When life gives you cheap beer, chug it and go to Roxy 99

Alas and alack, the universe did not heed my pleas, and I have now relocated to bunk bed number 5.  Okay, it's not as bad as all that.  Yes, I am now sleeping on a bunk bed.  And yes, we are now a gang of four occupying this two bedroom Taiwanese flat, where before we were only two.  But this provides a rustic, youthful flair to my great Taiwanese adventure.  Rustic in a youth-hostel/college-dormitory kind of way.  I've decided adorn my side of the room with patchouli scented wall hangings and twinkle lights.  I've also started listening to Tori Amos again.  Can evenings of Jello shots be far behind?


Actually my living situation is not the only throwback to my 20's that I've been experiencing.  TPR folk young and old have been hitting the clubs these past two weeks.  And I do not mean fancy clubs (okay, side note: I got my first club rejection here in Taipei.  Apparently frumpy dresses and crocs are not what the bouncers are looking for.  If my Chinese translation is correct, I believe we were told, "No heels, no service".  And to that I say, the bouncers at Luxy can rot in hell.)  We have instead been frequenting the illustrious Roxy 99.  To all you New Yorkers out there, Roxy 99 is like the Pyramid Club, except with more sketchy expats and fewer people dressed head to toe in wet leather.  For those of you not familiar with the Pyramid Club, let me paint the scene:  The subterranean venue has the requisite level of dinge and is of course engulfed in a permanent layer of smoke.  Drinks are cheap, but why buy there when you can pre-game at the Seven-11 around the corner?  (I'm really not kidding.  Please see below.)

The music is an odd mix of current hits, euro-trash, and old suburban white girl music. Yes, I did rock out to "Smells Like Teen Spirit", and I'm not ashamed to admit it.  But mainly it's just an excellent place to dance and have fun.  That is, if you can ignore the vomitous explosion that occurs around 2:30am when all the petite Asian girls reach peak drunkeness.  Also, it's a good idea to plan on at least three showers the following day.  For example, I last went to Roxy 99 on Saturday.  When the breeze catches my hair I can smell its foul odor still. 

My first trip to Roxy 99 was pre-pre-gamed by an "open mic night" at the Red Room.   I put that in quotes because it's not a traditional open mic, in that its creators don't delight in snobbery and exclusion like the creators of some open mics in certain major metropolitan areas that I can think of.  I'm not saying that everything I saw was to my taste.  But the atmosphere was incredible and eclectic.  Classical Chinese instrumental music got up next to modern dance and folk.  Also, ukuleles!  And whistlers!  And public displays of bartending!  And a particularly great British poet!  There were good people, plentiful red wine, and a receptive audience for Kurt Weill (all that was missing was Maria!) 



How about some memorable meals?  First, let us examine the noble soup dumpling.  Now, I've been to Joe's Shanghai in Flushing.  And I enjoy Joe's Shanghai.  But Din Tai Fung grabs Joe's Shanghai by the throat and drop kicks it all the way to Jersey.  And it does so with this guy:

There is just no comparison.  The wrappers are delicate and fine, the meat strikes the ultimate balance of savory and sweet.  We mix our own sauce.  There is plenty of la.  And if the dumplings aren't enough there's always smoky fried rice or drunken chicken - cold chicken in rice wine!  Of course!  It's suddenly all so clear!  Oh how we feasted.

The last meal to be discussed in this post falls under the category of "places I've gone with other people in Taipei which I'll never be able to find again on my own, at which I ate things I'll never know how to properly order."  It's a pretty big category.  I believe the intention of the night was grilled meat on a stick, but we ended up with this:

If only my fuzzy pictures could do this meal justice.  It was sort of like Chinese food candy land.  To the left we have the land of three-cup chicken: one cup "awesome", one cup "oh dear sweet lord this is good", and one cup, "my taste buds will never be the same again."  Also some onions, garlic, chili, and basil.  Above three-cup chicken land we meet Lady Kung Pao and her Mao-Po tofu brigade.  If I were a chef-judge on Chopped I would look tenderly into my bowl and declare the Kung Pao chicken "unctuous" and well-suited to the bite of the spicy tofu.  Follow the tofu down savory lane and over to the right and we reach what I like to call, "the random goose dish".  This dish ended up on our table because I saw a cooked goose sitting on the counter and demanded slices of it.  In fact, I'm pretty sure I kept repeating "give me goose" in a low-pitched growl while holding a sharpened chopstick up to the throat of our Chinese-speaking dining companion.  She did comply, and the goose was extraordinary.  It was cold and covered with a clear sauce reminiscent of drunken chicken.  Shall we call it, "completely hammered goose"?  Yes, I think we shall.  Below the goose we find the valley of fried delights, which consisted of fried oysters (yes!) ... and fried dragon balls (um, okay!  you're still delicious!  Tastes like chicken!) 

Work kicked into high gear last week, so I wasn't able to take in any major Taipei sights (other than Roxy 99, which deserves its own vomit-covered landmark plaque).  This week my goal is to make it to Elephant Mountain.  My understanding is that this is best hiked in the evening, as we all must make the choice between dying from sweat-induced dehydration or mosquito-transmitted Dengue fever at some point in our lives.  Also, I shall attend my second evening of Chinese school.  My first lesson involved lots of cursing while futilely trying to draw Chinese characters, and pizza.  I learned just enough to order a huge plate of fried dough for breakfast, but not enough to say, "please take me to the nearest hospital" while keeling over from immediate heart disease. 

