On the first day of New York my true love gave to me hot rain so people couldn't tell I was sweating. Laurence, Dave's old boss in a way, arrived in New York city about the same time we did. We walked with bikes and backpacks, shook Laurence's hand, and synced strides to his fifth story apartment. I never saw her with my own eyes but I was asked to dampen my sense of sound around Laurence's landlord's rooms. Much like a limited god, she occupied the first two floors and was always present, never seen. I prayed to never meet her. It came true.
Television and other reputable sources told me New York was a safe haven for Italian chefs to hole up and devote their lives to the perfection of pizza. After the usual host-traveler initiation we acquired a half and half pizza. The pie, although not exactly the Brooklyn style, was a taste celebration. Again I exceeded my preconceived limit of two slices. I wouldn't have survived Prohibition.
After over-eating Dave and I took to the streets we so recently came from. Our feet glowed with new movie-star-chomper-white shoes. Dancing shoes. New York City is go big or go home and home is very far away. I would have liked for my honeymoon with my Reebox to not be on a rainy night but this is how life enduring memories are created.
New York subways are the 21st century version of the river Phlegethon. There are rats. Many of them. Exiting the subway I am baptized in cool air. The marquee on the club would have read 'Daedelus' if it had been a classy joint. Classy places don't have five dollar beer and well shot specials. For this I am glad Santo's Party House was not a high end club.
Dave and I throw as many drinks back as our feet would allow before stomping off to the dance floor. No one dances for at least the first hour or two at dance shows unless, of course, Dave and I show up, a little bit late and a little too excited to be in New York at an underground break-through show. We invent the party. Like a shallow idea that squirms around and eats until it grows into an action, we affect people with the notion to dance. Dave talks to a girl, they are fond of him. I don't let love get in the way of my work. My business is gettin' down with myself.
The black light loves my shoes. If moths had been admitted there would have been two more parties at my feet. My legs had elongated brains of their own and I could do nothing but lean back with arms crossed and marvel at their Burlesque performance.
The late 19th century follows Daedelus around like pox. He is dressed for the Victorian age, sweating with dedication. He looks like a wealthy man on his death bed. Before him sits some kind of religious antique filled with square lights like an apartment building full of insomniacs. He puts them to bed and ushers them awake. The misery induced moans ring out in a speaker pounding chorus. "I've developed a sweet tooth for tempo" is all he says before the musical onslaught is unleashed. We scramble to keep up with this cherished maniac. He plays decapitated pieces of his well known songs. No time for full-lengths.
I lost track of time. My world was reduced to sound and movement. If Daedelus hadn't walked away from his Pandora's box I may have been enslaved in that world for eternity. With this kind of afterlife I could have a religion up and converting in no time. Daedelus returned for an encore. I had appointed myself the first prophet of musique concrete. Daedelus asked with his hands to go faster or slower and, leading my people, I pointed toward the sky. My offering was received.
Trains in New York City run all night. I have too much power. To conserve energy we ride that dirty combustion chamber to Laurence's fifth story apartment and sleep in his massive bed.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Preps, Ports, and Pots
I violated nature in Massachusetts. I have family living on Cape Cod, famous for summering, the birthplace of a beverage, and an out of control mechanical shark. Cape Cod is built on two layers of complaint. In the summer, residents whine about tourists and the traffic and naivete they bring. The winter brings piles of snow and sour faces.
It being summer, my only nutritional sources are seafood and ice cream. Thank god I love both. There are approximately three creameries per port town and approximately everyone visits them.
Like when Jesus walked on water or when everyone stopped listening to Fall Out Boy or like the after taste of chocolate above 70% cocoa, my mom arrived, without collective plan, on the East Coast. She is the day bringer. The Aztecs would have loved her. She is like that group of stretched and smiling people that double fist cups of water smack in the middle of the race. This long sojourn. My path. Rendre hommage a Twain.
We stayed with a friend of my mother's who lives in a spiral staircase. Robin, like my mom, enjoys life and doesn't consider inhibition a balk. She graced my ears with one of the only accents I've heard on my trip. It is in her house that my transgression was to take place.
