they have a new live feed which works via a web site, not perfect - it drops out too often, even with buffering set to max. Way better than nothing though.) When I lived/worked in SF, KPOO was what I listened to most (via a real radio). It is a super station, and if you’re a Coltrane fan, they have a weekly 4 hour show which is in some way connected to his church. KPOO also has great blues, reggae, and soul shows. The Saturday Latin show is also great. I’ll say it again - KPOO is a SUPER station. Used to listen to wefunk a bunch when they let you download shows (very good - I’d listen to them riding). Two hour shows, live DJs (as in turntables). There are many good choices.

The Queen bought the new Gnarls Barkley CD a few weeks ago - I’ve taken it off her hands and it is excellent. I also popped Mingus Plays Piano in the other day and I think it may be my favorite album of all time. At least right now it is. Spectacular. I think I bought it for you a couple years ago. Pop it in and play it.

The Dipsea is less than 20 days away and it is on my mind way too much. My right achilles it not quite right which is less than ideal. I’ll ramble about that (the Dipsea) later. Enough for now....

Monday, May 19, 2008

Islet View Restaurant; Castle Bruce, Dominica

- or -

"There Are Lizards in Paradise's Restaurant"

The streets here are harrowingly steep and unnervingly narrow. Steep at a level that's hard to imagine. So steep that you can reach your hand out (and UP) the passenger window on the left (they drive British here) and touch the road surface you're switch-backing for.

My person-who-insists-he-she-it-should-never-be-mentioned-in-my-writing and I had just dropped off our hitchhiker and were trying to find the Islet View Restaurant. I'd made a mistake, and instead of following the main route, had ended up climbing a 25% grade road. But hey, in a $35/day direct-Japanese import Suzuki Escudo, set to 4-wheel high, there's no way we're backing down.

We reconnect with the main road and BANG there's the Islet View.

The semi-Carib manager is happy to see us (at 11:00, we're the first customers of the day) and we're invited to sit anywhere we like on the balcony picnic tables. Tarps hold back the rain supported by bamboo bigger 'round than your thigh. We take the prime spot and, as is the case almost everywhere here, the menu is read aloud to us:

"Chicken or fish?"

"We'll have one of each. Oh, and what's the fish?"

"Buss."

This place, in particular, is well known for insane rum punches but my associate has already nixed any alcohol. Instead I'll have to get drunk from the view.

And the view is, spectacular. Bananas are being grown below us, further down are those classic red and white houses that you tend to see in the Carribbean.

Lizards play on the balcony railing.

Nothing happens quickly in Dominica, and you definitely don't want it to. After the requisite amount of time, the food comes -- it is absolutely classic Dominican fare. And huge amounts of it.

I have buss that's been deep fried the same way you'd do a chicken. Fresh bananas, dasheen, rice, beans, cole slaw, tomatoes, thinly shredded papaya and raw bread fruit. Washing it all down with fresh lime juice.

After getting used to the breading, the fish is quite good. It's also a switch from the normal fare on the island. Mahi mahi what's typically served this time of year. (It is still called by its proper name here, dolphin fish, which thrills me because the politically correct, yet hermetically stupid, think they're eating a mammal.)

The bananas are fresh and smooth. Both the dasheen and bread fruit seem very thick and starchy -- I've never acquired a taste for either (and find it unbelievebaly difficult to believe that there'd be a mutiny over breadfruit). The rice and beans are good and solid.

I don't like tomatoes, so I just flat-out pass on those.

The star of the plate is the papaya. Very brightly flavored. A perfect cross of sweet and sour.

The winner at the table, though, is my associate's chicken. It's been mildly smoked and/or sauted. You can see the flesh darker toward the outside than it is toward the bone. It's moist and full of the most complete chicken flavor you can imagine. You know how canned tuna hints at what tuna sashimi tastes like? That's the way this chicken compares to all other chicken.

All the while crazy, and very old, American country music is blaring from the back. Think "Sons of the Pioneers" and you're on the right track.

Like every single glass of juice I've had in this country (and I've had about two dozen), my lime juice is great. My only complaint is it could stand to be just a hint more sour.

We didn't order dessert, but that doesn't stop them from bringing sliced pineapple and mangoes. They've also included a slice of spice bread with guava punch drizzled over the top.

The mango is slap-you-in-the-face fresh. The pineapple very well may be some of the best I've ever had: it has mild overtones of both cocoanut and cinnamon, with the very very very last taste (maybe 90 seconds later) being a hint of bitter.

The cake is sweet, the guava punch sweet-sour and interesting without being boozey.


And for the first time in dominica, we're actually brought a bill on a platter (in this case, a hollowed-out gourd).

The total for two? US$22.

You've just gotta love it. You gotta.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Original Pancake House; Boulder, CO

- or -

"Good Meets Evil Over Pancakes"

My last few times back in Colorado, I've sent out a notice to my immediate pals that breakfast at the Original Pancake House (OPH) in Boulder may happen the next day if i get a taker. The list of invitees is always the same: the Birdhead, Dr. Bob, the Beatle, Timmy, my other brother Joe and the Punkin.


The cast of characters usually gets something between 12 and 24 hours' notice, and the list being what it is, they understand that it's a take-it-or-leave-it-no-offense proposition. Everyone's fine and happy with it.



{Weirdly, I lost my friendship with the Troll over a similar thing. I'd give him a ring whenever I was in town and started getting this whole "Do you really expect me to say 'yes' on such short notice?" And it's not like he was Johnny Time Commitment. No kids. Something akin to a crappy USGS job. I mean, come on, it's not unusual for me to have no idea where I'll be the next week. I finally just quit calling because of his verbal abuse, and lo' and behold, we've fallen out of touch. And he's a Troll, for chrissakes.}



This breakfast was very tentative, because I'd only given about 12 hours notice with no immediate possibilities. The Birdhead was all over it, though, and sent a boomerang positive response the night before.



On my drive to Boulder I got an email from the Punkin. I'd always invited him, but never heard a response in the past ... for some reason this one caught his attention. A quick exchange and I knew he'd be in.


