Spicy is as spicy does

Let me start out by saying that this post is being written under adverse conditions – I am currently shaking from the caffeine content of my Taiwanese iced coffee.  Which I ordered in CHINESE!  Yes, that’s right gentle readers, I can almost say a sentence in Chinese.  Up until now my Chinese vocabulary has consisted of “hello”, “thank you”, and “spicy”.  Mind you, I never actually said these correctly.  Half the time when I tried to say “hello” I really said “your mother was a hamster”, and “thank you” usually came out as “go and boil your bottoms, you sons of silly persons” (there’s a strange correlation between Mandarin and Monty Python.  Must investigate further).  In fact, my only reliable word was “spicy”.  Luckily it works in a variety of circumstances:

“What’s your name?”

“Spicy”

“Where do you live?”

“Um….Spicy”

“May I sell you into white slavery?”

“oooo…..Spicy!”

Unfortunately I found out yesterday that I am in fact mangling that word as well.  Instead of “spicy” I’ve been reliably saying “pull”.  All because I can’t tell the difference between la and la.  So perhaps instead of ordering iced coffee I actually ordered a trough of liquid crack.  It would explain the twitchy-ness.

But I will soldier on!  The blog post will be written!  I just make no promises as to its coherence.  So sit back and prepare yourselves for disjointed sentences about apartments, food, and jug bands.  Let’s start with the apartment.  Remember when I was frantically trying to find an NYC subletter?  And I took comfort in the fact that it would so incredibly easy to find an apartment in Taipei for around $3 a month?  I was, how shall I put this, completely out of my fucking mind.  It is not easy to find an apartment in Taipei.  No one wants to rent to some random, gigantic, hairy foreigner for three months.  And they all want deposits that amount to more than the total summer’s rent.  Also, it’s kind of cut-throat.  I had a line on a great place in Da An, my neighborhood of choice, but when I arrived to meet the rest of the roommates and hopefully pay the deposit there was another woman there.  And the roommates thought she was me.  And she didn’t correct them.  Because finding an apartment is so crazy that people resort to subletter impersonation.  What’s a girl to do?  I was seriously thinking of staying at a Hostel for summer – but then the Universe stepped in and said, “Gigantic, pasty, white foreign girl, I bequeath to you an apartment in a great part of the city for $200 a month.  And you shall go forth and drag along your coworker Linnea.”

I realize I’ve been referencing the Universe quite a bit these past few months.  Please do not think this speaks to some kind of religious conversion.  As I explained in my mission statement, this is not Eat, Pray, Love (also, I truly wonder now if the events of that book unfolded as depicted.  For example, the love part.  I’ve spent my time here sweating aggressively.  I mean, I am foul.  I offend myself.  I put stinky tofu to shame.  Elizabeth Gilbert was in Indonesia.  Does this woman not sweat?  Or did she quickly master the Asian art of sweating attractively?  Because somehow she snags Javier Bardem.  It’s suspicious.  I’m just saying.)  So anyway, I have not found Jesus, but I have come to treasure the power of coincidence.  For example, the apartment hunt: Had my hostel not been full on my first Friday here I never would have gone to the back-up hostel.  And had I not gone to the back-up hostel I never would have met Vanessa the Magical Hostel Owner who just happened to have an apartment available, not just for me, but for my coworker Linnea as well, for $200 a month, utilities included, with no deposit.  And this apartment is in Da An.  Next to a night market.  And down the road from afforementioned hostel, so we can stop over whenever we need, well, anything.  (The only drawback is that later this summer two more people will be moving in and Linnea and I will have to share a room, so we effectively will be living in a hostel-esque situation.  Universe, I expect you to arrange for an “unfortunate change of plans” for these future roommates.  I’ll be patiently waiting.)

So here I am, blogging from the coffee shop on the first floor of my building.  Not only does this coffee shop serve a high octane brew, it also features two Chihuahuas and gentle, Chinese Muzak.  With housing out of the way I’ve been able to devote myself to exploring the city as much as possible before I start working like a test-prep fiend.  Of course when I say “exploring” I really mean “consuming vast quantities of food”.  Because I hear that Javier Bardem likes his women sweaty and rotund. 