In her sink, acting like a cell before the gallows, four brown and blue lobsters sit. The South Western corn bread is cooling. The clams have been consumed. The linguica and potatoes are soft. Judgment day is upon us. I am suddenly thrust into the eternal moral dilemma of Christian thought. I harbor infinite omnipotence but my glowing hands are slow with apprehension, for with power comes the deep and basic caring of a shepherd. In a moment I feel like the Sistine chapel is painted in my skull. A silent "fuck it" escapes my lips as I force the head of a crustacean into boiling water. I suppress kicks and squirms and, becoming misty eyed from a friendship only war could cultivate, I end the misery of a fallen comrade. He was motherfucking delicious.
It being summer, my only nutritional sources are seafood and ice cream. Thank god I love both. There are approximately three creameries per port town and approximately everyone visits them.
Like when Jesus walked on water or when everyone stopped listening to Fall Out Boy or like the after taste of chocolate above 70% cocoa, my mom arrived, without collective plan, on the East Coast. She is the day bringer. The Aztecs would have loved her. She is like that group of stretched and smiling people that double fist cups of water smack in the middle of the race. This long sojourn. My path. Rendre hommage a Twain.
We stayed with a friend of my mother's who lives in a spiral staircase. Robin, like my mom, enjoys life and doesn't consider inhibition a balk. She graced my ears with one of the only accents I've heard on my trip. It is in her house that my transgression was to take place.
In her sink, acting like a cell before the gallows, four brown and blue lobsters sit. The South Western corn bread is cooling. The clams have been consumed. The linguica and potatoes are soft. Judgment day is upon us. I am suddenly thrust into the eternal moral dilemma of Christian thought. I harbor infinite omnipotence but my glowing hands are slow with apprehension, for with power comes the deep and basic caring of a shepherd. In a moment I feel like the Sistine chapel is painted in my skull. A silent "fuck it" escapes my lips as I force the head of a crustacean into boiling water. I suppress kicks and squirms and, becoming misty eyed from a friendship only war could cultivate, I end the misery of a fallen comrade. He was motherfucking delicious.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Greatest City In America
There's a place called Baltimore. It's in Maryland. You've probably never heard of it. It's the greatest city in America. Self-proclaimed, of course. I stayed in a house of accents, some South African, some German, some a concoction. I was immediately enveloped by a weird warmth and a crayon-drawn welcoming picture. Genuine generosity feels a little wrong. It doesn't follow most American relationships in the their infancy. Being in a European household is like being in your parent's house, eating dinner in a reunion with only the cherished members of your extended family. The food itself reflects equality and happiness on a small, intimate level. A Matisse painting of dishes brighten the table. Colors swirl as plates are passed. Health and well-being play a central role in the food choices and everyday activities. Dinner was vegetables, a simple meat, bread and butter. Dessert was fruit salad.
Boys will be boys. We went to the best bar in America. Self-proclaimed, of course. Home brews are consistently shadowy. An IPA doesn't taste like an IPA. Their amber looks opaque. No one makes bitters. Merry making made its way to a new bar with new people. I shook hands with an almost caricatured variety. A ghetto resistant black man, light in the trousers and a bit too much finger in his greeting. The pretty girl that just doesn't want to admit it yet. Holding on to some sense of self worth. Dave set his teeth into her before introductions were completed. There was also the larger girl. Over compensating knowledge so that her brain would feel at ease in that corpulent prison. I was left to jab with the less beautiful. Something I'm used to. A fine experience because this girl was smart and witty. Her banter was like a dry riesling that pirouetted on the palate. Without her, the night would have been fraught with sober ennui.
I went to the bar to talk to a famous underground musician. Before I could permeate the fan girl wall I was waylaid by a stripper. She was one of those bitches that always has a nostril staring at you and can't keep that couple of run away strands out of her face. I drew attention to them by saying she had a lovely haircut. "I wouldn't be talking to you if your hair was bad," she managed to add to the conversation. She told me she would take me to all the hip spots of Baltimore, suggested I come see her dance. She would have promised me undying love if we had stayed at that wet counter any longer. Someone became bored and walked away. My acquaintances wouldn't believe that I had been hit on by an exotic dancer. Exotic doesn't have the same meaning anymore.