Now this is an interesting meeting. The Birdhead, a hardline, but not out-of-line Christian; and the Punkin, about as rough-and-tumble as you can get while still actually holding down a legitimate day job. I know the Dr. and the Beatle won't make it -- I'm guessing Timmy won't either. So it'll be a good three-some.



And it's all going down in one of my very favorite chains in America. OPH serves very high quality food, made to order, with the freshest of ingredients. And damn near everything is bigger than your head. Imagine Denny's if it had been reincarnated as a decent place and you're starting down the right path.



I get to the OPH early and the Birdhead's Toyota Tonka is already parked outside. I fetch him in from the World's Greatest Hardware Store (Bo3b was able to get a fuse for a Marantz amp here when he couldn't find it anywhere in the valley). We get a chirpy, mildly granola crunching, white waitress and order our food.


I go with that favorite fall back, a Dutch Baby and an ice tea.


The Birdhead and I exchange pleasantries. I explain how I have (yet again) left his Xmas present at home. Then I give the Birdhead a pre-introduction to the Punkin. Even though I haven't seen him since the kidney punch, I know what's up. "He'll be wearing wire frame glasses. His hair will be short, with a hat -- probably a beret. He'll have a new tattoo of some kind, maybe Britney Spears or something. Oh, and he'll be wearing a rock t-shirt. Maybe Debbie Gibson."


On cue, the Punkin steps through the door. He's wearing a low-slung cap, wire frame glasses and a black rock t-shirt {"What band is that?" "What? Oh. Some Internet band, I think."}. He truly hasn't changed since college and the Birdhead almost blows a biscuit when the Punkin says he's 50.


I encourage the Punkin to order a Dutch Baby and tell the waitress, "This here is the Punkin. He's a legend in Boulder. Make sure the cooks put extra love in his Dutch Baby." She understands immediately. I don't have to repeat it.




The food comes and our collective conversation wanders. The vast majority of it is me grilling the Punkin, which normally would be a social faux pas, but the Birdhead and I are in continual communication (much more than say, my brother and I are). The Punkin is impressed with the fact that I've taken the last 18 months off with my minor score.


"Well, what would you do if you hit it big Punkin? Say, if someone dropped a million dollars in your lap. I mean, you'd buy a house and a car. Then what?"


He responded in the way he responds to all conversation, which is to say he chuckles. "I'd get some more ink," and he pulls up his sleeve.


"And then what?"


"That's good enough, I guess."




Exactly.


My Dutch Baby was spectacular. The Punkin's had extra love. The Birdhead spent half the meal wishing he'd ordered a Dutch Baby instead -- but what's he going to do with extra love? He's already married to the Fairy Princess (who made a cameo appearance) and has an elfin child. He has enough love.


The high part of the conversation was seeing the Birdhead nearly hoark an ice cube when the Punkin said, "I've only done heroin three times in my life. And of those, only one had that big punch that you're looking for."


Exactly.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

note to king feddy

(who the hell knows how this is going to turn out. i’m typing this at DEN on my laptop, but have failed to connect to their free wireless here ... so this is a cut/paste job into blogger at some “later date” which almost certainly means i’ll pull up in the continual car in front of some god forsaken place early tomorrow to do the deed. all that and the format probably won’t be right. when it comes to technology, the future always isn’t as great as you’d hoped.)

your Highness,

in order to properly give you the restaurant review for today, i have to tell a back story.

now, i’m the first to admit that it’s only sort-of related, but my pal (and your acquaintance) CD, once said that he felt i should put together my ten best stories and sell them as a book.

my response was, “oh, that sounds great, except who’s going to read it?” (honestly, isn’t that always the rub?)

just for the record, you should title this: “the strangest day of my life.” now you know me well enough to know that’s pretty strong wording -- even from an extremist such as myself. but hopefully by the end you’ll admit it’s not that far removed from the truth.

of course, as you’ve probably already guessed, this story takes place in las vegas -- as all “strangest” stories always do.

it was three or four years ago during the memorial day weekend. i was in vegas for reasons i don’t remember (i never go there “just” to gamble -- it’s always traveling with someone else, or going for a specific event or some such) and i noticed that it was the perfect storm of 80’s super-stars over the weekend -- meaning both prince and madonna were appearing.

this was early-on in prince’s big comeback tour (the same one that you and i saw kick off at the filmore), and at $125 a ticket in the mandalay bay arena, the show was already solidly sold out.

madonna was a slightly different story. tickets were $65-$400 and still available in the super-cavernous MGM arena -- the same place i’d seen britney spears the year before. (and yes, she was awesome. don’t you ever bad mouth britney to me.)

{i’m having trouble writing here. there’s a great looking brunette standing nearby -- she reminds me very much of what your wife looked like before she started hating you. it’s throwing my writing mojo off a tad.}

to my mind, anything over $25 for a concert ticket is unreasonable. and over $50 is intolerable. i always compare the “concert experience” to how much physical music that same amount of hard currency would buy me. or in other words, $65 would get you madonna’s greatest hits and three of her dancey/trancey cd’s. (that’s if you’re paying face value new, of course, which i don’t). a concert that she’s capable of putting out won’t hit that level of compensation -- unless, of course, i was allowed to feel her flesh/torpedo bra. and we both know that’s not gonna happen.

of the two, i’d rather see prince, but those tickets are going to be harder to come by and will be expensive. true, he’s playing with maceo in tow, but the venue cancels out any inherent coolness he has in his band. i’m pretty sure i could go kutrate (buy tickets under face value from people who have extras -- typically scalpers who have tried to speculate and missed) madonna, so that seems reasonable. and at this very second is probably the best point of action.

but i might be able to sidestep everything. craigslist is often a solid standby for situations such as these. as we say in the KKK (kutrate koncert klub), i’m not looking for an arena full of tickets, just one (that, along with “never pay face value”). there might be an odd ticket waiting out there. in a place like vegas you’re just as likely to find an extra free ticket as you are something marked up 10x over face value.