That's all for now.  Next time I'll tell you all about Indian music videos - they're scarier than you think.  Until then, please enjoy this pictorial representation of my were-asian nature:

Rainy Taipei night with Venus

The eating continues on apace.  Every night there’s some new restaurant or savory delight to explore.  Most of our plans here tend to revolve around eating.  I have already impressed my cohorts with my immense appetite, and the strange vocalizations that occur when I eat something particularly satisfying.  (What can I say, I’m a hummer!  Love me as I am.)  The community here is fantastic.  Everyone at the TPR office makes me feel completely welcome, and the random people I meet have been warm and open as well.  Take, for example, the Muddy Basin Ramblers concert I attended last week at the Taipei Artist Village Cafe.  Aside from enjoying a great performance by a band that brings to mind both the Tiger Lillies and Squirell Nut Zippers, I also met a lovely woman from Brazil who gave me the lowdown on the best places for art and music in the city; members of the Taipei Swing Dancing Club which meets every Saturday for free; the guitar player for the gypsy jazz band I stumbled upon in Shida who delcared, "we must together play Edith Piaf music". 

In other words, I fear I am acclimating at a break neck pace.  Why do I "fear" this, you ask?  Because I can see already how easy it would be to stay, to devote myself to this adventure full-time, to enjoy a constant stream of tasty street snacks and $200 a month rent.  Of course, this is most likely a honeymoon period, the warm glow of infatuation, which will swiftly vanish at the first sign of reality.  But let's just say I can understand how people come here for one summer and stay for 12 years.

If there's one thing that gives me pause when I contemplate relocation it is most certainly the weather.  It is hot here.  And humid.  And sticky.  And moist.  In general there is an overabundance of moisture that is heated to a steamy level of gross wafting through the air.  And until recently there was no relief to be found in the sudden thunderstorm.  Instead it would just be a new kind of temporary wet, with quick return to tropical ass.  And then, finally, it truly rained.  Monday was a typical Taipei day - a morning of teaching, an afternoon of sweaty sightseeing, and a proper gorging for dinner.  One of the peculiarities of the city is that there seems to be a dearth of dive bars.  There are fancy bars a plenty, and more restaurants than any one island could possibly need, but I had not found a cheap, easy-going local.  Monday night this all changed.  After excellent Thai food with coworkers we walked off the food coma and crammed ourselves into a tiny, orange bar on one of those alleys-off-the-lane-off-the-road-off-the-highway-down-the-wormhole (yes, I will in fact never be able to find this place again on my own).  We were greeted by a beer-happy Taiwanese man who apparently frequents the place so regularly he sometimes pours the drinks.  The bar was a thick plank of wood.  Original artwork and newspaper clippings adorned the walls and ceiling.  The miniscule open kitchen somehow managed to turn out hotdogs and sausages that rival night market meat candy.  And the music?  Fado. 

While at the bar enjoying the discovery of chilled red wine, it began to rain.  None of us really took notice.  And then it poured.  It was like a medieval bloodletting.  It was as if all the the tension, illness, and pain of the city was suddenly scoured and washed away.  We quickly realized that there would be no cabs available, so we settled in for the late night.  Bottles of wine were opened.  Fried, spicy street snacks were shared.  And, as happens on all good drunken, foreign nights, a Taiwanese photograher declared my friend to be Venus and asked if he could capture her essence. 

We eventually made it home, and spent most of the following day holed up in the apartment. It rained so much, the city closed down. But we, of course, did not. There were noodles and dumplings and wine to be had, so we hunkered down in the magical Da an hostel apartment and made the most of the day. Mind you, we are living like college students, so I found myself drinking wine out of a bowl.  It doesn't matter.  This summer will be one long improvisation.  With any luck, wine bowls will only be the beginning. 

A few of my coworkers.  We're a responsible bunch.  When monsoon-like rains come down we go to high flooding areas, but at least we do inversions after that.  Because, you know, we care about our health.  Hence the red wine.  (Okay, full disclosure - they contemplated rainy adventures.  I took a nap.  I'm old!)

I do not understand why white wine is in such short supply here, but if the Taiwanese people will chill the red I'll sure as hell drink it.  Also, these people have mastered the art of deep-frying.  I'm serious, Scotland.  You're out of the running. Take your mars bars and go home. 

The Chaing Kai-shek Memorial Hall.  An imposing structure that houses many impressive artifacts from the man's life, as well as informative signs.  For example, I now know all about his personal style of dress, the ways in which artists immortalized him in ivory etchings, and that the communist revolution either never happened, or just wasn't really important enough to mention.  Also, there's a creepy, smiling wax figure of him in his "office".  Yeah, I'll totally be back.

I've got two amazing meals and some excellent musical experiences to discuss.  I've also got a hell of a work week ahead. But I'll try not to fall behind.  In the meantime, stay spicy!

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.