Boys will be boys. We went to the best bar in America. Self-proclaimed, of course. Home brews are consistently shadowy. An IPA doesn't taste like an IPA. Their amber looks opaque. No one makes bitters. Merry making made its way to a new bar with new people. I shook hands with an almost caricatured variety. A ghetto resistant black man, light in the trousers and a bit too much finger in his greeting. The pretty girl that just doesn't want to admit it yet. Holding on to some sense of self worth. Dave set his teeth into her before introductions were completed. There was also the larger girl. Over compensating knowledge so that her brain would feel at ease in that corpulent prison. I was left to jab with the less beautiful. Something I'm used to. A fine experience because this girl was smart and witty. Her banter was like a dry riesling that pirouetted on the palate. Without her, the night would have been fraught with sober ennui.
I went to the bar to talk to a famous underground musician. Before I could permeate the fan girl wall I was waylaid by a stripper. She was one of those bitches that always has a nostril staring at you and can't keep that couple of run away strands out of her face. I drew attention to them by saying she had a lovely haircut. "I wouldn't be talking to you if your hair was bad," she managed to add to the conversation. She told me she would take me to all the hip spots of Baltimore, suggested I come see her dance. She would have promised me undying love if we had stayed at that wet counter any longer. Someone became bored and walked away. My acquaintances wouldn't believe that I had been hit on by an exotic dancer. Exotic doesn't have the same meaning anymore.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Eastern Philosophy
Reaching the East Coast has a feeling of completion. It feels similar to home except caressing a different ocean. This is our half way point. A symbol of ongoing progress.
Washington, DC is one of the dirtier places I've slept and I've spent nights lying on dirt. City sanitation isn't in shambles. My opinion grew in the house of Dave's friend Tony like a bacteria in the mire of the place. Being in his home was akin to watching Animal House on repeat. Or if a heavy MDMA user developed Alzheimer's-like symptoms immediately after his golden fraternity years. Given that I did my best to avoid this type of environment in my college years, I didn't feel at peace in this den of partying.
I could breathe easily when outside. My much needed aerial respite was silently snatched away, however, by the monumental sights my eyes drank up in the heavy-with-humidity air. The Washington phallus thrusts towards the willing solar ovum, visible throughout the Capitol as an everlasting marker of patriarchal exuberance. The White House and Capitol building tug back at an age when gaudy structures, white hot via monetary and social monopoly, headed vast fields of cash crops that were maintained by black slaves. The stark white of the monuments seems as out of place as most of the rules and laws in the Bible in current time. This nearly stultifying chagrin is due to the African American population being DC's majority. What a significant shadow president Obama can cast upon the interior walls of the Oval Office.
The most placid of the monuments was Abraham Lincoln's. Even though its size is overwrought, the sense of awe cascades from the cool marble over everyone present who cares about anything (maybe there are fewer of these individuals than I believe). Inscribed on the two adjacent walls are the famous words from the famously bearded hawk of a man. Like a demure fawn in a sun nestled patch of meadow, a Japanese girl of indeterminable age throws up two V's and shows a slightly crooked but not at all unattractive smile. Abraham would have probably shared the almost overly cute grin in the presence of such signed victory no matter the superficiality of its intent or how long he's been dead.
At the bottom of the marble steps a sweating park ranger stands next to a ghetto blaster that shouts the words of Martin Luther King Jr. When King closes, the ranger begins a proclamation of his own. With dignified sprezzatura the moist man lifts our spirits and encourages literacy so that we too can be less bearded Abraham Lincolns. This speech is one of the more inspiring things I've heard from a man's mouth.
Washington, DC is one of the dirtier places I've slept and I've spent nights lying on dirt. City sanitation isn't in shambles. My opinion grew in the house of Dave's friend Tony like a bacteria in the mire of the place. Being in his home was akin to watching Animal House on repeat. Or if a heavy MDMA user developed Alzheimer's-like symptoms immediately after his golden fraternity years. Given that I did my best to avoid this type of environment in my college years, I didn't feel at peace in this den of partying.