as with everything in life, patience counts.

i poke around a bit and find the flakes, scammers, scalpers and drifters who are all trying to shake a few bucks out of the situation with tickets that they may or may not have. nothing’s too interesting until i come across an ad something akin to:

wanna go see madonna?
SWF 40, has an extra ticket. let me know.

this has been posted only a couple of hours earlier on that friday with the show the next day. so i fire off an email saying that i’m a solid madonna fan, but tack on that i mostly only know the hits and the pepsi commercials. i add that i’m not a maniac and will at least be funny and a good conversationalist. as a point of authenticity, i stick my phone number. (and to be very clear, i did not say i was hung like a hebrew national or anything like that.)

the poster calls almost immediately. we have a long conversation and she says, “well, i’ve already promised the ticket to someone else, but we could have coffee together tomorrow if you’d like.”

why not? if you think of life as being nothing more than a pinball machine, and the only way you accumulate points is by vibrating between the bumpers, you’ll never get high score by saying “no,” right?

she sent me a somewhat-hard-to-make-out photo and said she’d be at the roulette wheel at new york, new york (NYNY). we’d meet something close to noon.

the next day i put on, as johnny cash says, “my cleanest dirty shirt;” along with a pair clean underwear (as your mom says, “in case you get in an accident”) and headed to the strip from CD’s place in henderson.

little did i know then, i would not return for 42 hours.

i quickly found my craigslist poster at the NYNY roulette table, and as promised, we head to the casino’s coffee shop. the immediately striking thing about my new-found acquaintance is that every casino employee we come across knows her by name. not some of them. all of them.

she gets a coffee, i ask if i can go one better and order breakfast. no problem.

i get an egg white omelet with sourdough toast and after adjusting the tines on my fork (because they looked like they’d been modeled after british dental care) we have a long talk-see. she’s stretching my brain just a bit because she’s the curator at a southern CA art museum, and before that worked at the met in new york city. as you already know, i’m a big fan of modern art, but really i only know the top tier popular artists -- if you get a little below the surface, i’m not as strong.

somewhat sardonically, one of the pit bosses here at NYNY used to work with her there and is a good friend of hers. in fact, it’s the biggest reason she plays here.

we’re nearing the natural ending part of the conversation and when i go to pay the bill she shakes it off. “the casino’s picking it up.”

aha.

i’d watched her play for awhile earlier. she’s a medium roller and from everything i can tell, fairly regular here. that explains why everyone knows her. it also explains why the meal is complimentary (“comped” in gambling parlance).

“great. thanks.”

i say my goodbye and head to the valet for my car. as the car is being pulled up, my phone rings. it’s the curator.

“howdy.”

“hi. my date for the evening just backed out. you still wanna see madonna?”

“of course.” we’ve blown enough time this afternoon that it’s now only a couple of hours before showtime. i get a nasty glare from the valet when i send him back from whence he came and make a 180 back into the casino.

the curator and i go up to her room. she changes while i take in the surroundings -- this being my first time in NYNY. it’s nice (enough) and quasi art deco. a little vegas flashy-trashy which is not only what you expect, it’s what you want.

after a short wait (including a long shoe selection process on her part) the curator’s ready and we go to her (comped) seats. they’re way in the back of the MGM, but dead center. not good for seeing the performer up-close, but really good for the spectacle as a whole. the sound is as good as you could hope for a giant concrete cave.

the show itself is everything you would hope from madonna. a little in your face. a little posture-y. tacky in more ways than one. lotsa costume changes. multi-media out the wazoo and a whole lot of groove.

i like it.

we walk out and the curator is unimpressed: one, the show lacks cohesion as an artistic piece; and two, in case i hadn’t noticed, madonna sucks.

i’m just getting ready to explain how much the curator needs to lighten up when she says, “hungry?”

sure.

we go to NYNY’s chop house. i order clam chowder and king crab. she has a filet.

the food’s good. the service is very attentive.

we talk about gambling (she’s interested in the fact i’m a card counter) and modern art (she’s impressed with my knowledge of it, but i suspect she’s just being kind for me even trying to engage the conversation at her level) and madonna (bad bad bad vs. pretty damn good) and britney spears. she noticeably flinches when i bring the latter name up, so i make sure to spend extra time talking about that.

and no, it’s not that i hate the curator. i like her, in fact. she’s smart, interesting, hyper-educated and a fisherman. it’s damn hard to find a woman with all four of those traits. but that’s not going to throw off my conversation, right? britney spears needs to be “understood,” and i have precisely the level of mind to bring that comprehension to the masses, so i do.

we finish the meal. the tab, without booze or desert, is $125. the casino picks it up.

now this is a life i can get used to.

she asks, “you wanna play?”

“no. i have this thing about losing. i don’t like it and it puts me in a bad mood.”

“oh ... you wanna watch me play?”

“sure.” my brother is a big martin-galer (someone who doubles their bet every time they lose) on ultra-low-limit roulette so i’ve watched a fair amount of the wheel in my life. i understand the gambling hook involved. but for me it’s just fun to watch, i have no interest in playing.

i watch the curator for a few hours. she’s up and down, but as you’d expect, slowly trending downward. on those spins that she does hit, she’s what’s known as a “george” -- a heavy tipper. over the long run that’s gonna make beating a game like this even more impossible, but it does go a long way to explaining why she’s so famous.

the crowd on a saturday night is interesting. NYNY isn’t drawing in the well-heeled glammerati like other strip joints do -- it’s more of the 20-something’s trying to look cool. but the house clearly making money hand-over-fist. the curator’s table is jovial and fun.

the table’s crowded enough that i’m forced to stand behind the players’ barstools to make sure all the bettors have room to act. unfortunately this also puts me right at the edge of the (heavy) pedestrian flow immediately behind my back.

i endure the occasional jostle, until unngha, it feels like i’ve just been punched in the kidney. not hard, but absolutely deliberate. i ignore it.

then unngha, i’m hit again.

