Shabu Shabu Ding Dong

Clearly I enjoy cooking. I make my own bread.  I’ve spent a week making cassoulet, complete with duck confit and existential yearning.  I never really question why I love cooking so much until I’m faced with a person who doesn’t like to cook.  These are people I will never quite understand.  For me, cooking is creativity.  And, frankly, it’s cheap creativity.  Hell, I could make Lobster Thermidor for a crowd with a caviar appetizer and it will still cost less than new headshots.  (Fucking headshots.  Why must you always cost at least $500?) Also, no auditions are involved.  In fact, perhaps cooking is really my way of making art in a chaotic, absurd world.  I decide what to make, and invite people to eat it.  Maybe it’s all about control.  Maybe I’m horribly type A and finally fulfilling the requirements of my Western Astrological sign (the ever boring and practical Capricorn).  I’d prefer to think that I’m a fiery ball of untamed sensuality that must create and indulge in her creations whenever possible, therefore fulfilling the requirements of my Chinese Zodiac sign (the ever-seductive Fire Snake).  But really, as long as no mistakes my passion for cooking as some sort of shout out to domesticity I’m okay. 

Apparently, I like to cook even when I’m going out to eat – hence, my glorious night of shabu shabu.  I wish I could take credit for this.  I wish I could say that I did an epic NYC hotpot survey and emerged with the ultimate spot for steaming vats of Chinese goodness.  But I can’t.  Instead, I relied on the wise counsel of my test prep colleague Kristyn.  This was a good decision. Because without her I may never have experienced Minni’s Shabu Shabu in Flushing, with her and our co-worker Ed.   First of all, the concept of shabu shabu is wonderful.  You get a pot of flavorful broth (at Minni’s it’s one pot per person!  Oh the joy!  I made mine kimchee) , and a plate of vegetables and assorted savory delights. Then you order a plate of the meat of your choice – in my case shrimp and beef (go big or go home, right?)  Then you proceed to make your customized dish by dipping delicate pieces of vegetable and protein into this steaming cauldron.  You eat the tasty morsels one by one, and then, at the end of the meal you’ve created a rich, complex soup to enjoy.  During the meal the staff comes around with huge kettles of piping hot broth for those who need a refill. 

But perhaps the true star of the meal is the sauce bar: Soy sauce, sesame oil, leek oil, minced garlic, barbeque sauce, hot sauce, sweet and hot sauce, peanut sauce, scallions, Chinese parsley, and…and…please excuse me, I just passed out on the floor from sheer remembered delight.  Okay.  Feeling a bit better now.  That’s what wine and Monty Python tunes will do for you.  So, this is how it works: go up to the bar, grab multiple cups, and make amazing sauce combinations.  For example, the Andi: soy sauce, sesame oil, garlic, scallions, and parsley.  Yes.  I know that this is essentially dumpling sauce. But I made it, dammit!  By myself!  At a sauce bar!  My creative spirit will not be denied!  Also, it tasted really good.  Also, I’ve made cassoulet.  So I am officially exempt from all accusations of laziness.  Yeah, I’m gonna milk that meal for all it’s worth.

So dinner was wonderful, spicy, interactive, everything I look for in a night out with friends.  How do you follow this up?  Dive bar.  After we had recovered from our hotpot commas, Kristin, Ed and I repaired to the Upper West Side and the Ding Dong Lounge.  Let’s discuss the Ding Dong Lounge.  It is, most definitely a dive bar, at least in aspiration.  I do wonder, however, if it is a dive bar in actuality.   True, the bar is dark and cave-like with a pool table.  And yes, it was filled with tattooed women in pleather leggings.  But the whisky.  It was $8.  That’s just not a dive bar price.  I want my whisky cheap, like my women.   Or something like that.  My verdict is still out on the Ding Dong Lounge.  I think that I really can’t judge it until I’ve lost at least an afternoon, if not a full day in its subterranean-esque depths.  My current favorite dive bar?  Irish Eyes.  Yes, it has a pool table, and it also has bags of empty Bud Light cans, a kitschy white stucco bar, $4.50 whiskeys, and a dog.   And a bartender with huge hair and a leopard print shirt who understands buy-backs.  Look, I’m not saying I didn’t like the Ding Dong Lounge. I’m just saying that dive bars should be a lot more cheap and depressing than we’ve come to expect.  Except in a good way. 

Oh what the hell, let’s just have Chinese soup.