I could breathe easily when outside. My much needed aerial respite was silently snatched away, however, by the monumental sights my eyes drank up in the heavy-with-humidity air. The Washington phallus thrusts towards the willing solar ovum, visible throughout the Capitol as an everlasting marker of patriarchal exuberance. The White House and Capitol building tug back at an age when gaudy structures, white hot via monetary and social monopoly, headed vast fields of cash crops that were maintained by black slaves. The stark white of the monuments seems as out of place as most of the rules and laws in the Bible in current time. This nearly stultifying chagrin is due to the African American population being DC's majority. What a significant shadow president Obama can cast upon the interior walls of the Oval Office.
The most placid of the monuments was Abraham Lincoln's. Even though its size is overwrought, the sense of awe cascades from the cool marble over everyone present who cares about anything (maybe there are fewer of these individuals than I believe). Inscribed on the two adjacent walls are the famous words from the famously bearded hawk of a man. Like a demure fawn in a sun nestled patch of meadow, a Japanese girl of indeterminable age throws up two V's and shows a slightly crooked but not at all unattractive smile. Abraham would have probably shared the almost overly cute grin in the presence of such signed victory no matter the superficiality of its intent or how long he's been dead.
At the bottom of the marble steps a sweating park ranger stands next to a ghetto blaster that shouts the words of Martin Luther King Jr. When King closes, the ranger begins a proclamation of his own. With dignified sprezzatura the moist man lifts our spirits and encourages literacy so that we too can be less bearded Abraham Lincolns. This speech is one of the more inspiring things I've heard from a man's mouth.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Options
To the people supporting and encouraging me,
If you email me your email address I will alert you when a new post is submitted. This way you don't have to refresh my page every fifteen seconds. If you like the suspense and excitement of not knowing when the next post could be up, just keep on doing what you're doing. My email, if you didn't know, is slvangilder@gmail.com.
Incredibly yours,
Samuel Lee VanGilder
If you email me your email address I will alert you when a new post is submitted. This way you don't have to refresh my page every fifteen seconds. If you like the suspense and excitement of not knowing when the next post could be up, just keep on doing what you're doing. My email, if you didn't know, is slvangilder@gmail.com.
Incredibly yours,
Samuel Lee VanGilder
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Mouth Off
Man! Who made this blog? It is never updated! But wait? What's this? A new... MOUTH STUFF!
Last I left off I was still in Atlanta, Georgia, which seems like quite a long time ago. Before leaving sticky Hotlanta, however, we visited another notable place of feasting: Vortex. Vortex is your typical bar and grill type restaurant and because of the common stereotype they felt it necessary to make some additions to the experience. Once being generally ignored and seated, a glance at the menu taught us some basic rules about being in a bar. Because I've never been in a bar before, I read through the list. There was a whole page of rules that were described with a vitriolic attitude. Rules such as "if asked to show your ID don't pull any shit! We WILL kick you out," "know what you're gonna drink when ordering from the bar and DON'T ask the bartender questions." The restaurant's claim to fame was, apparently, being rude and ambivalent to customers, a 'too cool for school' type of feel. Our waitress kept her eyes at half mast and her hip seemed to be perpetually popping. Not that this bothered us, it just seemed like a desperate attempt at being different. Their selling point should have been having savory burgers because they really were some delicious piles of meat and bread. It wasn't the best burger I've ever had (because I've been to The Counter in the Los Angeles area) but not being the best doesn't mean it isn't good. The portions were smaller but that didn't bother me since I always over eat anyway. I feel like I just wrote a Yelp review.
I was in the South. The dirty dirty South. I wanted a pulled pork sandwich. Dave was on a tight schedule to get to West Virginia to see his parents, leaving little time to dilly dally in search of the most succulent pork in the land. Finding an award winning sandwich a couple miles off a freeway exit would be tough, I decided to take what I could get. We stopped at King's BBQ in North Carolina. It was a drive up or in; there were individual trays and speakers for each car. The sandwich was small and felt like fast food but the vanilla shakes Dave and I got made up for the near disappointment.
Linda Whitaker, Dave's mom, cooked for us in Wheeling, West Virginia. Her cooking is always good. I learned, or at least wrote down, her recipe for chocolate sauce.