i turn around to see some little gourd-headed filipino guy grinning at me. my adrenaline starts to fire up.

why you little bastard. i’ll mash you through the pad in this carpet ... but wait. his look isn’t one of aggression. it’s one of familiarity. i dial quickly through the zillions of people i’ve ever known who might blind sucker punch me in vegas. and then it’s my mind takes the blow ...

good god, this is my dear friend the punkin. the punkin dropped out of the hell hole of a university that i went to and essentially became a full-time record store clerk. his musical knowledge is top notch and i’ve spent countless hours talking to him in the record store with solid goldstein. we’ve played on trivia teams together -- always winning, always brutally vicious to the losers.

i could tell you a million things about the punkin, but three will suffice for now. one is, aside from my wife, he’s the only person to wear her wedding dress (he looked remarkably good in it too: white’s a good color for him; lace, a nice pattern); another is i gave him a ride back from a blasters show in fort collins one time, and upon finding out i didn’t have a car stereo he (along with solid goldstein) proceeded to sing acapella versions of ABBA songs all the way back; but the capper is this guy was my original source of that copy of prince’s black album i got for you (way back before it was “legal”). so seriously, what’s not to like about the man?

i ask the obvious, “what the hell are you doing here?” because the punkin essentially lives on a low form of high minimum wage, and has for decades. going to vegas from CO is not something you’ll just do on a whim; unless, of course, you wanna get real, real good with that hitchhiking thumb.

but wait.

of course i know what he’s doing here. he’s here right this second for the same reason i am. he’s here to see madonna.

“i’m here to see madonna,” adding the punkin essential, “she was awesome.” there are few people in the world that can tell you every debbie gibson album, in order, and follow that info with every b-side the sex pistols ever released. but the punkin is one of them.

it’s good to see him. we talk for a couple of hours as the curator plays at the table.

not long after the punkin has wandered off, two 20-something males step up to the roulette table. they’re goateed, mildly fashion conscious and overly cool. they don’t have that smell of the genuine “stud” article, certainly not in the way you do. they probably have a ’72 firebird with a primered fender sitting just outside.

one of the them puts a c-note on 1-red (i don’t remember now, but this may well have been the table limit for a single number), while the other stands stupidly slack-jawed (yet cooly slack-jawed).

i’ve never seen anyone bet that much on a single roulette number, so i watch this spin with a closer eye than most.

the ball drops out of orbit. click, click, clunk. 1-red.

ah. too bad. it would have been cool if he’d hit it, but he bet on ... wait a minute ...

i look back at his bet. sure enough, he’s hit it.

i won’t go into a lot of detail, here, but as an aside let’s just say i’m a casino hater. i hate them because they offer games that mathematically cannot be beaten and on the very few that can will treat you like a criminal if you do so. which is to say i love a winner.

i shout and shake my fist in the air. “all right! alllll riiiiight!”

and i am, quite literally, the only person at the table excited or shocked in any way. the dealer doesn’t flinch or care. no one else at the table has even seemed to notice. and the guy who has just won, who is having $3500 pushed toward him at this very moment, who has just hit the only mathematical possibility of winning (a 1-in-38 shot) at all, has no response. none. i mean it’s the same kind of expression you would have if you were driving past an automated car wash in heavy traffic. he acts like this happens to him every day.

and there’s simply no possible way that’s true.

he hands $400 to his slack-jawed pal and tells the dealer he wants to see a pit boss.

his pal bets $100 on black while he bets another $100 on 1-red and the dealer spins. the wheel hits black, the slack-jawed pal doubles his money. the original bettor looks just the tiniest bit surprised, as though he can’t believe he hadn’t hit back-to-back numbers.

a pit boss wanders over and the kid says, “i just won $3500, i want a suite. not a free room, a suite.” this on the “sold-out” memorial day weekend.

in the meantime the slack-jaw has let the $200 ride on black and has hit twice. meaning he now has $800. he moves the $800 stack from black to red and hits, advancing to $1600. he hands $400 back to his cool pal at the same time the pit boss hands him a room key.

slack-jaw puts $200 on red, misses, and cashes out his $1000 in chips as his pal says to the pit boss, “make sure to throw in a bottle of your best champagne.”

before i can take in everything that’s just happened, the curator’s old friend from the met steps up. it’s 04:00 now, he’s just gotten off his shift, so we head back over to the coffee shop giving the curator and the pit boss can catch up.

he eyes me with suspicion, as well he should, but we get along good enough. he’s pleasant and well-spoken, which by default puts him in the top 2% of pit bosses without him having to actually do anything else.

after four hours of conversation, the sun is well up and we’ve run out of things to talk about. the boss excuses himself. the casino picks up the tab for the drinks. as i’m getting ready to leave, i make an off-handed comment to the curator about prince being in town and how it’d be nice to see him.

she lights up. “i’ll buy us tickets.”

i fire back, “no you won’t.”

“why not?”

“because, one, tickets are expensive. NYNY isn’t part of the mandalay bay chain {b1: they weren’t then, they are now} which means that your casino won’t comp them since they’d have to pull real money out of their pocket to buy them.

“and two, you don’t know me. we’ve met. we’ve seen madonna. but you know nothing about me, really. i won’t accept a gift of that size from you, when we really don’t know each other at all.”

she’s puzzled but accepting of my strange explanations. there’s an awkward pause, but really it’s only awkward for her. i’m dazed from being up 24 hours, having seen madonna’s pointy bust, being punched in the kidney by the punkin and seeing tiny nimrods win fairly big money.

“well,” she says, “you’re a card counter, right? you could just win the money for tickets.”

now this is an angle i hadn’t considered. i roll it around in my head a bit and then start up. “well, it’s a possibility, i guess. the important thing for you to understand is card counting isn’t like it is in the movies. the edge you have is incredibly thin. you can win, in fact you are a favorite to do so, but there’s a big chance you’ll bust.”

i roll it a bit more. “ideally we’d play for something big, like black {$100 chips}, but the risk of losing the bankroll is too large. we’d have to play for something less ... say, green {$25 chips}, and hope we just have a good quick lesson in expectation ... we win the money we need, maybe get lucky and win a bit more quickly than we should ...