Some photos of my recent adventures:

The Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Memorial Hall, an example of classic Chinese architecture...from the 1970's.  Here we are instructed to feel "an awe-inspiring righteousness flooding in our chests and emerge out of a sentiment to model ourselves on martyrs and past sages spirits to share themselves with the life of all creatures, carrying forward the cause and forging ahead into the future, so as to set an immortal foundation for the countryand establish a peacrful world for all ages."  Did you guys get all that?

My feeble attempt at artistry while at the Taipei Botanic Garden.  This lotus represents my sweaty, inner serenity. Fuck you, Elizabeth gilbert.

The TPR people are seriously classy.  They take us to beautiful places like Watami, where the sushi makes me want to wear fancy hats and gloves and carry parasoles. 

This is Taipei - you will dip your hot pot items in raw egg and like it, dammit!  (Actually it's incredibly good.  The egg coating makes hot pot even more cozy and deliciously comforting, if such a thing is possible.)

Praying at the holy shrine of tourism.  The humid air was fragrant with orchids and incense.  This city is a sensory overload. 

Taipei's answer to the cornish pasty - pepper bake cake.  These savory pockets of pork goodness are placed on the walls of a drum-like oven and scraped out at the appropriate time.  This was so good, I shared it with my shirt.

Late-night drunk food from our neighborhood night market!  Soooooooo tasty.  And extra la, which lead directly to drunken hiccups.  Luckily Linnea is a heavy sleeper, so this did not wake her.  And apparently I am becoming a heavy sleeper as well, becuase the 6.0 magnitude earthquake this morning only slightly roused me from my slumber.  Ah, Taiwan.  I can't wait to experience your myriad of natural disasters.

On tap for next time - my musical stalking saga. Yes, I am the stalker.  And I will follow these Gypsy Jazz Band Swing Dancers until they love me!  Because I'm a huge, hairy, foreign paparazzi!

(If you crave more Taipei blogging, may I suggest my co-workers' pages?  They are both fabulous writers, and will give you an opportunity to uncover all the dirty lies I've posted here.  Their pages are: http://nihaocorinne.blogspot.tw/ and http://girlloosed.wordpress.com/ .  Enjoy!)

Just call me Sleepy McJetlaggington

I grew up in a housefold that didn’t really emphasize cooking.  This may, in fact, be why I am so devoted to food preparation – it represents a break with my past and, for me, a sign of independence.  But back to my idyllic childhood.  There may not have been much cooking going on, but we still had to eat, so we did what any decent Long Island family does – we ordered Chinese food.  A lot of Chinese food.  The fridge would be filled with a multitude of old take-out boxes with dates written on the flaps because really, who can tell the difference between two day old dumplings and three day old dumplings?  I am now faced with three months of Chinese food, and somehow it just feels right.  It feels familiar.  As does Taipei.  It’s kind of like a supersized version of New York’s Chinatown.  Yes, this would all be a delightfully easy transition if I spoke even a tiny, small, fragmented bit of Chinese.  Alas, I do not.  And I fear that, while the cuisine clearly resonates with me on a deep level, the language and I were not meant to be.  I mean, I don’t think I have even slightest affinity for it.  Every word that I’ve learned so far has slipped out of my brain, through my hands, and into the ether.  I find myself craving the cool confidence of German, which I speak at a barely intermediate level.  This is going to be damn interesting.

Nonetheless, I have done fairly well my first week here.  After my billion hour flight from New York, during which I was squished into a hobbit-seat I arrived at Taipei International, managed to get a hotel room, managed to get to the hotel room, and managed to sleep (this would be the last decent night of sleep for the week).  Sadly, the next day I also managed to get lost for 45 minutes while being two blocks away from said hotel, but clearly that’s just part of the joy and wonder of travel.  In my defense, the labeling of Taipei streets puts both Queens and Jersey to shame.  Taipei streets are like a choose-your-own-adventure torture flick.  You start out on a main thoroughfare, for example “Die Stupid White Girl Die” Road (I am, of course, translating from the Chinese).  DSWGD Road will have 4 sections.  Branching off DSWGD Road Sections 1-4 will be DSWGD Streets 1-50.  Each of these braches off into DSWGD Lanes 1-10,000, and finally we reach the last branch, DSWGD Alleys 1 – a gajllion.  Oh, and none of these paths are labeled.  And while trying to navigate this maze angry Taiwanese people on scooters are gleefully trying to run you down.  So, um, yeah.  That’s been fun.