Dave and I had fish sandwiches at Coleman's in downtown Wheeling. They are small but pack a flavor punch. We had enough tarter sauce and ketchup to open a face painting kiosk in the market. Coleman's was proof of my mind's disorganization. My ability to recall is almost never efficient. It is a somewhat harrowing experience when you realize that your memory of an event is entirely incorrect. I had been to Wheeling once before with David to visit his grandmother. I also have family in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Up until biting into that fish sandwich I believed that I had once enjoyed it in Massachusetts. Is it possible to be self conscious about one's capacity to remember?
Tony, Dave's friend, took us to a dive bar where I ate a buffalo chicken sandwich and had my first Natty Boh. The sandwich was standard but the beer was great. It a Maryland beer that all the hipster equivalents drink. I'm glad that Natty Boh and Pabst Blue Ribbon exist because I wouldn't make it through life with Natty Ice and Coors Lite as my only choices.
Coffee is still off the endangered list around me. I miss the taste of coffee like a hat misses Mr. Wonka's head but what results from me succumbing is terrible enough to keep me at bay. Dave, on the other hand, can still bathe in the murky pleasure. On recommendation from a barista in Atlanta we visited Peregrine in Washington, DC. I had a scone, I am a fan of the triangles, and Dave had coffee. The scone sank to the mire of mediocre scones in my belly as Dave was saying the coffee was great. Peregrine did have a note worthy gem. The chocolate bars available were tops. I finally tried a Vosges chocolate bar. The bacon seemed too cliche so I tried the Oaxaca. It was okay, spicy chocolate but not a mouth sensation. Being a part of the chocolate choosing, the barista offered us a sample of a chocolate that I can't remember the name of. It was heavenly. Someday I will learn the origin of that delicacy.
In DC we also ate decent pizza, decent Greek food, and probably the best malted shake I've had. Dickey's Frozen Custard. I don't know what frozen custard is but goddamn, it was good. They only have two sizes, huge and obese. Needless to say (which always perplexed me, if it says "needless to say" then why am I saying it?) I couldn't finish the smallest size.
South Africans cooked for me and Dave in Baltimore, Maryland. It is very clear why Americans are so overweight. Everything we ate in that loving house could have been on the Weight Watcher's food list. Vegetables, meats, fruit as desert, yogurt, mousli. All delicious.
Passing through Philadelphia I needed to get a Philly Cheese Steak. I've never been particularly enthralled with a cheese steak but I've also never been to Philadelphia, the food's birthplace. As far as a sandwich with meat and cheese goes, the cheese steak we had was amazing. We stopped at Chink's Steaks, a place I'd stop if only for the name. A T-Bone steak sandwich to fill my belly, it was. It was also not T-Bone steak. If you were wondering, orange flavored malts are pretty much the best orange thing a person can consume.
We ate at a tiny place in a residential area called BSF which, of course, stood for Burgers, Shakes, and Fries. It was a privately owned business and thoroughly tasty. It must have been exciting when burger joints were all family owned.
I've been in Massachusetts for some time which means I've eaten at many places. As a conservationist I will portray these places as such:
Eggplant parmesan - made by my cousin Todd and my Aunt Pat. Yum.
Enchiladas - made by Todd. Not Mexican in the slightest but good.
Smitty's Ice Cream - Love it. I'm on a chocolate peanut butter craze.
Bar Louie - In Foxboro, by the stadium. Probably the best sit down meal I've had on this trip.
Tony's Clam Shop - Next time I get fried seafood I will have to ask a neighboring table to stifle me via tranquilizer.
I had a cabinet in Rhode Island which is what they call a shake. It's mostly ice cream but all delicious.
Fun Fact: Everybody in Massachusetts loves Dunkin' Doughnuts. It's their Starbucks. Their doughnuts suck.