“... but we have to start out with a pretty good size stake. say, $200 apiece, and agree that if we lose it, we lose it; but if we double it, we have enough to buy tickets.”

the curator quickly agrees but shows some puzzlement. “well, if we’re putting in $200 each, why not just buy the tickets straight out?”

“because this isn’t about us buying the tickets. it’s about a casino buying them for us ... oh, and we’d have to go downtown because the blackjack rules are better there.”

she just lights up, “downtown? where’s that?”

this is a question i’ve heard a zillionty times in my life, and aside from the “who’s buried in grant’s tomb?” aspect of the question (it’s both grant and his wife, by the way), the thing that surprises me is how unknown downtown is. it’s a purer, rawer, more original form of las vegas.

“you’ll find out. but we can’t play now. i need to be as sharp as possible, and that means i need sleep.”

“you could just crash in my room if you wanted.”

“sure.”

which is how i found myself in bed with a woman i’d never known a day earlier. and to be clear; no sex, just sleep.

we wake up at 14:00 and head down to the coffee shop for quick (and comped) breakfast. i start giving the curator card counting theory along with casino attitude toward play and the things i need her to do as to help disguise what’s actually going on as my sidekick. she’s loving it. “it’s like being a spy!”

well sorta. except there’s no glamour, no terrorists and if you get black booked you’ll probably never be able to walk into a casino again.

we go downtown with the intention of starting at the plaza and working our way down. it’s 15:00 when we walk through the door, prince is scheduled to start in three hours. in long proposition mathematical terms, with $25 base units, we should expect to win around $40 an hour. not enough money to make the target of $400, but if we start winning, i’ll press it a little.

we’ll see.

i’ve always been a very low stakes card counter only because i don’t like the idea of having the amount of money i gamble influence my play. it’s much easier to be cold and calculating when there’s a few bucks riding on the table than thinking, “you know, if i lose this bet, i won’t have a roof over my head any more.”

we sit down at a double-deck table by ourselves (that’s desirable -- such are the joys of playing downtown), breaking even after several shuffles. and then the deck starts warming up. we hit several hands in a strongly positive deck (more big cards than little cards are left -- that’s also desirable) and are starting to get enough casino heat that it seems like a good time to leave.

i have the curator cash out while i make my way to the horseshoe. immediately the deck at the table i’m playing goes positive and by the time she’s caught up to me, i take a break to add up the money we’ve won so far. in a mere 25 minutes we’ve won $490. we almost certainly have our tickets.

i tell the curator we’re all set and hand her $45.

“what’s this for?”

“that’s your half of the amount we made over target. you’re getting paid $45 to see prince.” she goes berserk. much in the same way housewives do when they’ve just guessed the correct cost of a vacuum cleaner on “the price is right.”

we now have the luxury of a couple of hours to burn so i show her the beauty of downtown, including playing 10cent chips on the roulette wheel at the el cortez and snarfing a 99cent shrimp cocktail at the golden gate.

about an hour and a half before the show we make our way back up to mandalay bay. i can seen several people with tickets for sale, but not a lot of buyers. this may be pretty easy.

i approach one guy, but he’s asking twice face and clearly isn’t interested in negotiatin, so i step up to another. every one of these guys is going to have the same problem, namely the hoity-toity vegas types will already have tickets. it’s not cool to take your girlie and buy tickets from some shark at the door.

and they’re going to have this problem in much less than an hour. this, of course, means we’ll get in.

i pull my latest target aside. “how much for two?”

“$150 each.”

we certainly have that much money budgeted here, but i’m not about ready to let this guy take a profit from me -- especially when he’ll be choking on those tickets in a mere 20 minutes. he knows that’s going to happen, but he doesn’t know that i know that’s going to happen.”

“i’ll give you $200 for a pair.”

he laughs, “dude, this show is sold out. they have a face value of $125. you think i’m going to sell them to you for less than face? you’re crazy ... in fact, it’s insulting.”

“well, i’ll tell you what ... when you get over being offended, if i haven’t already got tickets,” i point across the floor, “you’ll find me standing over in that corner. but be warned my price drops $5 every minute past 20:00, whether or not prince has come on by then.”

i don’t walk three steps before he grabs me by the shoulder. “okay, okay. you’re gettin’ a good deal here, you know that.”

oh, we both know what the deal is, pal.

i give him $200 and he gives me two inner-circle tickets.

the show is spectacular, but the crowd isn’t into it, which somewhat dampens the experience. the high point may well be maceo singing “wonderful world,” followed closely by prince doing “peach.”

when the show gets over, the curator is very pleased. prince was much closer to the mark she was hoping for than madonna. we head back to NYNY and grab (yet another) comped meal.

there’s a couple of hours still before her pit boss pal gets off work. she wants to play some more roulette, but my body clock needs a serious winding before it grinds to a standstill.

i bid the curator adieu.

while i’m waiting for my car, i add it all up. in the last day and three quarters i’ve:

* been kidney punched by a pal i haven’t seen in over a decade.

* seen the biggest roulette win of my life (and have been the only person even remotely excited about it).

* had four free meals totaling about US$100.

* seen both madonna and prince.

* had a free night (of sorts) at NYNY.