When not wandering the alleys of Taipei weeping and begging for directions, I’ve been eating my weight in street food.  (By the way, remember that whole plan I had to return to NYC as a petite Asian woman?  Yeah, not gonna happen.  I will return the same gigantic, pasty, white girl that I was when I left.  Except with frizzier hair.)  Let me say it now:  I love the food here in a deep, passionate, slightly inappropriate way.  Every time I turn around someone is frying a dumpling or grilling some meat.  And all of it costs a dollar.  And oh my god the smells!  Taipei is pungent.  Half the time I determine what I’m going to eat next by simply following my nose to the source of the latest mouth-watering aroma.  What has satisfied my cravings so far?  Stir fried seafood noodles with a broth of such complexity that I almost expected it to explain the reason for existence on this planet.  A Taiwanese skewered “hotdog” that my roommate succinctly described as meat candy.  Some sort of braised, leafy vegetable in a gingery soy sauce, it’s astringency an excellent complement to a rich garlic chicken.  And more dumplings than you can shake a stick at. 

It’s not all gustatory sunshine and roses, of course.  There’s snake simmered in blood, venom, and semen.  And there’s stinky tofu, which can only be described as one of the most offensively filthy smells on this planet.  Truly, every time I walk past  that scent I want to smack it and tell it to get it’s hand off my ass because I am NOT that kind of girl, no matter what it’s heard to the contrary.   But mostly it’s like my personal culinary amusement park.  And while I’m already missing the artistic vitality of NYC, stumbling upon a Gypsy Jazz Band performing Edith Piaf’s La foule in a local park last night gives me hope that the universe will lead me to even more delightfully incongruous music just as soon as it’s able to. 

You know what the universe hasn’t been able to work out yet?  Getting me to take decent pictures.  I’m still an atrocious photographer.  But I promised you all photos, so here they are, for your viewing enjoyment.  Just remember, you’ve been warned. 

The answer to life, the universe, and everything is not 42.  It's stir-fried seafood noodles.

I tried to order a small bowl of pork stew on rice, but was forced to order garlic chicken, seasonal vegetables, and simmered tofu.  And one does not argue with Formosa Chang.  Luckily the whole feast came to about four dollars.

Grilled beef-on-a-stick makes drunk TPR coworkers very happy.

The entrance to Andi's culinary Shangri-la, aka, a Taipei night market.

Please note, there are no cakes here.

And that's all for now, folks.  I've got more eating to do, and the night market awaits.  Stay tuned for the next post which will detail how to work the Underground Taipei Youth Hostel Network to secure affordable summer housing.  It's surprisingly effective.  We should get on this in New York.

I would say "Bye" in Chinese, but I don't know how to, and it would only cosmically summon a bunch of Taiwanese people on scooters to gather and stare at me skeptically.  So let's just skip that.

Auf wiedersehen!

HLTW: Mission Statement

Hello devoted readers!  Yes, I’m talking to the 2.5 of you out there who still visit this page in the hope that I might eventually post something.  Anything.  Perhaps even just a mention that once, this week, I ate.  And found it satisfactory.  And that is all.

Well, I have so much more in store.

As all (or most of you) know, I’m packing my bags and running away from home.  I am fulfilling my teenage dream of immersing myself in Asian culture (um, to my high school friends – I know what you’re thinking.  So you don’t really need to say it, ‘k?).  I suppose I could have actually learned about these languages and cultures before throwing myself into the deep end, but no matter.  It’s happening.  On Monday, as a matter of fact. I have a ticket and a passport, and I’m not afraid to use it.

Of course, I’m afraid of just about everything else.  These days I’m afraid of everything, all the time.  I had a conversation with a 22 year old recent college graduate who’s still living with her parents.  She was considering taking this plunge as well, but she passed it up because she was too scared and, frankly, the idea is kind of absurd to begin with.  So apparently this is the kind of thing you do at 34, not 22.  But really, let’s be honest.  You only do this kind of thing at 34 when you’re blonde, thin, and have a book deal.  And swear a “vow of celibacy”, of course.  And then magically find a husband!!!  Because you weren’t looking!  And that’s when it happens!  Because you have to love yourself first!  And lots of other clichéd affirmations!  Or some garbage like that. 