Last I left off I was still in Atlanta, Georgia, which seems like quite a long time ago. Before leaving sticky Hotlanta, however, we visited another notable place of feasting: Vortex. Vortex is your typical bar and grill type restaurant and because of the common stereotype they felt it necessary to make some additions to the experience. Once being generally ignored and seated, a glance at the menu taught us some basic rules about being in a bar. Because I've never been in a bar before, I read through the list. There was a whole page of rules that were described with a vitriolic attitude. Rules such as "if asked to show your ID don't pull any shit! We WILL kick you out," "know what you're gonna drink when ordering from the bar and DON'T ask the bartender questions." The restaurant's claim to fame was, apparently, being rude and ambivalent to customers, a 'too cool for school' type of feel. Our waitress kept her eyes at half mast and her hip seemed to be perpetually popping. Not that this bothered us, it just seemed like a desperate attempt at being different. Their selling point should have been having savory burgers because they really were some delicious piles of meat and bread. It wasn't the best burger I've ever had (because I've been to The Counter in the Los Angeles area) but not being the best doesn't mean it isn't good. The portions were smaller but that didn't bother me since I always over eat anyway. I feel like I just wrote a Yelp review.
I was in the South. The dirty dirty South. I wanted a pulled pork sandwich. Dave was on a tight schedule to get to West Virginia to see his parents, leaving little time to dilly dally in search of the most succulent pork in the land. Finding an award winning sandwich a couple miles off a freeway exit would be tough, I decided to take what I could get. We stopped at King's BBQ in North Carolina. It was a drive up or in; there were individual trays and speakers for each car. The sandwich was small and felt like fast food but the vanilla shakes Dave and I got made up for the near disappointment.
Linda Whitaker, Dave's mom, cooked for us in Wheeling, West Virginia. Her cooking is always good. I learned, or at least wrote down, her recipe for chocolate sauce.
Dave and I had fish sandwiches at Coleman's in downtown Wheeling. They are small but pack a flavor punch. We had enough tarter sauce and ketchup to open a face painting kiosk in the market. Coleman's was proof of my mind's disorganization. My ability to recall is almost never efficient. It is a somewhat harrowing experience when you realize that your memory of an event is entirely incorrect. I had been to Wheeling once before with David to visit his grandmother. I also have family in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Up until biting into that fish sandwich I believed that I had once enjoyed it in Massachusetts. Is it possible to be self conscious about one's capacity to remember?
Tony, Dave's friend, took us to a dive bar where I ate a buffalo chicken sandwich and had my first Natty Boh. The sandwich was standard but the beer was great. It a Maryland beer that all the hipster equivalents drink. I'm glad that Natty Boh and Pabst Blue Ribbon exist because I wouldn't make it through life with Natty Ice and Coors Lite as my only choices.
Coffee is still off the endangered list around me. I miss the taste of coffee like a hat misses Mr. Wonka's head but what results from me succumbing is terrible enough to keep me at bay. Dave, on the other hand, can still bathe in the murky pleasure. On recommendation from a barista in Atlanta we visited Peregrine in Washington, DC. I had a scone, I am a fan of the triangles, and Dave had coffee. The scone sank to the mire of mediocre scones in my belly as Dave was saying the coffee was great. Peregrine did have a note worthy gem. The chocolate bars available were tops. I finally tried a Vosges chocolate bar. The bacon seemed too cliche so I tried the Oaxaca. It was okay, spicy chocolate but not a mouth sensation. Being a part of the chocolate choosing, the barista offered us a sample of a chocolate that I can't remember the name of. It was heavenly. Someday I will learn the origin of that delicacy.
In DC we also ate decent pizza, decent Greek food, and probably the best malted shake I've had. Dickey's Frozen Custard. I don't know what frozen custard is but goddamn, it was good. They only have two sizes, huge and obese. Needless to say (which always perplexed me, if it says "needless to say" then why am I saying it?) I couldn't finish the smallest size.
South Africans cooked for me and Dave in Baltimore, Maryland. It is very clear why Americans are so overweight. Everything we ate in that loving house could have been on the Weight Watcher's food list. Vegetables, meats, fruit as desert, yogurt, mousli. All delicious.
Passing through Philadelphia I needed to get a Philly Cheese Steak. I've never been particularly enthralled with a cheese steak but I've also never been to Philadelphia, the food's birthplace. As far as a sandwich with meat and cheese goes, the cheese steak we had was amazing. We stopped at Chink's Steaks, a place I'd stop if only for the name. A T-Bone steak sandwich to fill my belly, it was. It was also not T-Bone steak. If you were wondering, orange flavored malts are pretty much the best orange thing a person can consume.
We ate at a tiny place in a residential area called BSF which, of course, stood for Burgers, Shakes, and Fries. It was a privately owned business and thoroughly tasty. It must have been exciting when burger joints were all family owned.
I've been in Massachusetts for some time which means I've eaten at many places. As a conservationist I will portray these places as such:
Eggplant parmesan - made by my cousin Todd and my Aunt Pat. Yum.
Enchiladas - made by Todd. Not Mexican in the slightest but good.
Smitty's Ice Cream - Love it. I'm on a chocolate peanut butter craze.
Bar Louie - In Foxboro, by the stadium. Probably the best sit down meal I've had on this trip.
Tony's Clam Shop - Next time I get fried seafood I will have to ask a neighboring table to stifle me via tranquilizer.
I had a cabinet in Rhode Island which is what they call a shake. It's mostly ice cream but all delicious.
Fun Fact: Everybody in Massachusetts loves Dunkin' Doughnuts. It's their Starbucks. Their doughnuts suck.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
French Connection
The Whitaker family had dinner guests by the names of Joel and Cynthia. The Beefeater gin I bought on our way back to the farm was accepted with open mouths. With determination through the assistance of gin and tonic I kept up conversation. Over crackers and micro quiche I gathered that Joel was an erratic actor and his wife Cynthia his Filipino superego. Notion of our progressing odyssey found its way into words, as it often does, and travel was settled on as a key topic for the evening.
The couple had been to a substantial portion of the United States but more importantly to me they could speak of their time in France. I felt enlivened and wanted only to eat their tales and assault them with questions. They had survived Cognac and infiltrated dinner parties so private that shades were drawn as not to alert a wandering eye.
It was agreed that there was no reason to work in France. This bit of information was to my ears like a conflagrant Black Dice, the equivalent to a symphony to a harmonious mind, I'm sure. There exists no legislation to remove the homeless from private or commercial property. Layabouts were not referred to with admiration but simply knowing that the artist may still wander the streets of France rekindled the blue flame in my being. I became so frantic with jubilation that I invited David and myself to Joel and Cynthia's house for dinner and drinks.
Swimming in a buttery, fishy meal, the fluidity of the talk (and the alcohol) continued. Recalling my disappointment with New Orleans' French Quarter, I asked Joel how it compared to its French father. My concern was mollified by his shared sentiment. Joel and Cynthia highly recommended Chicago as a place where a person like me could thrive; it was by far their favorite U.S. city. The day grew tired and night shooed the guests away, allowing me and David to stay.
Country life is rather simple. Not a derogatory simple but a truer definition, one having few options. My days in Wheeling, West Virginia were spent with a feline leisure. Because I excluded myself from two of the primary activities, swimming in the pond and manual labor, I spent my time figuring out the possible orders in which I could eat, sleep, and read. My research suggests eat, read, sleep, repeat to be favorable. Lazy excitement was added to the routine on the day of the dinner arrangement.
David's aunt Maria, a very kind and patient woman, elected to be our designated driver for the evening. I'd be Thanks Giving thankful if I was able to predict vomit.
Joel and Cynthia wanted their dwelling to feel more French so they had the English torn out. The house grinned, boasting its French lustre. The dinning room was like a museum in which pictures were allowed. I secretly shared Cynthia's fondness of snails; they were whiling around antiques and decor. We sat at a table where I could see every face and pre-dinner margaritas were poured. A Mexico/California theme was decided on by our hosts, who flew their red, white, and green colors. The margaritas were hand squeezed, the pico de gallo and guacamole were hand chopped, and these things overwhelmed my nervous hands. Our drinks before dinner were to last all night, which we each knew and intended.
After consuming what felt like the majority of the Mexican favorite, Dave and I inquired about a liquor on display in the dinning room. The child sized Otard XO cognac was extracted from the pregnant liquor cabinet and Napoleon's snifter was placed earnestly in front of me. The amber liquid passed my nose, touched my lips, and entered my greedy mouth. Not only was this the best cognac I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, it was the best adult beverage I've ever sampled. Not only that, Napoleon winked on my devilish satiation.