* $245 more in my pocket than when i started.

it may not read strange, but that’s certainly the way it felt. certainly stranger than the next trip to las vegas: where i find myself unconscious on the floor of the flamingo, and the curator’s pit boss returns me from the hospital at 04:00 in the morning.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

note to king feddy

your Highness,

when i was in the bathroom at denny's yesterday (a place for both visual and old factory reasons i wouldn't recommend going, by the way), i saw that they had one of those plastic fold-out "baby changing stations."

this one had been visually modified by a cultural humorist of sorts, the "c" had been crossed out to make it say "baby hanging station." which i'm sure means that we can look forward to every one of them being modded across the country by the powers of mediocrity over time -- much in the way hand dryers always have scratched onto the instructions:



4. wipe hands on pants.



always in that scroll that looks suspiciously like whatever the equivalent of a phd is in the crips.

but that's not why i write you.

i noticed the station also has braille on it, which REALLY makes me wonder what the hell it says.

a girlfriend in college had a sister that could read braille. we were standing in front of an ATM (this was in the old old days, when they were still called "transaction banks") and i had her translate what was written. it said something like, "sorry, this machine is unusable if you're blind. you have to go inside. oh, and watch that crack in the sidewalk by the front door, it's a bitch."

i've known a couple of blind guys.

one was chuck collins, the father of folk singer judy collins. he was what is called in the oil industry as a "land man" -- someone who buys and sells mineral rights in land (this would be very different than, say, a "tool pusher," the guy that moves pipe on a well -- very often from the deep south and speaking cajun dialects, these guys are more affectionately called [in a very non-racist way -- all the ones i've met are white] a "coon ass," and using the expression is the entire reason i write this parenthetical).

chuck was an interesting guy.


he didn't use a cane and thought guide dogs were a cheat. instead, as he walked down the street, he'd wave his hand in front of himself snapping his fingers.

he'd developed radar. he knew trees and curbs. he knew the distance to his house in the middle of the block (although i'm not sure how). when we'd give him a ride and drop him off i'd watch in awed fascination as he walked down the street. he could use his locator as a nice party trick where he could stand in the middle of a room, snap a few times and tell you the dimensions to within a foot or two.

he had a mean streak, which got worse when he'd drink. but he never unleashed that on me, thank god.

some genius in the military asked chuck to come speak to the recently wounded from the vietnam war, undoubtedly as part of the "blind people can help blind people (because we don't know what the hell to do with them)" mentality. he was there for about ten minutes before he made the newly dark soldier cry. he was summarily asked to leave, never to return.

my favorite trick of his was you could hand him a bar magnet and he could tell you which way was north.

we were pals. he had glass eyes and sometimes he'd let me tap on them.

but to my mind, here's the amazing psychological thing about chuck ...

i have *never* talked about him without someone interrupting with a joke. now i'll admit that when telling a story, interruption by americans is always problematic. in the valley it's chronic. around someone like stearno, it's unavoidable

but the interruption always fires off three thoughts in me in quick sequence. one is, "have you known so many blind people that this isn't worth listening to, and you need to spice it up on your own?" the second is, "do you think being blind is funny?" and then the capper, "you're so uncomfortable with both this concept and my means of telling it that you have to interrupt."

and THAT means that this is the first time i've talked about chuck collins without being interrupted.

so thanks for that, feddy. and like i've told so many girlfriends, just because you were forced, doesn't mean i don't appreciate it.

you'll need to excuse me. i have to go hang a baby now.

your servant,
b1

Monday, May 5, 2008

Hobee's, Sunnyvale

- or -

"Return of the Mortician"

Intensely sorry you couldn't make the lunch today, Feddy, but I understand (at least on a visceral level) the importance of keeping subjects happy. It's hard being King.



Which means that it's all-for-naught that I loaded my CD player with John Coltrane for you yesterday. I was so distraught, in fact, that I listened to KFJC instead on the way to get some comfort food. I know you listen to Byrne's streaming radio, you should give KFJC a try (they stream) -- especially in their celebration of the month of Mayhem.


I didn't go to our usual joint across from De Anza College, instead I went to the one at Mathilda and 101. In the shadow of the zeppelin hanger, this is the place to see the retired developers of the original IC's figure out how much their stock portfolios are worth. These days most of them wince.


I was quickly seated at a 2-top by a host that would've been more at home in a zoot suit and given a regular ice tea. Ice tea's a problem in a place like this, Feddy. They always try to throw some exotic sounding herb into it all and then turn around and charge you twice as much. What they don't tell you is jojoba is actually used to choke misbehaving camels and prostitutes in the middle of the Sahara.

Very often when I'm by myself I get ultra-slow service. Assuming that it's not due to my color, I'm guessing it's because I'm not in a hurry and always "busy," either thinking, reading, writing; or more commonly, acting like I'm thinking, reading or writing.

When my tight-pants'd waitress finally did show up, about 15 minutes later, I got the standard you've come to know and love: cheesey scramble (egg whites only) and blueberry coffee cake (center, not edge piece).

The food arrived unsettlingly fast and I took my time chowing, reading news on my hiptop, and occasionally seasoning my meal with salt from my tears of loneliness.

At the end of my $10 nosh I was writing insulting dispatches about some incredibly poor writing I was reading when who should greet me but Paleface. If memory serves right, you hate him, but he was the HR guy during my stint at Apple -- the one who helped me get the gig in the Olde Countrye.

I haven't seen Paleface in yonks, and even though he always reminds me of an incredibly nice mortician, I like him quite a bit I caught him up on the tragedy and spectre that is my life. He did the same, but more quickly, because, come on, no one lives as big as I do. Like you, he's gone for the 21st century comb-over (which is to say he's shaved his head) and it looks good.

After lunch I headed to the Denny's next door to steal their Wifi signal and post to you while drinking a Strawberry Mango Sour. Unfortunately, something in their "system" is down, so I'm forced to thumb-type to you on my hiptop, using the super-secret address ... Which means this thing will look like a lay-out melee.

All while I jack my blood sugar level dangerously high.

But hey, it's the thought that counts, right Feddy?

Sunday, May 4, 2008

note to king feddy

your Highness,

something i forgot to mention in our phone calls last week (and since
monday isn't a dead-lock for me, i wanted to pass it along now).

the oakland opera theatre (http://www.oaklandopera.org/) is doing a
version of duke ellington's only opera, "queenie pie," this month.
interesting in several respects:

* it was never finished. what's been put together is a series of rough
notes, with some additional capping orchestration. (duke's son, "don't
call me 'paul'" mercer did quite a bit of work on the 1st performance
along with the then-still-existing duke ellington orchestra.)