Yeah, this isn’t that kind of story.  Definitely not Eat Pray Love.  More like Eat, Drink, Eat.  Or just Eat, Eat, Eat.  But just know up front, there will be no religious revelations.  And no marriage.  And no book deal.  Just a crazy woman spending four months in Asia.

Oh, and there are also going to pictures.  Really this time.

So here’s the deal:  My computer, my magical backpack and I will be embarking on this adventure in just a few days.  My plan is to post a couple of times a week, assuming that I don’t get kidnapped by pirates (in that case I’ll have to limit my posts to once a week.)  I would love it if you would all stop by.  Read up, leave comments, tell me you think I’m ridiculous, whatever.  But I would like the next four months to be more dialogue, less soliloquy. 

Did I mention that I’m heading to Taipei, home of soup dumplings and tasty night markets?  And then traveling through Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam?  Yeah.  I’m doing that.  So sit back and get hungry.

The Post in which I declare my passionate love for Indian Road Cafe

Once, I lived in dark times.  I lived in a land with no fancy cheeses, no exceptionally tasty and cheap restaurants.  Yes, this was Inwood of the mid-aughts.  Don’t get me wrong!  There were plenty of things to love about the neighborhood!  Beautiful parkland, lovely neighbors, and an apartment big enough to house a petting zoo.  But I was coming from 7 train Queens, home to myriad culinary delights.   On an average night the question was, “Japanese, Turkish, Romanian, Mexican, Indian, Thai, or Tibetan?”  In my new neighborhood there was pub…or pub (or Mofongo, which I am still incredibly remiss for not trying).  Also, the food was kind of expensive (hence my sad neglect of Mofongo).  I wanted my food cheap, like my apartment.  And for the love of god, a girl can only eat so many burgers. 

Then it arrived – Indian Road Café.  There are so many things to love about this place, but let’s start with its creation.  During the planning phase the owner actually posted on the community website to find out what the residents wanted in a restaurant!  What did we need?  What were we missing?  Really, who does that?  Who creates a restaurant with the community in mind these days?  Apparently the community needed a place with a great wine and beer selection.  And great food.  And a wonderful staff.  And FREE WIFI!  That’s right, I’m talking to you, Lower East Side.  What the hell is up with this, “charging-for-wifi-even-though-you’ve-already-paid-for-your-meal” crap?  Or limiting wifi to one hour on the weekends?  Lower East Side, I thought you specifically catered to the kind of scruffy 30-somethings that need free internet access and alcohol.  But oooooooohhhhhh noooooooooo, you’re too cool to give us free internet access now.  But, um, thanks for still giving us alcohol.  We’ll take what we can get.

So, you know how Inwood apartments are so big that you can fit multiple families and ponies in each one?  Yeah, IRC is cut from that same mold.  Let’s take a tour, shall we?  Upon entering we see the coffee bar with freshly ground, French pressed caffeinated beverages.  The pastries are from places like Balthazar and Arthur Avenue, because if you’re going to get heart disease at breakfast you’d best do it right.  To the left of the coffee bar are the tables and the grown-up bar.  The seating is casual, comfortable, and apparently from the set of The Sopranos.  Local artwork adorns the walls, because the people at IRC care about the locals and their low-paying aspirations.  And the grown-up bar – oh, that has become a thing of beauty.  The beer and wine selection has always been top-notch, but now they have expanded to obscure whiskeys and inventive cocktails.  The bartenders are awesome, knowledgeable, and have noble French bulldogs.  And they make cocktails with bacon.  BACON, people!!!  Thank you, IRC.  Thank you for making your drinks with bacon.  And smelling like bacon.  And serving me bacon.  And…bacon.

Just past the grown-up bar we have the coffee corner.  This is a wide area for people like me who can’t be trusted to work diligently in our own palatial abodes.  We need to go to other vast real estate expanses, where we will be served liquor, bacon, and inspiration.  Naturally one cannot sit in the coffee corner enveloped by the smell of bacon without ordering some food.  Here are some meals from IRC that have made my toes curl:

-          Duck lasagna with in-house ricotta and Arthur Avenue pasta: The noodles said no.  The ricotta said yes.  The duck got up on the table and mounted me.

