No Bread For You!

So last night I was out at dinner with some friends (it was Lisa's last night in town before she returned to the lonely hinterlands of New York City), at a place that included on its menu a dish with "balsamic redaction." Also on offer was spaghetti with meatballs, which a couple of people decided to order. So, naturally, I had to make the comment that it was a good thing that the meatballs were plural because, after all, you get no bread with one meatball.

Four blank stares and some uncomfortable laughter later, it occurred to me that this reference might not be quite as universal as I had thought, and perhaps not everyone's grandfather had been singing that particular song at random intervals for as long as they could remember. Which is too bad because, really, who doesn't love a jaunty little number about poverty, hunger and humiliation?

A Brainteaser for You

You know that trick where someone tells you "don't think of a pink elephant" and you can't think of anything else for the next ten minutes or so? Well, in that vein, I'd just like to challenge you to read this article and not think of Jason Giambi in a gold thong.

You're welcome.


(Credit/blame for this goes to Dave Barry's blog.)

Lisa's Bachelorette Party: A Photo Essay

It started with shopping (not pictured). And lunch. (Also not pictured, but tasty.)


Next stop was the Bliss Spa, where you can sit out on the rooftop patio while you are waiting for your pedicure.



Then we went back to maid-of-honor Iljie's apartment, where she had laid out a lovely spread:



And Lisa was required to put on a sash and open presents:



Later, a feather boa got involved:



It turns out that a unstructured cotton minidress, while supremely comfortable, does not photograph well, especially when you have yanked it down over your knees:



But at least the highlights turned out nice:


Is my face really that flat?


In an entirely inappropriate move, my gift to Lisa was: books. To read on her honeymoon in Bora Bora. She seemed to like them, though.


What can I say? I gotta be me.


She had already read this one, and helpfully explained the plot:



To get to dinner, we rode on MUNI:



With a guy in a fake mustache:


Perhaps he's a spy?


For dinner we went to Home, a restaurant that specializes in upscale versions of classic American comfort food (in this case, "upscale" means "really good" and not "stupid and annoying"). Imagine hipster San Franciscans lining up for pot roast and meatloaf, which they will do here, because it is good. So is the cornbread:



We all enjoyed the dinner:



And the drinks:


(Though I have to admit, by this point, about nine hours in, I was actually starting to get tired of the girly drinks. I tried to get them to make me a gin ricky, but the bartender didn't know how.)


After dinner we had intended to go on to a night of partying, but it turns out we're all old, so instead we went back to Jora's apartment, crashed on the couch:


(It's important to stay hydrated.)


And watched Lisa play Guitar Hero.



Now that was a party.

I Guess That Explains It

more cat pictures

Ten Grand!

Plus eight! That's what hit counter read when I looked at it today. And it only took three years!

Tempura Thursday: Hot Time, Tempura in the City*

*Okay, suburb.



Liquid
1750 S. El Camino Real
San Mateo, CA


It's May, and the temperatures in the Bay Area are hitting the eighties, which means it's time for people to lie on the floor and moan about how they're going to die of heatstroke. Me, I'm eating tempura.

That's right. After a break for travel (and a delay in posting because I was too lazy/otherwise occupied to write this up last week) we're back! I'm here to chew bubble gum and eat tempura, and I'm all out of bubble gum. Which is a good thing, because that would be gross.

In a slight deviation from my usual pattern, this week I took on a place outside of San Mateo's main drag, on El Camino just off the exit from 92. Also different is the fact that the restaurant is clearly trying to distinguish itself as a fancy and modern place (witness, the name) in what looks to be a reconditioned Perko's.


Food:
There was no sashimi option in the combo listings, so I had to make do with a California to go with my tempura (for the relatively high price of eighteen dollars). They brought out the usual starters fairly promptly (there was almost no one else in the restaurant): a salad which, like many of the places I have visited, they kept premade in the refrigerator, really putting the "ice" in iceberg, and possibly the worst miso soup I have had so far; much to salty, with an unidentifiably odd taste (did they make it with chicken broth or something?). I was disappointed not to get edamame, which I think is a clear sign that I am getting spoiled.

The entrees came in separate dishes, a presentation that always makes me feel like I have ordered too much food, because I have. The roll came first, and while it was nicely prepared with a welcome lack of cucumber, it was disappointingly made with imitation crab. (Helpful hint for restaurants trying to make themselves "fancy": "Fancy" restaurants do not generally replace ingredients with cheaper, fake, alternatives.) The tempura was fine, even a little crisper than usual, though that may have been due to being slightly overcooked. The selection of vegetables was unimaginative (sweet potato, eggplant, zucchini, something I'm forgetting), but they left out the bad ones, the shrimp were decently large and nothing was over-battered. But, in the same way I feel obligated to give extra points if I clean my plate, I think that if partway through eating the dish I take a bite and have to stop because I feel ill, that counts as an automatic one-point deduction.

Reviewing: It's more of an art than a science.


Tempura Grade: 5/10
Overall Grade: 4/10

Blood for Oil? Yeah, Okay.

On Monday I gave some blood at work (ten tubes! no fainting!), and received in exchange fifty dollars from petty cash. Today I spent that money on gas for my car.

I think this may be symbolic of something.

Speaking of Odd Foreign Music

What's that I hear? Is it the faint strains of Icelandic dance-pop mingling with Finnish death metal, while a crazy Greek lady dances in a pop-up book? Is it really Eurovision time again already?


Needless to say, Ireland has entered a singing turkey.