* it's very well acclaimed. robert palmer gave it a super-glowing
review in the new york times years ago (means more coming from him than
probably any other whitey because of his work/near-death experiences in
jamaica with lee "scratch" perry). it's supposed to be an order of
magnitude better than "porgy and bess," which, let's face it, isn't that
hard.

* it's hideously difficult to see live. and it's playing right in our
own backyard in what has to be the greatest city to see it on the west
coast (outside of compton).

i suspect the prince and the toe are too young to fully appreciate it.
but you might be able to convince the trouble and strife to either get a
sitter and go with you, or possibly watch the mutant off-spring in your
stead (although the emotional cost there might be prohibitively high).

i'm still not certain of my travel plans, but i *think* i'll be around
at least a day or two where i could work in a look-see to check it out.

your servant,
b1

p.s. this posted with the super-secret email address from my hiptop. if
you're seeing a post, it works!

Friday, May 2, 2008

Super-Private Letter to King Feddy

{pre-script: i tried posting this as a comment but blogger started puking on the html it wouldn't allow there, but did allow as a main entry. i got sick of editing the offensive code out, so i'm just sticking it as an entry. people who aren't feddy, don't read this. it's private. really. i mean there's sex stuff in here. and kitchen utensils. and recording devices. and swearing. and i call the king a "bitch." seriously. at least one of the things i've just said is true. it's not pretty. don't read it.}

your Highness,

first and foremost, thank you for taking the time to dictate to your scribes (or whatever the hell it is that you do that manages to actually make words up here) and post a "review" in, oh, THE SAME FRICKEN WEEK that we ate. that's mighty big of you.

two small points.

one, i do a lot of things when i write, but one of them is not misrepresenting the way you talk. you swear a lot. i absolutely promise you that when we were talking about i restaurant you either said "who would be so fucked-up as to call a restaurant that?" or "what kind of a fucked-up name is that for a restaurant?" i'm pretty sure it was the first, but it may have been the second. it's definitely one of the two. definitely.

i'm not baggin' on you for it. it was a conversation that we had in private, that you had no way of knowing was going to be published (and before we had talked about "here"), so i put it in for minimal shock-value and veritae.

i like talking to you. i like your language, style and form. i like what you represent. i'm not taking umbrage to your use of the word.

when it comes to using the word "fuck," i barely use it. it's a word *i* use in conversation less than once a month (i do quote it from other people -- in fact that's my most common usage). outside of "extreme personal situations," i think it's a low word used by the stupid and dull. people tend to write much more aggressively than they behave -- in fact it's one of the big problems of the internet and electronic communication (except in my case, of course, where it's pure genius).

i can partially prove my usage. it's safe to say if i was going to swear anywhere, it'd probably be here. if you go back and look at the arch, you'll see i've used the word three times in two-and-a-half years. two of those were semi-quotes, one of them was pure me.

i don't quote someone's usage of it when they're not using it. i don't.

in fact, you pretending little swine, look at what you wrote. IN THE SAME PARAGRAPH you said "WTF?" and that is right. that is the way you talk. except you don't use letters, you use words. (unless you're trying to be funny; which is, in fact, pretty funny, but that's not your style of humor.)

in the opinion that i hold (that you would undoubtedly argue is not all that accurate) you have the memory of a pasta colander. you hold the cooked thought, but drain away the hot water that made it that way.

at some level i can even prove your raw memory expertise.

when you interviewed me at apple ... the day i met you ... you interviewed me with your HEAD AGAINST THE WALL THE ENTIRE INTERVIEW for chrissake ... you were all spun from doing a/ux work ... you didn't want to interview me, neither did the deadman (who was your interviewing partner) ... so rather than interview you just told me what apple was like ... i was absolutely convinced that it was a test ... you guys wanted to see if i'd crack under the weirdness of it all.

now.

you don't remember this event, or if you do, it's only because i told you about it later. (because last time i told you about this you said you didn't remember. oh, but you might not remember THAT. arrrrrrrrrgh. why is it i want to say "fuck" here?) and the event i'm talking about is much less than that.

so when i say that's the word you're using, that's the fricken word you're using. i'll go further and say you have no idea how much you swear. none. (and don't start in on the $5 f-bomb thing you have going at your house).

read this next part very carefully:

i am going to tape the next phone conversation we have that's longer than three minutes.

then we'll either:

a) go back and listen to it and agree that it's what you said and count the number of times you swear.

= or =

b) i'll just post the transcript here.

i suggest blocking my phone number if you don't want to see who is going to end up right. because being wrong's a bitch.

two, your concept of journalistic integrity is both forthright and touching. the fact that you have moral fortitude is one of the things i've always liked about you. it's a peculiar trait to find in anyone in a valley that's otherwise an ethical vacuum.

i'm intimately familiar with the concept and everything revolving around it. remember, i went out for years with a high powered business editor and wrote a regular column for a major publication.

(i have intentionally posted that letter to stick a thumb in the eye of journalistic integrity. it is the reason i posted it.)

ANYWAY.

taking that line gets you no free food.

honestly feddy, if i got a free meal do you think i'd be too afraid to say that or somehow cover it up? you know me better than that.

"i would say that 'the food sucked rhino,' but i was given a free coupon. what's not to like about that? it was pretty damn good."

this is a grander experiment in can-i-get-a-free-meal-this-way? i honestly don't know. (for someone who is as aware and capable in art as you are, you sure don't have a very good feel for the concept of "performance" over-and-above a stump stage.)

AND.

no one is going to read this damn thing for the reviews. they won't. well, they kind of might by freakish google hits, but it's not like this is yelp. so what we say doesn't really matter.