-          Bourbon-Blood Orange Braised Pork Belly:  Yes!  Pork Belly!  Caramelized, melting, seductive.  Pickled piquillo peppers.  Spicy, sweet, and dangerous (like me).

-          Wild Mushroom & Butternut Squash Wellington: To be enjoyed when you’re only feeling a little bit sinful, and want to express that sinfulness with goat cheese and fresh herbs.  There’s something about the dish that always makes me feel both virtuous and satisfied, which I would dare say is a rare thing. 

-          Pan Roasted Hudson Valley Duck Breast: There will be a bit of dissent on this one (yeah, Emily B., I’m talking to you).  Yes, there is some toughness.  But dammit, I got a steak knife and everything was okay.  The crisp skin was perfect, with just the right layer of subcutaneous fat.  And the cranberry-orange reduction delicately sliced through the richness of the meat.

-          Stuffed Black Angus Filet Mignon: Jesus Christ, I don’t even know what to say at this point.  The rare meat melted in my mouth.  The potato gratin was slap-your-grandma-good (compliments to Jeff T. for that line).  The roasted red peppers and fontina could have overpowering or gloppy, but they weren’t because this is Indian Road Café.  They were textured and balanced, in a way that I wish my life may someday be. 

-          The random pork chop special with: A name I can’t remember, a tart sauce of shallots and mustard, and mashed sweet potatoes.  Once again, I point to the caramelization.  I truly feel that caramelization will make or break your pork, and oh baby do they ever make it.

Do you understand what I’m saying here people?  The food is spectacular.  And let’s say you don’t want a fancy night out, but just a simple sandwich?  IRC will provide, with Vegan Bahn Mi, or Cuban Paninos, or the only Club Sandwich I’ll ever truly love….

Look, I know that those of you living in Brooklyn had this in the early 80’s.  But I missed that train.  I’ve got Inwood, and I love it.  And this is merely the tip of the gluttonous iceberg.  But if I were to, say, write a WB show about women in their 30’s with little money and even fewer prospects, I would set much of it at IRC.  And some of us wouldn’t be wearing underwear.  You know who you are. 

Of course, the WB would really only pick this up if were 17, supernatural, and not wearing underwear.  But I still think we could work in IRC.  Now get your ass up to Inwood and order.   

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. 

White Nights, Vodka-Filled Days

As some of may have noticed, there’s a new addition here at Hungry Like the Wolf – I’ve finally posted the Berlin Archives.  For those of you not in the know, these are email updates that I sent during my German “audition tour” a year  ago.  I put that in quotes because what it really (d)evolved into was a manic gorging of epic, Teutonic proportions.  What with being based in Berlin, and being excessively irresponsible, I found myself on a mission to absorb all the city had to offer, every day,  as long as it happened after 11am.  My captive email audience was so supportive that I decided to create this really exciting blog which has little purpose and no pictures (and to the 25 of you who somehow continue to enjoy this site, thank you!  I promise you more of the same, and even lamer graphics.)

I fell deeply in love with Berlin.  The rain-soaked streets.   The lack of heating.  Sunrise at 10:00am, sunset at 4:15pm.  Terrorist döner kebab.  I saw some incredibly exciting theater, and ate SUCH.  GOOD.  FOOD.  But my first love is New York.  I still remember the childhood thrill I experienced when traveling in by train to visit my Dad, and I stepped out of Penn Station and saw the coarse, grey concrete and steel rising all around me.  For some reason that’s right for me.  But then again, I’m the kind of woman who joins the smokers outside of bars not for the nicotine contact high, but because I can’t sit in one place for too long.  My internal rhythm is synced with the Big Apple.  Its pitch resonates in my breast.  So isn’t it about time that I gave as much of myself to NYC as I did to Berlin?

Strangely enough, my recent outings have been largely Russian.  I didn’t plan it that way, it just happened.  You see, the problem with New Yorkers is that we live amidst an embarrassment of riches.  There are so many diverse activities taking place everywhere, at all times, that it can be hard to actually focus on one thing.  Also, that one thing is usually taking place very, very far away from me because I live in Upstate Manhattan.  So yes, I know that Brooklyn is amazing and hip and much cooler than I am, and that if I work hard maybe I’ll someday get my learners’ permit for Brooklyn bona fides, but until then I have to endure a 12 hour subway ride, crawl through the mud, and ride a donkey in order to get there.  But when I read about a celebration of Russian nights at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden complete with Russian culinary delights, poetry readings, live accordion, period garb, and vodka I immediately saddled up Bessie and made my down there.