Because moments last only that long, the Tour de Gin began with a polite clatter. We started at home and made our way toward and through the exotic. Bombay Sapphire, Bluecoat, G Vine, Hendrick's. As far as gin goes, which is further than you can see, Hendrick's was bliss. Somehow a section of the quarry of my mind remained intact so Ty-ku sake, Zubrowka vodka, and Vieux Carre absinthe were prepped. The absinthe must have been the final stick of dynamite for I don't recall drinking it.
Sitting else. Where? Dinner for breakfast, the most important duality of the day(s). "I can't" or "I'll...", "stay." I was painting the parking lot red. Or yellow. Ochre. I passed on green, I'm allergic to avocado. Never stop sitting/spinning. Mostly on a bed, I pull the light sheets over me to keep out the flies and the mo(u)rning.
The couple had been to a substantial portion of the United States but more importantly to me they could speak of their time in France. I felt enlivened and wanted only to eat their tales and assault them with questions. They had survived Cognac and infiltrated dinner parties so private that shades were drawn as not to alert a wandering eye.
It was agreed that there was no reason to work in France. This bit of information was to my ears like a conflagrant Black Dice, the equivalent to a symphony to a harmonious mind, I'm sure. There exists no legislation to remove the homeless from private or commercial property. Layabouts were not referred to with admiration but simply knowing that the artist may still wander the streets of France rekindled the blue flame in my being. I became so frantic with jubilation that I invited David and myself to Joel and Cynthia's house for dinner and drinks.
Swimming in a buttery, fishy meal, the fluidity of the talk (and the alcohol) continued. Recalling my disappointment with New Orleans' French Quarter, I asked Joel how it compared to its French father. My concern was mollified by his shared sentiment. Joel and Cynthia highly recommended Chicago as a place where a person like me could thrive; it was by far their favorite U.S. city. The day grew tired and night shooed the guests away, allowing me and David to stay.
Country life is rather simple. Not a derogatory simple but a truer definition, one having few options. My days in Wheeling, West Virginia were spent with a feline leisure. Because I excluded myself from two of the primary activities, swimming in the pond and manual labor, I spent my time figuring out the possible orders in which I could eat, sleep, and read. My research suggests eat, read, sleep, repeat to be favorable. Lazy excitement was added to the routine on the day of the dinner arrangement.
David's aunt Maria, a very kind and patient woman, elected to be our designated driver for the evening. I'd be Thanks Giving thankful if I was able to predict vomit.
Joel and Cynthia wanted their dwelling to feel more French so they had the English torn out. The house grinned, boasting its French lustre. The dinning room was like a museum in which pictures were allowed. I secretly shared Cynthia's fondness of snails; they were whiling around antiques and decor. We sat at a table where I could see every face and pre-dinner margaritas were poured. A Mexico/California theme was decided on by our hosts, who flew their red, white, and green colors. The margaritas were hand squeezed, the pico de gallo and guacamole were hand chopped, and these things overwhelmed my nervous hands. Our drinks before dinner were to last all night, which we each knew and intended.
After consuming what felt like the majority of the Mexican favorite, Dave and I inquired about a liquor on display in the dinning room. The child sized Otard XO cognac was extracted from the pregnant liquor cabinet and Napoleon's snifter was placed earnestly in front of me. The amber liquid passed my nose, touched my lips, and entered my greedy mouth. Not only was this the best cognac I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, it was the best adult beverage I've ever sampled. Not only that, Napoleon winked on my devilish satiation.
Because moments last only that long, the Tour de Gin began with a polite clatter. We started at home and made our way toward and through the exotic. Bombay Sapphire, Bluecoat, G Vine, Hendrick's. As far as gin goes, which is further than you can see, Hendrick's was bliss. Somehow a section of the quarry of my mind remained intact so Ty-ku sake, Zubrowka vodka, and Vieux Carre absinthe were prepped. The absinthe must have been the final stick of dynamite for I don't recall drinking it.
Sitting else. Where? Dinner for breakfast, the most important duality of the day(s). "I can't" or "I'll...", "stay." I was painting the parking lot red. Or yellow. Ochre. I passed on green, I'm allergic to avocado. Never stop sitting/spinning. Mostly on a bed, I pull the light sheets over me to keep out the flies and the mo(u)rning.
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