AND.

that's ignoring the much bigger and true fact that almost no one will read this, period. between us we have, maybe ten people that will read it on a "regular" (meaning at least monthly) basis.

okay, so i was going to post this as a letter on the main page, but that seems too overblown. i'll stick it as a comment -- most people don't read these damn things anyway (if i'd waited a week to post the comment, no one would see it except for you, and that is too underblown).

your servant,
b1

iRestaurant

First off, it isn’t “I Restaurant”, it is “iRestaurant”. That is initially what struck me about the place. Apple is nearby, and makes all sorts of ‘i’ stuff - iPod, iMovie, iMac, etc. When we drove by, I thought, “iRestaurant, what does that mean?” Over the next couple weeks we noticed a bunch of interesting looking restaurants, so we decided to try them all and report back. But since iRestaurant was the one that caught my eye first, it became our first stop.

[And once we actually went to the restaurant, and were close to the sign out front, I noticed that the dot of the i is actually a heart, so perhaps it is “i heart Restaurant”? There was also some kanji on the sign, with what looked to me like a very stylized “love” at the top of the symbol, which for me, sort of reinforced my “i heart Restaurant” theory. I didn’t ask though.]

I also need to say that when you read B1, you’re getting a very stylized (and I’d argue not all that accurate) picture of me talking. I read the quotes he attributes to me, and always think, I don’t talk like that, I don’t use those phrases or words or swear that much. So hey, take it with a grain of salt. “Baggin-n-saggin t-shirt outfits” - WTF? I had on jeans and a t-shirt both of which fit. Maybe B1 was baggin-n-saggin, but I sure wasn’t.

As always, lunch with B1 is a learning experience. The Mutant Disco playing in his car had some good tunes I was familiar with, though I mistakenly identified the instrumental that was on when I got in as some Devo or derivative number. I also learned about (and experienced, a pizza hut turn, parking hollywood style, and riding jfk style - yeah.)

I should have taken notes and photos. I’ll figure this out as I go along. My first stop at iRestaurant was the restroom. It had some crazy fancy sinks, and an electric trash can. Why an electric trash can? I’m not sure. Perhaps everyone has an electric trash can these days and I’m just living in the dark ages. It threw me off for a second when I turned to throw away my paper towel. The lid was closed and there was some sort of control panel on top of the canister. Upon closer inspection, there were two buttons, “open” and “close” with what looked like a little LED between them. The LED was off, or blank, or perhaps not an LED at all, but it made me think that the trashcan was off, or not plugged in. “How will I get this thing open if the power is off?” It also crossed my mind that maybe it was a paper shredder (whoa, these guys are so high tech they shred their paper towels), or maybe an incinerator. Eventually I pressed “open” and the lid silently and smoothly opened. I tossed my towel, pressed “close” and went back to our table.

I join B1 at our table. There is a one page, two-sided lunch menu that lists 60? 80? choices for lunch. B1 is going through the dinner? menu, which is a huge binder with pictures. He’s trying to get me to order something insane. I decline. The owner (or at least someone who seems to have some elevated status in the restaurant) comes over to see what we want to drink. B1 goes for a coke, I ask for some tea and a glass of water. I never got the glass of water, which is the only bad thing I can really say about the whole experience. I also ask him about one of the dishes on the menu, but it comes with shrimp (and I don’t like seafood), so I tell him I want to peruse the menu a bit more.

On the one hand, I feel like I should order something I’ve had at lots of other Chinese restaurants, like Mongolian Beef. That way I could compare it to other places and say - the best Mongolian Beef ever, or 7/10 on the Mongolian Beef scale. The menu however, had lots of choices, many of which I’m not familiar with. So I decided to go with something that I’d never had before, but not too far out there. I think it was called “shredded pork with garlic sauce”. It was the first thing on the menu, and I figured that was as good a place to start as any.

As you’ve probably read and seen below, B1 ordered an appetizer of “magic flavored fish”. It turned out to be a plate of peanuts with little fried bits of fish. I like tuna, but not much else out of the water, but figure I’ll give it a shot. Deep fried fish bits might be good. Turns out they’re not. They are nasty. The peanuts look like they’ve got some seasoning on them, so I try a few. The seasoning isn’t very strong, they taste pretty much like plain peanuts. On the whole, this dish isn’t for me. It may have been the most exquisitely made “magic flavored fish”, but I wouldn’t know. It was weird however, and that was good. When I go to a restaurant I don’t want some watered down Americanized version of the food, I want the real thing. I suspect this was the real thing, which just happens to not be for me. (Or maybe it is just some made up nonsense to make people like me think we’re getting the real thing. For all I know the cooks in the back were on the floor in hysterics - “they ordered the magic flavored fish, bwa-ha-ha, what should we serve them? I don’t know, fry up these fish scraps and mix it with some peanuts”) The most odd thing however was the plastic spoon. The restaurant is pretty fancy and nice. The food came on nice china. Why a plastic spoon? Not sure. Maybe the magic is too intense for metal.

Our food showed up shortly after. The lotus root on B1's dish looks cool. Weird. I try one and it tastes like a water chestnut, but with a bit of kick at the end. I though they were great. My dish was good, but not exactly what I was hoping for. The pork definitely wasn’t shredded. It was just little pieces of pork. The sauce wasn’t all that garlicky. It was supposed to be spicy, but it wasn’t. It was good, just not what I was expecting.

There were at least a couple big flat panels playing music videos (the music was either off or on very low - so they weren’t distracting and didn't interfere with conversation). Some of them were corny, or just Chinese versions of some already bad American music video. A few however, were out of this world. Stunning visually, funny, interesting - all with no sound. They were super.

Our bill was $18 something, which on reflection seems too low. I thought each of our lunch specials was at least $6.99, which means the magic flavored fish plus a coke and a pot of tea (and no glass of water) would only be $4, which seems too low. Once again, notes would have helped here. Next time. Maybe you get a drink with the lunch special?

You might think I’d be down on this restaurant, but I’m not. I thought it was a great place. The dishes we ordered didn’t wow me, but I will say that everything seemed really fresh and of the highest quality. I suspect there is something on the menu that will knock my socks off, it will just take a few trips to find it. The restaurant was very nice and the owners seem to being trying hard to create a high quality place. There was a lot of attention to detail at iRestaurant - it is miles away from your typical Chinese greasy spoon.