Three days later I finally arrived at the event.  It was…strange.  Kind of what I imagine a Russian wedding combined with a Russian high school prom might look like.  The greenhouse in which the event was held was beautiful – the blue-grey early dusk sky really highlighted my Slavic sadness, and the twinkle-lights did of course make me see both the beauty and pointlessness of life.* There was the promised accordion player, who I kind of pissed off by implying that her music was actually Polish, ‘cause you know, I’m an expert.   The poetry “reading” - which consisted of one poem – was a bit of a letdown.  But dammit, I enjoyed the food.  There was a huge table of assorted pickled vegetables, as well as tuxedo-ed waiters passing the following savory items:  baked potato bites with caviar and crème fraiche; borscht topped with a dill cream sauce; and sirloin meatballs that my friends and I stalked for the entire night.  Seriously.  A member of our group was actually sent on reconnaissance missions to hunt down the meatball man and drag him over to our little cocktail table where the rest of us were downing the drink of the evening – vodka with a ginger simple syrup and black pepper!  I loved the black pepper/vodka combination.  It was a drink that both punched you in the face and grabbed your tongue with burning pincers.   But then again, I also have some very questionable culinary proclivities (I really thought peanut butter and bacon sandwiches would have caught on by now).    While the artistic offerings might not have met my expectations, the costumes most certainly did.  Russian military men hob-nobbed with kerchiefed peasants while Anna Karenina did her best to avoid all on-coming vehicles.  I regretted my lack of muff, but hoped that my timeless faux- buttoned boots acted as some kind of redemption.

This was not the end of my Russian adventures.  I also spent some time recently with Russian Satanists.  Or, rather, with a former Satanist/member of the Kennedy clan who used to have a slightly evil Russian guru.  This is what I’m talking about!  This is New York!  We have, far and away, the best conspiracy theorists.  And Satanists.  We clearly have the best Satanists.  Mind you, I did not actually know that I was going to an event featuring Russian Satanists, but I most definitely knew that I was going to an event focusing on Russian spiritualists.  I have now attended not one, but two lectures on the intersection of Russians and Tibetan philosophy.  The first one was kind of a lark.  Ryan and I were looking for an evening activity, and the Rubin Museum had a very affordable lecture about a Russian Spiritualist we shall henceforth call Madame B.  This was preceded by a tour of the Rubin’s new Tibetan comic book exhibit.  Really people.  For $12 tell me how you could possibly pass this up (incidentally, who the hell is funding this place? Richard Gere?).  I will say that we got so much more than we paid for.  People are, um, shall we say, passionate about Madame B, and they voiced this passion quite loudly.  She is apparently either the world’s savior or the Antichrist.  And she had a pet baboon.  Or something like that.  Look, the woman travelled the world, started a philosophical foundation, and met Gandhi.  Along the way she may have (accidentally) predicted the assassinations of two Kennedys and MLK.  Or maybe it was all lost in translation.  The important thing is, the woman went far beyond the constraints of her place in society and I have to respect that, even if it involved virgin sacrifice. 

I don’t know that I can tell full story of the Kennedy Satanist, because I’m afraid of dead chickens showing up in front of my apartment.  Let’s move on.  The following week I gleefully attended a lecture at the Rubin discussing the Russian spiritualist Nicholas Roerich who received information from his wife’s astral guru (yeah, she channeled this particular spiritual leader) informing him that the unity of Communism and Tibetan Buddhism would somehow bring about the promised land.  Supposedly Roerich was also involved in a plot with Stravinsky, Nijinsky, and Diaghilev to incite spiritual chaos via the premiere of Le sacre du printemps (their intention was to hopefully bring about WWI, which would then lead to this promised land.  Kind of.  I’m still a bit murky on the details).  But what I want to really talk about is funding.  At both of these lectures a wise person thought to ask, “How the hell did these people afford their spiritual pilgrimages and subsequent printed Philosophical dailies?  The answer?  Patronage.  Fuck!  Why does it always come down to patronage?  Do you know what I would do with some robust patronage?   I would mount an incredible production of “The Seven Deadly Sins” (in the original fucking key).  I would create a graduate program that mandated interdisciplinary work instead of this outdated concept of classical specialization.  And, yes I would also travel to India, where I would sweat, vomit, and found a religion based on Food, Art, and Sex.  No, it would not be called the 1960’s.  It would be called sSelasophy, and it would rule.  And I would rule.  Until I was imprisoned for fraud.  But at least there would be no cool-aid as far as the eye could see.  Seriously.  Anyone who would like to be considered for patronage may contact me at moneyfornothingandyourchicksforfree_at_ emailscams.com.  The first ten people to donate get absolutely nothing.  Further donors get the satisfaction of knowing that they are now on a bandwagon. 

*During my 20’s I briefly dated a Russian man.  We called him “The Hot Russian”.  One day he told me that he had started smoking again because he realized that life had no meaning.  He announced this with a fairly cheerful air, with no further explanation.  But at least he took me to a strange disco/restaurant in Brighton Beach.  Further note to readers: ordering a White Russian on your first date with a white Russian can have unintended effects.  Oh youth.

No Exit: The Cassoulet Chronicles

Any man who has known real loves, real revolts, real desires, and real will knows quite well that he has no need of any outside guarantee to be sure of his goals; their certitude comes from his own drive.”

― Simone de Beauvoir, The Ethics of Ambiguity

[The following is presented in black and white]

Day 1: I feel the void.  What is the point of existence?  How shall we live? What meaning can there be if all ends in darkness?  Is there any way to stave off the fear, the trembling?  I purchase duck legs.  I cook them for hours in fat.  The smell permeates the apartment.  I feel the crisp skin crackling.  Soon it will be confit.

Day 2: The beans, damn them, the beans!  I wake up in the early hours, sweating, clutching my night-things.  I haven’t soaked the beans!  What can be done?  Perfection is an abstract, unattainable.  I accept my fate.  The beans will soak for 24 hours, rather than 48.  I sit on my perch by the window, cigarette and red wine in hand, and think on lost love.  Oh legumes, why must you mock me so?

 [Solo cello]

Day 3: Forever shall I be a stranger to myself, but no longer a stranger to the neighborhood butcher.  He senses my need, the need for obscure cuts of meat.  We talk of Paris.  He gives me pork belly.  The essence of pork belly must not be confused with that of pork stew meat.  He intuitively understands my requirements.  I add a portion of pancetta.

Day 4: Stews.  Like the stew of my soul.  I am like Sisyphus at the base of the mountain.  Can I go on?  I can’t go on.  I might go on.  Should I go on?  I musn't go on.  But I will go on. I think.  I drink. I blink.   Shades of Andre the Giant.  And yet I am free.  Free to strive, free to fail, free to stick my willing hands down into the depths of duck fat.  Amanda discreetly vomits into her clutch purse.  And the red wine flows.

Day 5: My struggle has, as promised, turned into passion.  I gently ladle heavy cream onto seductively reclining potatoes.  I scrape hard nutmeg against unyielding metal.  There is no reality except in cooking (this I actually say in French).  My spirit bubbles in the cleansing fire of the oven.  I am browned.  I am whole.

[A woman of beauty and grace throws a single rose into the Seine.  She understands pain.]

Day 6: I am the shepherd!  I am the herd!  The breadcrumb crust has been applied and we wait in a smoke filled room, wondering if cassoulet will provide the answers we seek.  The crust is broken.  Steam escapes.  We meet like new lovers.  The silky beans.  The rich meat.  Duck caresses pork.  We lean against walls; no, not like Jordan Catalano.  Or at least, not like Jordan Catalano in high school.  Perhaps Jordan Catalano during his semester abroad when he LIVES.  And EXPERIENCES.  And LOVES.  DEEPLY.  Yes.  Meat.  I cover myself in fruit and syrup and realize that these moments are fleeting and precious.  Because it takes seven days to make this shit and a lifetime to find people who will put up with me and eat it.

I could never turn back any more than a record can spin in reverse. And all that was leading me where ? To this very moment...”

― Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea