Castle Thundercox

A Safe Working Environment For The Actors

2010-07-26T20:17:00.003-04:00

I didn't think much of it, because I liked hanging around in that cemetery. But, looking back on it, if any of the staff of that clinic had looked out the window and noticed that I was mulling about in the cemetery across the street for nearly a full hour following getting tested for HIV, I imagine they'd have thought me to be fairly strange. But it didn't occur to me at the time. Like I said, I liked hanging around in that cemetery. I'd been there more times than I'd been to that clinic, anyway. We were friends first.

I sent Kris a test message, confirming my "non-reactive" result. "Let's rumble." Very sexy. And went about the merry business of re-finding my favorites. Yes, I have a couple of favorite headstones. One has always stood out in particular. It stands over the grave of a fellow who died at the brittle old age of twenty. If that reality isn't disappointing enough, the little poem on the grave comes off, well, just plain bitter.

Stop here my friend & drop a tear
Think on the dust that slumber here
And when you see this date of me
Think on the glass that runs for thee

All right, thanks, Mr. Samuel Prentis.

Kris arrived while I was mucking about near the more "recent" graves from the mid-1800's, and told me to follow him. We ducked into some building belonging, apparently, to Emerson. It took a while, as he knew seemingly everyone along the way and, ever the social butterfly, stopped to catch up in full sentences where I might've been satisfied with a knowing nod of recognition without ever so much as breaking stride.

I asked, once or twice, where it was that we were going. "You'll see."

All right, thanks, Kris.

I thought maybe he'd steal us away to some dark prop room where we'd screw on a dresser once owned by Bertolt Brecht or something. I could get with that.

An elevator ride brought us to a room with a beautiful view, overlooking not just my little cemetery but a solid stretch of Boston Common, and just as the sun was dimming down over the horizon into uninspiring grays and yellows. A perfect fall sunset; no fuss, all surrender. And I'd have been quite content if he had brought me there exclusively to take in the view, but it turned out he was sneaking me into a rehearsal for the upcoming MacBeth, in which he would be playing the role of MacDuff.

I had told him how I enjoyed theater folk, having done a bit of musical theater as a child. I greatly enjoyed it, and though I lost my singing voice and my confidence both quite permanently with the onset of puberty, I had never lost my love of the theater. Well aware of the fact I can no longer hit a note or even enunciate well, my fantasies of theater glory mostly entail volunteering for stage crews and getting drunk at cast parties. When Kris mentioned in passing that he might cast me in a piece he had to direct for a course, I balked. But this? This was just.

The most fun to be had, I had always thought anyhow, was before and after the shows. Rehearsals in sweatpants, with frequent directorial interruption, and the dismantling of beautiful ersatz trees and buildings to the hum of power screwdrivers in reverse only hours after the curtains had closed on the final night. Personalities without the leashes of their characters. I was quite content having relinquished any claim on a role other than voyeur; the evening was promising.

Additionally, it was a moment of truth. Kris, I'm sure, was without suspicion. But the game was afoot.

I have the merciless tendency to assume that just about everyone sucks, artistically. I think a lot of things are terrible, including the vast majority of the output of people who could be considered professional. Unfair as it may be, if someone fancies himself an artist -- through whatever outlet -- and I disagree, I tend not to fancy him at all. My negative opinion of the work can seep to the work's creator. My judgmental ways get loose like a bad dog and, with no regard for their master's will, usually end up chewing the heads right off the neighbor's kids.

Kris wanted to be an actor, and if I didn't find myself buying into his dream, my options seemed unpleasant. To risk telling him the truth of my opinion, and see if he would stick around with someone who didn't believe in him, or to put on a more brilliant performance of my own, showering him in words of encouragement the way a preschool teacher must praise every finger-painting. It was actually at one of his performances that we'd met, and he seemed capable, but the material he was delivering that evening wasn't exactly Shakespeare.

But this was. This was, exactly, Shakespeare. And fortunately, it turned out that Kris could act.

I was all sorts of delighted with the day. As I picked at the little Band-Aid on my HIV-negative finger, tucked away under a table alongside the wall, I followed the script while the Emerson students rolled through MacBeth, MacDuff up to snuff.

The next day, Kris told me he'd received an e-mail from the stage manager, chastising him for bringing his boyfriend to the rehearsal, on the grounds that he had jeopardized "the safe working environment" that she and the director try to create and maintain for the actors. Kris was furious. I was annoyed, and felt vaguely guilty for having been there and getting him in trouble, though rationally I knew I hadn't really committed any crimes here.

We vented to one another about how were now in lockstep with our hatred of the girl for about five minutes, and it then dwindled into something we'd joke about it in completely poor taste. The damage had been done, and it wasn't as if they were going to go out and find another MacDuff over it, so I decided against allowing it to serve as a sour, sullying aftertaste for an otherwise fun experience, and I was doing just, just a wonderful job of it.

That bitch.

I decided to attend both performances of MacBeth that played, returning for the second night despite having discovered, on the first, that the performance space had a suffocating micro-climate the likes of which could induce church faint in small children and the elderly. I got there very early to make sure I scored a seat; the small space filled up very quickly, and though I felt a bit greedy occupying a seat on both nights, I also felt like a good boyfriend.

The only other people who got there as early as I did on the second night were carrying a big bouquet of roses. They were very clearly someone's parents. When other obvious parents arrived, their parental conversation carried to my ears, and with it came the news that the flowers were for none other than that "bitch" of a stage manager. Roses. For a stage manager. There's no people like show people.

Only a short while into Act I, something began to go wrong. There was a heavy black curtain from which the actors would enter and exit the in-the-round stage. It was held up by a sort of frame made of rather heavy metal poles, immediately adjacent to where I was sitting, and the structure were coming loose.

Each time an actor or actress would enter or exit the scene, the frame would sway, rattle, and threaten to collapse. After two instances of this, during which I thought it unimaginable that no one running the show had done anything, I was getting a little concerned. The third time, the sway was even more dramatic, and I was convinced that without some sort of remedy, the unit would come crashing down, possibly onto one of the players.

So, on the fourth time, I caught the frame in my hands, and stabilized it. I did this for the rest of the play. MacBeth isn't very short. In a hot, stuffy underground room when you're holding up a small scaffolding unit while trying to focus enough to be able to offer constructive criticism after the show, a single performance of MacBeth runs for -- I have learned -- nine hours, three days, and one month.

When the performance ended, and all the bows were taken and then actors headed back through the curtain to change and exchange accolades, I let go of the metal poles and left my seat, following the flow of parents and other attendees to the narrow exit. But my path was cut off by a girl carrying the roses from before. She introduced herself as Sarah, the stage manager, and thanked me extensively for not only being there to attend the show, but for helping avoid disaster by keeping the metal poles from crashing down during the performance.

She then ushered me out so that the limited set could be dismantled.

For a moment, during the conversation, the part of me that really enjoys starting shit was lighting up like a Christmas tree. The urge to introduce myself was powerful. "Oh, you're the stage manager? I'm Kris's boyfriend. And really, happy to help. I'm glad I could help create and maintain a safe working environment for the actors." The words were locked, loaded, and so ready for launch that I practically salivated.

Instead, I said nothing.

Kris cracked open the door to the performance area shortly after that, to check in with me. When I told him about the encounter, Kris said he thought I should've pulled the trigger. For all I could tell, he was genuinely disappointed about the missed opportunity to send a barb in the direction of the stage manager.

I figure it was simply unnecessary. I figure Mr. Samuel Prentis would agree with me. But I told Kris he was right, and he seemed to believe I meant it. He said he had to go back to the dressing area to change so we could leave, and with that, I bowed back into the lobby.

Bravo.

Indefinite

2010-05-02T20:01:00.006-04:00

I started writing a very lengthy piece exploring a certain aspect of my personality: I reserve the right to walk out on anything.

I deleted all the text and started fresh, and went on for another substantial volume, then deleted most of that.

It occurs to me that I have been suffering writer's block for about two years. Also, I don't like the way I write anymore. Those facts are probably associated somehow.

Still, words are the weapon of choice. I like writing. And I fancy myself a writer.

I suppose writing is something I walked out on for a bit.

How fortunate that it does not press me with a deluge of questions 'pon my return. How thankful I am that among those questions that aren't being asked is "Are you back for good."

Hadley Says I Should Update My Blog

2009-07-24T10:39:00.003-04:00

Though I've done my best to keep myself "off the grid" in many respects -- no Facebook, no MySpace, no LinkedIn -- as it were, I have now officially made my YouTube debut.

At least I did it in style; drunk on Jack Daniels in a thunderstorm, posing for pictures taken by people who refer to me as "Zeus."

A second cameo has already appeared, featuring the rancid bitch from whom I saved two drunken comrades the following evening.

To you, sagging hotel bar strumpet, I say this: No, I don't believe Chipper Jones could lick your fucking clit.

Heads Will Roll

2009-07-13T14:01:00.002-04:00

I called Gaslight to make a reservation for tomorrow night (Bastille Day!), hoping to be seated in the section of my favorite waitress there.

They informed me that she has left the country.

God and I are now in a huge fight. I will throw down my enemy and smite his ruin upon the mountainside.

One Of The Finer Things In Life

2009-07-09T09:12:00.002-04:00

A Warning

2009-06-26T09:31:00.001-04:00

Thai Ladyboys killed David Carradine, Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson.

Thai Ladyboys are coming, and they're coming to kill you.

And if you don't accept my help, I have no doubt they will succeed.

Catch Up

2009-06-20T17:12:00.002-04:00

I cannot keep up with my own life. It's a good thing, I think. Once upon a time, things were so mundane and relatively slow-paced -- perhaps because I refused to attend eighty percent of my classes in college and then for a good while after that refused to actually work a job -- that I was able to weave delicious yarn from even the most untellable tales.

And now, as my life becomes a luscious tale the likes of which the producers of Limetime Originals would literally salivate over, and each delectable detail tosses itself on the pile, I find myself utterly incapable of keeping pace.

I will, nonetheless, try. And pictures will help.

When I last left off, I'd just met long-lost family members all of whom with I'm quite taken. The following weekend, I was headed to Miami.

I left on a Thursday afternoon, and a small contingent of coworkers saw me off at the front door as though it was the bon voyage ritual for a cruise. T-Rex had me to the airport with plenty of time to get through security and then calm down my relatives by phone before taking flight.

My flight was unspectacular. The smell of babies, an unprovactive in-flight feature ("Bolt"), a flaming flight attendance, and a loudmouthed woman who -- having spotted my iPhone earlier on -- insisted I read her the live scores of the Celtics game when we landed, as though I was her subordinate. She had trouble getting her luggage down as we unboarded the plane, and though I had to shove my junk up against her ass to escape, I slipped past her just the same, and made my way off into the winding depths of Miami International.

I confirmed my survival to various family members as I tugged my bag along, and was delighted to see, for what was the first but, with any luck, not the last time in my life, a well-dressed chauffeur holding up a sign with my name on it in bold letters. I like fancy perks.

We didn't talk much, which was fine. I dislike forced conversation with people who cut hair or drive you somewhere or whatnot. I was his last job of the night, so I just nestled into the leathery smell of the towncar and let him work his transportational magic, weaving me down highways named after dolphins and shells, through the surprisingly quiet downtown streets and, at last, over a small bridge onto Brickell Key, where we passed the Courvoisier -- there was a building named that -- on the way to my destination, the Mandarin Oriental Miami.

Doors were opened, bags were carried, I lifted nary a finger but to hand over a credit card for my room account. By the time I reached the room, which was lovely, it was relatively late in the evening. So I walked around naked on my balcony for a bit before raiding the minibar.

The next morning I walked to South Beach, originally intending only to get the lay of the land down. But the virbant blue-green waters were irresistable, so I picked up some sunscreen and slathered it on as I walked to a nice spot of beach where I tossed off my shoes, wrapped my wallet in a plastic bag that came with the sunscreen, stuffed it into my pocket, and walked out into the crystal waters.

"I am a genius," I thought to myself, until a wave came along and I realized my wallet was no longer in my pocket.

Lucky for me, I was not far from the designated gay section of South Beach, and once I'd told one person I needed help finding a lost wallet, the waters were soon filled with tenacious twinks and determined daddies. I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers. No results, though, and just as I was about to give up, head back to the hotel, and call to cancel my cards, a gorgeous girl called to me from the shore. "Is this it?"

It was.

And so I had regained my wallet, dry and safe and warm, from the untold clutches of the warm Atlantic. "Just leave it on the beach," she instructed me, "no one steals anything here." All right then.

Having gotten as much excitement as I could handle out of that incident, I spent the rest of my time determined to do nothing but truly relax. Lucky for me, a friend in Los Angeles who was aware of my trip had attempted to have champagne sent to my room upon my arrival. The hotel had bungled the request, and when I chatted with him later that day, he had the hotel rectify the problem by sending up the amenity that evening. And so I eased back into true relaxation with a sparkling rose and chocolate covered strawberries, nude but for the hotel robe on my balcony, taking in the quiet lap of Brickell Bay against my little man-made island.

I dined at the hotel restaurant -- Azul -- a few times, enjoying spectacular foie gras, a trio of Colorado lamb preparations, sticky rice creme brulee, exceptional cheese plates, and a number of decent-to-phenomenal whites and sparklings. I accidentally walked through the filming of a movie, and signed waivers so that they could use the footage. And, tossing back margaritas and a Cuban sandwich on Miami beach, was photographed by a couple of girls who seduced me into it by reaching over the rails that separated the restaurant from the sidewalk to scratch the back of my head.

I took in the Cincinnatti Reds at the Florida Marlins. I love baseball more than most people, but I confess, by the thirteenth inning of anemic offensive displays put forth by two teams about which I care minimally, I was "all set."

It was a good trip. Arriving early, once again, at the airport for my return flight, I decided to gamble on airport sushi, which honestly wasn't so bad. I was hit on by some girls from Virginia who'd spent their week in the Keys, and then got drunk before my flight while being chatted up by a British national who claimed to have a house in Turkey and a job photographing whales aboard an oil ship in the Caribbean. It was a mistake for him to explain the details of his life so proudly; I returned fire with a more humble spin to my settings, and suddenly, the drinks were on him.

I came home with a good tan and a clear head -- save for the lingering effects of the booze -- feeling healthy and sly. The Miami Hat had been broken in, and yay, for it was good.

And In Some Cases, Money

2009-05-27T21:08:00.005-04:00

It's been said that a picture is worth a thousand words.

I usually dismiss that valuation, mostly because I've been copied on too many "amazing photos from this year" chain e-mails that people who don't have interesting lives are compelled include me on when they forward it to the people they naively assume won't think less of them for it and hit delete.

But, rather than attempt to summarize -- or, more accurately, confess -- the delight of (re)uniting with long-lost family members to discover that you actually like these strangers who've got your blood, I think I'll let a choice photograph do the talking.

And here we are. I'm not only in this photo, I'm also the photographer. How I fit seven happy people into the same frame without ruining the shot or tearing my MCL, I'm still unsure.

It's difficult to believe, looking at it, that most of us just met for the first time the day this was taken.

But there you have it: family.

The Prodigal Fun Returns

2009-05-25T12:22:00.002-04:00

It’s nearly impossible to catch up in chronicling the last month or two and do it all justice without producing a legitimate novel. The simple highlights are rather sensational, to be sure. The most deceptive statistic is, perhaps, the least impressive one. Dating back to the second week of March, I have yet to spend consecutive weekends in the same city.

I had spent Easter weekend in New Jersey, whereupon my mother announced to the full extent of my then-known family – my sister, myself, and my aunt (my father’s sister) and uncle (her husband) – that she had received word from her estranged family members, and would be reuniting with them in some capacity.

The following weekend, unable to spring another trip back down to New Jersey on such short notice, I remained in Boston while my mother and sister drove out to see one of my uncles, his wife and two of his kids, as well as my grandfather. My mother had not seen her brother or father in forty years. My sister had never met them before. As for me, I would not remain a mystery for long.

A week later I was on the train back to New Jersey, to get together with a different uncle and his wife and two kids. I suddenly have cousins; I am suddenly not the baby of my family. I am suddenly on the hook for a lot more trips to New Jersey.

Rather spent from the travel and rather hectic transitional periods at work in between, I took off for Miami as May began, to lie about, drink and dine, and slough off a layer of winter skin in the flattering angles of the nearly tropical MIA sun. I spent five days lounging around man-made Brickell Key at the Mandarin Oriental, rediscovering my Spanish tongue and lazily exchanging text messages with fresh kin.

The following weekend was Mother’s Day, which meant it would be spent in Boston with my mother. We took in a record-setting Red Sox victory, lunched on lobster rolls and pink champagne at the Top of the Hub – so that’s where the claws on their lobster entrees go! – and trifled with the caloric juggernauts that are the cookies offered by Paradise Bakery.

Having spent so much time downtown, I hardly saw my apartment – in which laundry has been accumulating at an alarming rate – and would see none of it this past weekend, on which my grandfather, uncles, aunts, and cousins insisted on a get-together to meet me. I know of no others who, at twenty-three years of age, meet their grandfather for the first time.

And so I’ve spent about thirty-five hours on trains, six hours on planes, and countless hours in cars over the last two months or so. My family has multiplied fourfold in size. I’ve dined on everything from foie gras to French fries, drunken vintage champagne and Bud Light.

My bank account is as sore is a prison bitch, my skin has just recently finished peeling, and if I don’t do laundry tonight, I will literally have nothing to wear for work tomorrow, much less the rest of the week.

Oh, and I’m considering a name change to adopt my mother’s maiden name – and the name of all my newfound relatives – as my last name. It’s better than carrying around my father’s, I think, and it gives me the opportunity to also switch my middle name to “Danger,” which I am one hundred percent serious about doing.

Danger.

Smashing

2009-04-22T12:17:00.002-04:00

I'm a very big fan of mashups. Not only do they -- in my fucked up logic -- somehow validate my appreciation for even the most hollow of catchy pop music, but some of them are actually quite artful.

Every month, Bootie puts out their "top ten" mashups of the month. Though not everything is a hit, there's usually at least one song per update that makes its way to a hefty play count on my iTunes.

This month, there are two, and they're very similar.

It just depends on which cocaine-addled skeleton you'd rather inject into the undeniable catchiness of Kelly Clarkson's "My Life Would Suck Without You."

Ozzy Osbourne or Whitney Houston?

Spam A Little

2009-04-18T11:47:00.003-04:00

Dear Amanda Palmer,

Congratulations on your solo success. I very much enjoyed your work when you teamed with Brian Viglione as The Dresden Dolls, and I am equally if not more excited about your emergence as a solo artist. I have been to shows. I've drawn on some strange mimes. I've bought shirts. I've put money in the hat. I've put money in the boot. I've put money directly in the hands of the Australian bunch you toured with recently, standing in the chilly air just outside of Paradise Rock Club. We've even met.

I say these things to evidence and establish my appreciation, and I think that's been done.

That all said, please push your book elsewhere. Why on Earth you think I would shell out thirty-five bucks plus tax on a book containing one hundred twenty-eight photographs of you -- "dead" -- is completely vexing. It strikes me that we may have wandered away from artful positing of universal truths and diverse collaboration for the sake of true creativity. It strikes me as the overly self-indulgent pet project of a goth chick with too much time on her hands and too many artsy friends who think she's just amazing.

As much as I enjoy the vast majority of what you churn out, I have my limits. I simply have no wish to consume photographs of you pretending to be dead in a shopping cart, pretending to be dead in an outfit you like, pretending to be dead on your bathroom floor, pretending to be dead in some shallow water, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

What I'm trying to say is, I don't give a shit about your coffee table picture book and it's disenfranchising.

Try to keep in mind that I rant because I care.

Sincerely,

That guy who drew you a picture of an onion wearing Jack Skellington's coat one night on a little piece of paper during a performance of The Onion Cellar, and traded it to you for a flower -- a far fairer exchange than thirty or forty bucks for hundreds of photos of you playing opossum, in my humble opinion.

Of Asses

2009-04-17T16:45:00.002-04:00

Because I actually enjoy my job, I practically never communicate anything about it here. The only information that makes for a good story is the same kind of information that gets a person fired. I'm not entirely unschooled in such ways.

But I will say this.

This afternoon, a coworker of mine was complaining, at extreme length, about several things. Personal life, other coworkers, boss, etc.

The words entered my ear where they were immediately annihilated, as enemies in "Centipede" on easy against an expert player. As the constant stream of bitching vaporized en route to my motherboard, the core remained intact and operating at peak efficiency.

I thought to myself "I have a great ass."

It is that very mental process that allows me to be as good at my job as I am.

Unsent

2009-04-16T12:13:00.003-04:00

Dear Grady,

Ever since photos of you and what sure looks like your girlfriend surfaced on the Internet, I've been having doubts about our relationship. Perhaps if we had ever actually met, things would be different. Nonetheless, I can't go on like this, and though I will always be willing to put you up for a night or two when you're in town to play the Red Sox, I'm afraid the wedding is off.

You see, I've found somebody else.

Sure, he might have a history of drug abuse. And yeah, he isn't as fast on the basepaths, can't steal thrity-plus bases a year, and doesn't have quite the toned ass to show for it. But he's got tattoos, and a crazy look in his eye, and unlike some people, he can hit .300 for an entire season. His name is Josh.

And he only hits because he loves.

Anyhow, I'll never forget how I drafted you early in every fantasy baseball league last year, only for you to justify my pick with a 30-30 campaign. We'll always have that. But it's time for us to move on.

You go back to your girlfriend, and I'll carry on with Josh. The boy's a freak. Sometimes, we even bring in a midget, just to spice things up. I'm happy now.

Please... try to understand.

Con Text

2009-04-15T12:51:00.003-04:00

Robert discovered a new toy today. Naturally, rather than subject photographs of himself to the machine's dark will, he tossed my visage into its invisible crunching gears, and the results were this:

At least he used a picture of me that I actually rather like.

Things have been racing along in regard to correspondence with my mother's family. So much so that I'll be going meet some of them next weekend. And so much so that pictures have been exchanged.

I provided my mother with three pictures of which she could send her favorite. My sister then decided to pick one she had of me on her computer -- as she was helping my mother do the attachments for the e-mail -- and for some reason no one has been able to tell me what picture it was, nor can anyone find the sent e-mail or send me a copy.

I wish I knew which photo was provided, and I cannot deny that I'm fairly annoyed that I had no say in the decision of what one photo to send of me to the family I've never met. It wouldn't bother me so much if I didn't know for a fact that my sister genuinely thought I looked my best when I was two hundred and ten pounds.

This creates the hilarious potential that I will meet people for the first time and have them react as though I've just been announced as the winner of "The Biggest Loser."

Real Men Have Cuvees

2009-04-09T14:59:00.004-04:00

I suddenly need a wine fridge.

In research -- important research that is part of my lifelong quest to drink all the champagne I can get my fucking hands on -- I suddenly have encountered a bottle that I might have to refrain from drinking, at least for a little while anyhow.

How did I not know about this before?

From the website of champagne house Pol Roger:

"Sir Winston Churchill was Pol Roger's most illustrious devotee and customer. This champagne is made in his honour. The composition of the blend is a closely guarded family secret but from tasting it is likely that the champagne features about 70-80% Pinot Noir with the remainder made up from Chardonnay. The grapes are all from Grand Cru vineyards which were under vine during Churchill's lifetime and it is only ever made in the very best vintages. It is made in a style which Churchill himself favoured: robust, mature and long-lived."

I simply must have it. Of the champagne, Churchill is quoted as having said, "In victory, I deserve it; in defeat, I need it." I, myself, require it in two ways as well: a bottle a drink, and a bottle to hoard.

Sir Winston is on the Mount Rushmore of champagne heroes that exists in my head, accompanied by Louis Bohne, Dom Pérignon, and Oscar Wilde.

UPDATE: Apparently, it is Winston Churchill Day. And wouldn't you know it, when I went to Trader Joe's for a little grocery shopping, they had Pol Roger!

This... is who this is.

It's All Relatives

2009-04-09T10:32:00.002-04:00

So it turns out I have three uncles and three aunts whom I've never met. Through them, I have eight cousins -- five guys, three girls, all relatively close to me in age -- whom I've also never met. Oh, and my maternal grandfather is apparently still alive and kicking at the ripe old age of eighty-five. Haven't met him either.

My "new" uncle has suggested that he and my mother reunite by meeting up sometime after Easter.

Speaking of Easter, I'm traveling down to New Jersey visit the family this weekend. My sister and I have planned to dye eggs and get lit. I'm really hoping that "The Ten Commandments" is on television Saturday night. My only enduring Easter tradition is watching that on Easter weekend after everyone else has gone to bed.

I imagine that, drunk, it will come off like this:

The Exciting Part

2009-04-06T12:30:00.002-04:00

My life has effortlessly followed the plot of a soap opera for the past week. First off, I've been bed-ridden by illness for seven straight days now, manning up on Saturday night to celebrate the birthday of longtime friend. Meanwhile, being sick has allowed me to keep in constant contact with my mother as she reestablishes contact with her brother, with whom she has not spoken in over forty years.

It turns out that, in addition to a number of aunts and uncles, I have at least two cousins whom I've never met.

In The Kingdom Of Gourmanida: Epicurian Epilogue

2009-04-02T19:27:00.004-04:00

After a week of repeated indulgence, I have been battling strep throat for the last couple of days. I'm starting to kick it, I think. I'm just glad it happened this week, and not last.

The search for Excelsior's replacement produced what I admit was the anticipated result: slight weight gain and no true substitute. The ultimate restaurant experience is as difficult to describe as I imagine it is to create. There are still a couple of contenders I've yet to sample here in Boston, but I'm rather content to resign that each establishment's offering is unique, gently but undeniably crafted by the infinite variables of server, wine selection, and ordering... things over which a restaurant, as an entity, has only so much control.

For the establishment's part, there is much to tend to. It is in the little things, such as the lovely arrangement of spare toilet paper in the bathroom at Oishii, and the big things, such as appropriately listing a side as arancini and not simply wild mushroom risotto. It's putting lobster in the lobster bisque, and maintaining a staff engaging enough and sincere enough that they can be trusted for recommendations geared towards a given customer's tastes, not the inflation of the tab or the dispense of a dish for which the kitchen is overstocked.

All of it can be built, though, around good food and good drinks. And though the experience specific to Excelsior may have ended with its closing, I may yet have found a new favorite, long may it reign.

Without further adieu, the dust has now settled, and it's time to dole out the gold stars and dunce caps.

The biggest disappointment was easily The Palm. As I said in the more at-length recap, I know there's a good meal to be had there. Or at least, there was once upon a time. Having been on their mailing list for quite some time, I can't ever recall receiving so many "special offers" in such a small span of time. If my recent experience there was in any way representative of the typical visit these days, it leaves little to the imagination with regards to what's motivating all these discounts cluttering up my e-mail.

Oishii is easily my new standard for sushi. Though a bit more a hike than incredibly convenient local favorite Privus Lounge, Oishii will likely see more of me with the warmer weather. Very good sushi, nice cocktails -- provided they survive the stairs -- and all at about the value one would deem relatively accurate for what's offered.

Tremont647 and Le Petit Robert will also see me returning. Both have menus I'm anxious to thoroughly explore, and whether it's the tangy French at the Bistro or the personable (here: gay) staff at 647, the atmospheres are comfortable and inviting for a three course meal or perhaps just a lazy Saturday's luncheon.

The Top of the Hub... I'm not sure why I didn't go often before. I must return with someone who hasn't got any food hangups, though; I want to do their tasting menu at some point. Considering their prices -- outside of the egregiously inflated costs to be found in their wine list -- are hardly anything beyond what you'd find for the same type of fare about fifty-two floors down, it really is worth the popping of the ears every now and then.

The big winner, though, and hereafter "favorite restaurant," is Gaslight. I've yet to do anything but enjoy myself there, and though I confess a slight bias in strong favor of traditional French cuisine done right, even the intangibles are in place here.

In order to keep myself from the unpleasant fate of Violet Beauregard, I shan't be eating out nearly as often for a good while -- perhaps until summer's installment of Restaurant Week in Boston -- especially as I'm planning to visit Miami in just under a month now.

In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part VII

2009-03-30T12:05:00.003-04:00

The final stop on my Restaurant Week adventure was quite the exclamation point. I had landed 8:30 dinner reservations on a Friday at Top of the Hub.

When I first came to Boston, I'd heard about this place. All mention of it was put forth either with great reverence -- it was occasionally posited as the best restaurant in Boston -- or that damning definitive descriptive, "overrated." It now occurs to me that none of those people knew anything about food, or even anything about anything at all. It took me three years to actually visit it for the first time, taken there by a friend for my twenty-first birthday for a pair of martinis and a split dessert.

I didn't really get that far with assessing the place at the time; the view was lovely, but how much of a read can you get on any place's cuisine when you're fighting for bites of a shared dessert with a girl who can't stop lamenting the psychiatric shortcomings of her corporate executive boyfriend no one's ever seen?

Needless to say, I needed another trip to make a formed opinion, and last Friday was the night to do it.

A caveat reared its ugly head on Friday morning, as my intended company for the evening scratched himself from the lineup, citing a head cold of the fast and furious variety. In a bizarre twist of fate, I had an incredibly difficult time filling the spot; everyone had plans, or was also sick, or could neither afford it nor bring themselves to let me treat them. It was just baffling; dinner with me is so nice!

Shortly before I had to leave work, my friend Chris agreed to go.

Had he not, I had pretty much resolved that I would put forth a solo effort, get drunk, eat for two, and make a scene.

But, alas, I had company, so it was business as usual. My ears must've popped at least three times during the elevator ride up to the fifty-second floor; I really must get more accustomed to changes in elevation. When we arrived, though fairly early, our table was almost ready.

Weeks ago, when I made the reservations in the first place, I'd actually filled out the "special requests" input box with a bid for window seating along the northeast-facing side of the building. I figure everyone asks for a window seat, and anyone smart enough to factor in the logistics of what faces what would request the northeast side, but I also figured that there is no harm in asking for what you want nonetheless; the worst anyone can say is a simple "no."

And so it was that our table for two was in the exact center of the northeast-facing side of the building, immediately pressed against the windows, and there was a view, and yay, for this was good:

Even if the food was terrible, the sights were enough to bring a tear to the eye of someone with even the slightest Yurtle the Turtle complex.

I ordered the tuna tartare to start, which came blended with avocado and paired with small portions of pickled ginger and seaweed, plus a sticky, sweet teriyaki-ish soy sauce and some spicy mayo for smothering. It was a good way to start things off, but there's little to be said for the preparation, because the only skill in preparing raw fish is in its portioning, pairing and arrangement. Ain't nobody cook nothin' yet.

The foie gras that followed -- I'm a sucker for ordering foie gras... it's like creme brulee in that it's a fantastic litmus test for a kitchen's skills -- came with warm pineapple and some sort of granola-like brick. I forget what the menu said, and don't much care. I nearly lost my fork prying into the damn thing and though it wins obligatory points for originality, there's something to be said for not fixing what isn't broken. I would've traded in my pineapple and grainy brittle for just one nicely toasted triangle of brioche, especially considering how runny the foie gras was. Kudos to Le Petit Robert; they do it better.

By the time the main course was set to arrive, I was done trifling with cocktails and had summoned a bottle of Veuve from what wasn't exactly a comprehensive champagne selection in comparison with my expectations. The server opened the bottle flawlessly, but upon tilting it to pour, let well more than a taste's worth out onto the table, and, after having presented to Chris for approval rather than me -- it is my understanding that traditional wine panache calls for presentation to the individual who'd ordered the wine -- he poured him the taste as well.

All I will say is that it is difficult to mistake one of us for the other.

For my entree I had decided to go for the jugular and order the "market price" two-pound lobster. And so continued my difficulty with lobster; I thought that by ordering the menu item entitled "Native 2 lb. Lobster," described as having a crabmeat stuffing, that I would finally get a solid dose of the elusive -- even when named -- crustacean. When they brought my lobster to me, however, I could not help but notice that he was missing his fucking claws. What do I have to do to get a decent portion of lobster in goddamn fucking Boston? Who do I have to blow? This is the motherfucking center of New England, and I can't get the claws on my lobster fifty-two stories up in the heart of town?

Even more annoying: the lobster that I did get was absolutely delicious, including the crabmeat stuffing which replaced the bluish-green visceral tissue of the lobster -- considered by some to be a delicacy -- which I was happy to go without. The meal was, admittedly, so good that it was difficult to be disappointed about a clawless lobster, even though, across the table, Chris was doing mighty justice to his lobster macaroni and cheese which contained, suspiciously, claw meat.

For dessert, the creme brulee. It was completely up to par with expectations; no complaints whatsoever there. Consistently flame-licked on top so nothing was too burned or left untouched, with the custard beneath remaining smooth and creamy without even a hint of graininess. Very good.

Overall, the Top of the Hub does things pretty well, though they miss the little touches here and there that would otherwise put them over the top in offering an experience of unquestionable class an opulence. The servers should probably double-check to make sure their guests are done with a dish before removing it from the table, especially with the appetizers in their limited portions, and not spilling any bit of a bottle of champagne for which the restaurant rate is more than 125% of the market price would probably be advisable. Nonetheless, with so much else going for it, the fact I could order lobster by itself, receive it without the claws and still come away feeling summarily satisfied speaks volumes of the complete experience.

Would do again, at some point.

In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part VI

2009-03-27T09:18:00.002-04:00

Last night, Hanah joined me for Le Petit Robert Bistro.

I'd been to the installment on Columbus Avenue in the South End twice before with Robert. We essentially took turns being completely incapacitated after attempting to down their very rich lobster bisque -- which contains lobster -- and I have since felt challenged to conquer its food-coma inducing powers. The most stand-out memory, however, is the back-handed compliment we received from the waitress on our first trip.

Once we had announced our orders, she said, and I do definitely quote:

"At first, when you came in, I thought you were cheap, but now we must get you to stay forever!"

Now, picture this coming from someone who, in speech, sounds pretty much exactly like Celine Dion. Isn't that just fucking precious? What can't French people do...

The Kenmore location, which is where Hanah and I went last night, had pretty much the same atmosphere. A dimly-lit, tightly packed -- and thus, rather warm -- establishment.

When I saw the Restaurant Week pre-fixe, I immediately jumped ship and turned my attention to the regular menu. I was determined to take on a complete four-course gauntlet.

Things started off with their trio of pates, a delicious dish comprised of foie gras, pork, and country pates with cornichions and mustard, plus a relatively soft warm baguette on which to spread them. I've had this dish before and loved it; last night's offering was consistent with previous orders. I will say that toasted triangles of brioche would make this just a little better, but that's a statement that can apply to so very many things.

The lobster bisque that followed was satisfactory. There seemed to be a gentle spice in the nutmeg-cinnamon-clove family going on, giving the soup a softer tone than I'm used to, also somewhat masking how very rich their version of the dish is. I did not, however, fall immediately into a food-coma after finishing it this time. A tribute to my developing endurance!

For the entree -- the main reason I strayed from the pre-fixe -- I ordered the sweetbreads. Sweetbreads just don't show up on many menus, but they're apparently available year-round at Le Petit Robert. Ever-so-lightly breaded with a dash of sea salt, the mixed vegetable and mashed potato sides that accompany them are rendered irrelevant; the sweetbreads dominate the dish and are simply the only part worth paying any mind to.

For dessert, I had the creme caramel, which was basically flan doused in a thin caramel syrup, accompanied by a flaky cookie. It was good, though my sample of Hanah's citron tart brulee informed me that I should've ordered that.

Le Petit Robert Bistro is cozy if not a little stuffy, but thoroughly enjoyable. The menu options, extensive and inviting, are probably suited for no more than two courses on account of how rich most of them are. I look forward to returning in warmer weather for some patio dining; a little more champagne and a little less food.

My stomach may not forgive me anytime soon, but as soon as it does, would do again.

In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part V

2009-03-26T12:13:00.003-04:00

Last night was the beginning of the home stretch, the final three days of Restaurant Week in which I had planned to visit three strong favorites in the scramble for my new culinary cocaine.

Wednesday found me at Gaslight, Brasserie du Coin with Sarah. Gaslight is not terribly expensive, nor terribly adventurous, but the former is never a problem and the latter is actually a positive in this case, as Gaslight strives to put forth a comprehensive menu of dishes traditional to and iconic of French cuisine. Escargot, crepes, the works.

Softly lit with globe lighting and muted table lamps, the restaurant walls are lined with clouded, speckled mirrors and two rows of sparkling water bottles up near the high ceiling. The booths and tables are all dark wood, done up with a deep burgundy leather and bronze studs, and the atmosphere is full but not crowded, with ambiance background noise of light dinner conversation and the less voluminous works of Edith Piaf (for whom one of their cocktails is named).

Gaslight, like most of the other places I've visited so far, was also offering its regular menu, and how fortunate, as I was so hoping to re-sample their onion soup gratinee, a gruyere-topped wonder with soaked baguette and truffled short rib.

But we started with drinks; I had to go with the Fleur De Lis. Normally I would be opposed to a gin-based drink, but this had violet liqueur and a champagne floater, so, what the Hell. And it really wasn't bad at all, in fact I liked it. It was light and refreshing, and completely lacking of the usual "pine tree splinters in the throat" flavor of gin to which I will never be quite accustomed.

My onion soup came along just as I remembered it, and was consistent with my assessment as the best of its kind in town. From the pre-fixe menu, I was tempted by the opportunity to order lobster bisque with the likelihood that Gaslight would show up The Palm, but how often does one get the opportunity to enjoy braised veal cheeks on duck fat toasted brioche? The word "tender" would not even begin to accurately describe the dish; I was infinitely grateful that the restaurant provides an abundance of bread in hot baguette form with which to soak up the juices of this delicately portioned, savorable dish.

Having polished off my Fleur De Lis, I moved on to the Can Can, which was ginger liqueur and champagne with candied ginger at the bottom. I would be finishing my third Can Can by the end of the night.

For the entree, though lured by the navarin of lamb with turnip puree and pearl onions, not to mention the scallops in tagliatelle with scallions and strips of ham, I rarely turn down cassoulet. And I was incredibly happy with my choice. The duck confit and garlic sausage were perfectly portioned over the white beans, all sprinkled with a bacon crumble. Heart disease, surely, was the secret ingredient, but after the cheesy onion soup and the braised veal cheeks, there was no stopping this bus.

Finally, for dessert, I ordered what was one of the most anticipated dishes of the many pre-fixed menus I perused when selecting my reservations. Champagne sorbet with black currant syrup and parisienne macarons. The portion was generous, perhaps exceedingly so, as I was quite full just midway through, but it was fantastic. The sorbet was airy and retained just a hint of fizz, while the syrup added a sweet tartness here and there. The cookie, meanwhile, was in a category of its own, easily the finest Parisian-style macaron I've been able to get my hands on here in the U. S., as of yet unable to sample the source.

Gaslight may not have been quite so posh as Clink or as diverse in menu as Tremont 647, but stands alone in overall satisfaction thus far. Would do again and again.

In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part IV

2009-03-26T10:58:00.002-04:00

Tuesday heralded the "second half" of my Restaurant Week adventure. That is, the selection of restaurants to which I'd already been that seemed to require another -- cheaper -- visit.

The first of those was The Palm Boston, part of The Palm restaurant chain. I was first introduced to The Palm for my twentieth birthday by my aunt and uncle, and I was thoroughly impressed. I returned with "the boys" for New Year's Eve that year, where, again, my 16 oz. filet mignon was everything I hoped it would be.

I hadn't been since, enduring lengthy periods of time during which I could barely afford ramen noodles, let alone New York sirloin cuts. And The Palm hadn't previously opted to participate in Restaurant Week, positing itself with such previous untouchables as L'Espalier and Top of the Hub, immune to discounting their dinner services for new business and limiting the offer strictly to lunch. This year, however, as was the case with even the most uppity of establishments, they elected to participate fully. Having noted this development, and still holding very favorable memories of previous visits, I could not pass it up.

And so, on Tuesday, Erika and I made our way to The Palm Boston, situated in the Westin Hotel in the Back Bay area of town. Rather lost on what to drink -- torn between cocktails or wine -- we went with what seemed like a compromise. The girly-sounding "strawberry sparkling mojitos" we ordered were, it turned out, a compromise of unexpected context. I found the drink absurdly strong, even unnecessarily so. Mind you, this is coming from someone who will view the "rocks" portions of "vodka rocks" as a mixer if the vodka is smooth enough. The drink was just awful, a steely sort of rum with strawberry seeds and some very ill-looking mint sludged at the bottom. Unpleasant.

The appetizer choices were thin; lobster bisque, salad, or a different salad. Since I don't believe in eating salad when the salad in question is not a sexual euphemism, I went with the bisque. There was a distinct flavor of lobster in what I was served. This is more than I could say for the lobster bisque I was once served at the Daily Grill where, upon inquiring why my lobster bisque had been made without any hint of lobster, the server raised his hands in surrender and asserted his vegetarian status as though he was some how thereby Switzerland in the war on what amounts to false advertising, not my yet-to-be-commissioned liaison to the kitchen. But the actual flavor of lobster is the only thing The Palm's bisque had over the Daily Grill's; though I am certain any representative of The Palm would purport their food to be of higher quality than the products of the Campbell's Soup Company, I am here to report that on practically infinite occasions I have cracked open a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup to encounter visible amounts -- if modest -- of chicken, and noodles, no less, but in a thorough search through The Palm's lobster bisque, I was completely unable to locate a even a suggestive shred of langoustine or prawn masquerading as their more prestigious cousin throughout the bowl.

Restrauant Week or not, Old Bay and sea salt do not a lobster bisque make, and to preface the dish on the menu with the words "our famous" seems almost humorous if one simply measures it by the relatively easy standard of containing some fucking lobster.

For the entree, I was torn. There was something called a "veal martini," with sun-dried tomatoes and such. And a salmon dish with lobster mashed potatoes, which I did not order. The meaning of "lobster mashed potatoes" is called into question, post-bisque-debacle. Perhaps the potatoes are mashed in the kitchen by the lamenting claws of a doomed lobster in his final moments of anguish. But the steak dish seemed too perfect. New York sirloin, butter-poached lump lobster meat, and wild mushroom risotto.

At the server's recommendation, I ordered the steak.

Having defeated my mojito, I wanted something different, specifically something unlike the cocktail I'd just had. When I asked for their cocktail menu, I was provided with a small list, along with the assertion that "the bar is very extensive." So I said "All right, let's put the bar to the test," and before I could begin to make my request, the server cut me off with a scoff, as though it was pathetic to suggest I would request anything they didn't have in stock. His confidence was encouraging, but upon listing my first ingredient of choice, he cringed. "I'd like pear vodka shaken with..."

"Oooh, um, pear vodka? Yeah, um, sometimes we have it. Let me check with the bar really quickly..."

Alas, no pear vodka. How now, brown cow. So I went with a listed cocktail entitled "Tease Like A Tart." It tasted of key lime pie soaked in rubbing alcohol, and was a substantial improvement over its predecessor in the beverage department. Perhaps I should've gone with wine?

The entree was not quite what I expected. The steak was rare, as ordered, and visible lobster meat made its first formal appearance of the night, but the wild mushroom risotto was served as an arancini, which was unheralded in its description on the menu and unwelcome. I was hoping for a slow-cooked, creamy risotto and instead was greeted with a fried arancini ball which I sampled but rejected.

For dessert, I went with the trio of sorbets, and this turned out to be the only meal with which I was fully pleased or even pleasantly surprised. Three generous scoops, one each of passion fruit, raspberry, and mango sorbet, presented by themselves. The sorbets needed nothing else; they were very good.

But, all in all, had this been my only experience with The Palm, I'd have wondered how they established themselves as a name at the steak and lobster table. However, knowing what they are capable of from prior visits, I maintain that there is potential for a very good meal there, but whether my Restaurant Week visit was universal half-assing on account of the discounted event -- unadvisable, considering the other recent mailing list promotions I've received from the chain imply that the recession is hitting them solidly in the books -- or if this was simply an isolated blip on their track record, I can say that, given much more positive experiences at every other restaurant I've visited thus far for Restaurant Week, my enthusiasm for a return visit is considerably diminished.

Would not do again anytime soon.

In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part III

2009-03-26T08:26:00.003-04:00

No restaurants participate in Restaurant Week on Sundays, forcing me to attend Privus with Erika for their snow maki, Pink Floyd maki, and spicy Walu white tuna roll in the brief intermission.

But on Monday, the game was afoot once again. The destination was Tremont647 with Bobby, who declared the evening a celebration on account of his recent full-time hiring at the architecture firm where he'd been on contract for months. Indeed, in the current economic climate -- which, at this point, needs little explanation -- this is worthy of substantial toasting.

So the first order of business was to conjure a bottle of Nicolas Feuillatte rose (NV), which, to my delight, even our waiter couldn't pronounce. Feuillatte isn't typically my first choice, but there was no Moet, Vueve, or Jouet in sight, so "Nick," as Bobby and I have now decided to refer to him, did just fine.

Chosing an appetizer was easy; lobster mac'n'cheese. It was everything one could hope it would be; a hardy cheese blend -- including grueyer -- baked just enough so that the edges were turning golden but the core of the dish remained moist and saucy. The lobster was well-represented. I didn't expect a "lobster in every bite" type of ratio -- almost no pasta dish will ever contain such a ratio... I've learned that one must order lobster by itself in order for such a condition to exist, and otherwise expect lobster to be, at best, visible -- but in this case, there was plenty.

The entree was a bit more of a challenge. Fish? Duck? Or the lobster, shrimp, and diver scallops over pasta with "oven-dried tomatoes." Oddly enough, I think it was the oven-dried tomatoes that made me chose the dish. At first, I thought, "Why would they dry them in an oven?" But then it occurred to me that this sounds significantly more sanitary than "sun-dried tomatoes." I had to know.

Once again, lobster was actually prominent within the dish, though I think there was a total of one diver's scallop, the overall portioning of seafood was considerable. The cream sauce was rich without being excessively heavy, and I'm fairly sure the pasta was made in-house from scratch. As for the oven-dried tomatoes, they contain more moisture than their poverty-stricken, street-dwelling sun-dried cousins, and are -- at least in my opinion -- actually more appetizing.

By the time dessert arrived, Bobby and I had killed Nick, and though I was very disappointed to find that my "chocolate almond financier" was quite literally just a glorified and rather dry brownie, it was better than having ordered a more enticing dessert, as I found myself completely full and satisfied from the two previous courses and the champagne.

Tremont647 is no replacement for Excelsior, this is for sure. Though dessert was an utter disappointment, I'm fairly confident that a more in-depth tour of their menu would turn results of end-to-end satisfaction, and so a return is definitely in order. Would do again.

In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part II

2009-03-25T13:16:00.004-04:00

Saturday's Restaurant Week stop was the sole lunch date of the seven adventures, a belated celebration of Brent's return to Boston at Oishii in the South End.

Oishii must've anticipated a fiend such as myself might attend during Restaurant Week and require a bit more sushi than the three-course pre-fixe menu had allotted, and also offered their a la carte sushi and regular lunch menus as backup.

The atmosphere was dark and calm; the wall adjacent to the stairs leading to the downstairs dining area is a grey water fountain which ends up in a shallow pool surrounding the area below the stairs. Neat.

The pre-fixe appetizer choice was relatively uninspiring, a choice between sweet potato tempura -- a terrifying notion -- and miso soup -- a bore. I went with the soup, because fried foods leave me urpy, and watching Brent struggle to consume what looked, visually, like a fried rack of orange ribs on a skewer... well, I figured I'd gone with the less cumbersome appetizer, in the very least.

But it didn't matter, because next to the soup, and only slightly less cloudy, stood my pear cocktail. What on Earth is it about pear vodka with sparkling wine? Every establishment should offer such a cocktail. Nothing else is quite so tolerable in a martini glass. As a side note, I am rather opposed to the martini glass. For all its alleged elegance, it, above all other stemware, reduces the odds of the alcohol actually making it to my mouth, increasingly so with each installment.

If little children behave like drunks, and vice versa, shouldn't our grown-up beverages be served with crazy straws, or in sippy-cups? I'm just striving for efficiency, here.

The drinks were all made upstairs from where we were seated, by the way. This meant our server -- pleasant if a bit unpolished -- had to carry them down on a tray. When you're getting drunk on a Saturday afternoon, the only thing scarier than having to watch your waitress creep down the stairs with your drinks as she teeters left and right is... well, there's nothing more frightening, now, is there.

She actually managed to reach the bottom of the stairs without spilling each time, but then, presumably having relaxed her focus a bit, allowed a bit of each to escape when transfering them to our table.

And it was too of a place nice of a place for me to lap up the casualty.

The entree portion of the pre-fixe had three types of sushi. Chief amont them, a large roll, called the "Route 66," which contained -- if I recall correctly -- spicy tuna, cream cheese, shrimp tempura and lettuce with eel sauce. There was also a smaller roll of tuna, and some salmon nigiri. All very, very high quality. The sushi we ordered from the regular menu, however, was even better. Salt water eel topped with a slice of what appeared to be a pygmy lime and some lavender, a whole lobster claw balanced with a dash of old bay, Walu white tuna... all splendid.

I managed to stray from my pear concoction after managing to persuade Brent to let me try his ginger Manhattan. Neither of us are Manhattan guys, but he was raving to point where he didn't want to share in the first place. Thus, I had to try it, and, upon tasting it, was forced to subsequently order one for myself.

Dessert was green tea ice cream -- and a second ginger martini. Brent, who is picky about just everything, declared Oishii to have provided the best sushi he's ever had. So fond of my local -- less classy -- joint, Privus, I'm not sure I would echo that particular declaration, but Oishii is worthy of a repeat, if even only for drinks. Would do again.

In The Kingdom Of Gourmandia: Part I

2009-03-25T09:01:00.005-04:00

Restaurant Week is upon me, or, rather, I am upon it.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am tearing it up.

Things kicked off last Friday with Robert at a place called Clink. Located inside of the ironically named Liberty Hotel -- renovated from a gorgeous building that was once what I imagine to be a rather endearing prison -- Clink is just as posh as the hotel in which it is nested. I must confess, any establishment which features champagne cocktails made strictly with Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin champagne can put its hand down my pants. I'm not sure exactly what I mean by that, but I'm happy with how it came out and I think I've communicated my point well.

They even have a separate champagne bar with all Veuve Clicquot. I'm like, yeah, put your mouth on it.

Moving right along.

The appetizer was slowly-poached hen egg and laughing bird shrimp with toasted brioche. The egg portion was a bit awkward, given that the tiny Yankee Candle-ish vessel in which it came made it slightly difficult to access the slop once the egg's, uh, hull had been breached. But the shrimp were as delightfully unique as their name would imply (though, fortunately, unaccompanied by laughing birds), and the brioche was perfection.

For the entree, I went with the striped bass over white bean puree with black olives. I was happy with the selection; the fish was moist and supple including the skin portion which put up no fight to the fork or incisor, and the bean puree was a velvety background for the gentle punch of the black olives.

Dessert was the gamble. Bay leaf panna cotta with rosewhip jam and homemade shortbread cookies. I was hesitant to order this, as I have only known bay leaves to be temporary flavoring agents in Italian cuisine, specifically appetizers and entrees but never desserts. But my reasoning suggested that it wouldn't have become a Restaurant Week menu item if they hadn't figured it to be a more-than-presentable pleasant surprise, which is just what it turned out to be. Al three components met each other well, and the dish didn't stand a chance.

I was just two rather generous blackberry champagne cocktails deep by the finish, and awash in satisfaction. The only low mark for Clink would have to be in the category of service; our waiter was the very portrait of lethargy. I imagined a slightly higher standard of persona, given the quality of every other aspect of the establishment, but Clink gets very high remarks nonetheless, and the ever-prestigious "would do again."

From Russia, With Love

2009-03-17T15:30:00.005-04:00

When the tides turned in Diplomacy, Russia was quick to send messages to me that implied a certain... fascination. Thereafter, he began asking me for advice on how to fend of the very allies he knew I united against him. If that wasn't strange enough, he started another game wherein he decided to play as France, and began asking me for advice on moves in that game. But his latest message really takes the cake; there is nothing quite like being compared to a Nazi general:

"Are you like a Jedi master or something, more like a Montgomery or a Rommel I suppose?"

Mind you, I had just taken Norway and Denmark from him. Nonetheless, it seems as though this message came from Russia, with love, actually.

These Naked Walls

2009-03-15T21:41:00.002-04:00

Most of the walls are bare in any bedroom or apartment in which I've lived. Because I have yet to own the walls in which I dwell, I cannot paint, and the holes left by driven nails are generally discouraged. Beyond that, I am just generally obscenely selective about what I'd put on a wall. Apparently I'd rather have blank walls than stick up something that in my view falls even slightly short of being a complete triumph.

To date, I have authorized only three objects to cling from the walls of my current apartment.

My beloved print of "Christmas Disaster Special" from A Lesson Is Learned (But The Damage Is Irreversible) adorns the bedroom wall above the dresser where I assemble empty champagne bottles to use as candlesticks.

Above the other dresser hangs a tiny photograph of the Commonwealth Avenue pedestrian mall's statue of John Glover, or as I refer to him, Captain Fabulous. Really, you must admit; that statue is fantastic. John Glover must've been pretty awesome, because, well, just look at that fucking statue.

The photo I have, however, is particularly special in that Captain Fabulous has his complete sword. The thin stretch of metal that form the sword -- not the sheath, which remains intact -- had already been knocked out by some unholy rapscallion prior to our first encounter, but during a restoration two summers ago, the sword was repaired, and I snagged a photograph on a bright summer day for proof. As I anticipated, weeks later, someone had fucking stolen the Captain's sword again. But it's memory lives on, on my wall.

The third piece of all art I've authorized is a giant poster of the head of a great white shark emerging from the water, teeth a-blazin'. We haven't acquired this yet, but when we do, it's going over the toilet in the bathroom I share with T-Rex, to watch us pee.

That said, I think I may need a print of this. I'm not sure what the fuck is going on in this photograph, but there is definitely a lion in that sidecar, and this is awesome, and needs to be on my wall, perhaps in some sort of gaudy frame. He will sit, perhaps, over my bed. And pass judgment on all the sex. Not sure yet.

But I need it.

The Great Pumpkin

2009-03-14T18:49:00.004-04:00

Two years ago, I got a pumpkin for Halloween. I picked it from a patch in Vermont somewhere, roadtripping through northern New England with Kelly. When I purchased it, I asked the girl working the register if its dark green complexion would have any bearing on its livelihood as a pumpkin. I asked because the only other green pumpkin I recall encountering in the past was one my sister had selected when we were both very small, and that pumpkin effectively turned to slime shortly before Halloween.

"No," she said, "it'll be fine."

She was a lying witch.

I took my pumpkin home, sat it upon a coffee table, and lovingly named it Horatio, with plans to carve a marvelous face for him 'pon the weekend before All Hallow's Eve. But Horatio did not survive a full week, and, like his ancestor, turned to slime with record speed. I was devastated.

This past September -- late in September, I recall -- I saw that pumpkins had arrived at the supermarket that's just around the corner from where I live. I selected, securely, an orange pumpkin, of what seemed to be perfect proportions and hardy constitution.

The girl at the checkout gave me a look as she passed my new pumpkin to be bagged.

"Isn't it a little early to be buying a pumpkin?"

"You're selling them now."

And that was that.

I named him Horatio II, and he sat in many places in the kitchen and living room. I did not carve him by Halloween, and decided to leave him intact for Thanksgiving, provided he did not rot. And Horatio II didn't rot. In fact, he turned out to be the very Methuselah of pumpkindom.

December arrived, and there sat Horatio II, emitting no odor, showing no signs of mold, his rind as tough and fresh as ever. January snows piled up in our courtyard, and Horatio II looked on in complete approval. Feburary came and though I finally took my Christmas tree down, I could not bring myself to part with Horatio II. He showed no signs of decline, and it was fun to tell Sarah that he was filled, secretly, with millions of evil beetles. Beetles who would one day be free, and come for her.

And when Horatio II made it to March, I figured he might well last until next Halloween. But on his weekly checkup this past week, mold was discovered, and it had spread by Friday. For all his endurance, the end came quickly. This morning, in cleaning up the apartment to prepare for tonight's car bombs (in honor of St. Patrick's Day), I took Horatio II out to the shed and shot him.

Well, I bagged him and threw him in the dumpster. But it doesn't mean I loved him any less.

He shall forevermore be remembered as Horatio II: The Great Pumpkin, or Horatio the Great for short. Tonight, I will drink to, among many other things, his memory.

Closer To Reality

2009-03-13T08:27:00.006-04:00

I find it interesting -- for a number of reasons -- that ESPN's Eric Young is condemning Papelbon for trashing Manny now that he's left the Sox, breaking the unwritten rule about discussing what goes on in a baseball clubhouse.

First off, since when does a member of the sports media have any room to complain about an athlete actually dishing dirt and coughing up details? Guys like Jim Rice and -- oh yeah -- Manny Ramirez (while he was with Boston, anyhow) were long criticized and even, in Rice's case, delayed entry to the Hall of Fame for failure to deal well with reporters.

And it's not as if the truth isn't demanded even if it's unpleasant. For details on this, please see all of the drama swirling around the issue of steroids in baseball. Let's not fool ourselves, either; it was the truth. And which of the following is more dishonorable: Manny feigning injury to stay off the field and half-assing it when he was on the field for Boston so he could slip out of the contract he had agreed to honor, or Papelbon admitting that it sucked to be his teammate during that time even though you're not supposed to talk about that stuff. Yeah, let's scold Papelbon.

Let's also not forget that Papelbon didn't come out and say these things when Manny was still on the team allegedly being a cancer. All he did was tell the truth -- when prompted to do so -- after Manny had left, in the process of defending the strength and unity of his current team with Jason Bay in left field, certainly a higher obligation. Young seems to think it'd have taken more balls to trash a current teammate. I seem to think that's a more legitimate violation of baseball's unwritten code with which a talking head could take issue.

If I were to compare Papelbon to anyone, it would be Mongo from Blazing Saddles. He's a big, clumsy beast who you send out when you want something done. Chastising him for telling the unpleasant truth to your own industry is not only dumb but futile. Much as my general policy with regard to pitchers is "shut up and pitch," I can at least realize that a 6'4" closer from Louisiana who relies on his heat a bit too much is going to flap his gums every now and then.

And as long as he keeps his ERA under 2.50 for my team, I'll find it mighty hard to take issue with him. Not unlike how when Manny was on the Sox, as long as he went out and played and put up a .300+ average with 30+ HR's and 100+ RBI's, I didn't much care about much else.

The Night You Can't Remember

2009-03-06T08:45:00.005-05:00

If life was a soap opera, I would be the character constantly stricken with an inconveniently selective case of amnesia. I can remember, for instance, every line from "Kill Bill Vol. 2," but I cannot, on the other hand, remember what the Hell my plans are supposed to be for Saturday.

Help me, second installment of the Deven Green parody videos of Brenda Dickson!

I believe it was Nietzsche who once cautioned against staring into a vajeene for too long...

All Is Well That Ends

2009-03-05T08:34:00.007-05:00

Having roused myself at 5:45 A.M. this morning in order to comply with T-Rex's need to leave for work by 6:30 A.M. this week, I wasn't that surprised when the driver's side front door on his car refused his keys, meaning I would be unlocking the car from my side. As he went to toss them over, he expressed annoyance at having to clean off his car again, as a substantial amount of snow and ice had apparently slid from the rooftop immediately above where he parked. It wasn't until I got into the car, however, that I had the pleasure of breaking the news to him that the impact of the ice and snow had destroyed his windshield, sending a spiderweb of cracks throughout the entire driver's side half of the glass.

Having determined that the cracks had not fully reached the inside of the glass, we started up the car and began the drive to work. But with each bump my dear roommate hit along the road -- and the road we take has no shortage of ambitious potholes -- the cracks expanded slightly. Ominous!

On the bright side, we would finally learn what it was like to be Ace Ventura at the wheel, though I could not help but play out a scenario in my head in which a bump caused the glass to completely implode, smattering T-Rex's face with thousands of shards and impairing his ability to drive in the process. At that moment, I -- only grazed by the shards in a way that would leave noticeable but sexy facial scars -- would then be his eyes, guiding the used Honda Civic otherwise known as The Ark safely along until we could further address the situation without the risk of physically greeting oncoming traffic from all directions.

In the alternate future, I am a hero.

In reality, I arrived safely at my destination, trying to slam the passenger's side door as gently as possible, proceeding to my desk with the blistering consciousness that, as far as starts to one's Thursday are concerned, only T-Rex's had been worse to my knowledge. But we -- the royal we -- are going to change that, all of that, immediately.

Fate -- though imaginary -- is on my side; one of my coworkers just handed me half an onion bagel, lightly toasted, with cream cheese already on. Tomorrow is pay day, which means I am quantifiable hours from sushi and freshly popped pink champagne, my Diplomacy games have all shifted in my favor, my Restaurant Week dance card of seven reservations just filled up, and I have declared it to be "Post Music To Your Blog Day." Those who do not participate will perish in flame.

Without further ado, here are the proper anthems by which to turn the tides of a Thursday that got off on the wrong face. Bukkake:

Bonus Levels:
Andrew W.K. - "Party Hard"
Bill Withers - "Lovely Day"
Ludacris - "Georgia" (dj erb remix)

Diplomacy

2009-03-01T16:02:00.002-05:00

The following is a choice excerpt from a conversation with my ex about an online game of Diplomacy in which we're running a Franco-Italian alliance. This is, essentially, a suicide pact, but so far we're holding our own in the face of the Juggernaut (a firm Russia-Turkey alliance).

Me: But we have one huge benefit right now
Me: And that's naval power
Him: Togetherness?
Him: Oh.

They should call it... DipLOLmacy.

Other-Wise

2009-03-01T13:34:00.004-05:00

I'm probably slaughtering the quote, but I believe it was Ben Franklin who said that "some people are weather-wise, but most folks are otherwise."

Because I am completely unabashed about embracing my inner dork, yesterday I attended a get-together of members from a message board about the fucking weather.

It was about twenty straight guys, mostly thirty or older, and me. It's essentially a bizarre fraternity with no pledge process by which to filter the absolute train wrecks, so, needless to say, it's a very, very motley crew. Regardless of my status anomalies as the lone early-twenties man-fucker of the bunch, I didn't end up paying for any of my drinks.

They flirted openly with the waitress, who, ironically enough, was interested in me.

On more than one occasion, the bartender asked us to move to another section of the bar as we -- a bunch of weather enthusiasts and meteorologists rattling off conjecture -- had become too rowdy in the immediate vicinity of the quieter dinner-hour crowd.

This is actually not that surprising, though; the annual conferences are famous for debauchery and excessive partying. The last time I attended, yours truly was kicked out of the hotel pool in my underwear in Philadelphia at four in the morning, feigning immigrant ignorance with a horrid drunken attempt at a Russian accent that wasn't exactly fooling the police.

At some point during the evening, a small gaggle of mid-forties gays wandered into the bar, one of whom, apparently, decided to bark deliberately up the wrong tree for laughs, ambling over and asking questions about the weather as though actually interested in the responses offered by my comrades.

I spent the rest of the evening serving as a sexuality Wikipedia for the rabble,

Oh well.

We couldn't have picked a better night to banter about weather, seeing as there's a massive storm on the way this evening. I'm anticipating that my office will be closed tomorrow, leaving me "free" to get blitzed and indulge my other nerdy vice, Star Wars Battlefront II.

Fat Tuesday

2009-02-25T23:06:00.003-05:00

Last night was my inaugural trip to L'Espalier. Ever since I got into the whole fine dining thing, it's been my understanding -- by way of various reviews and rankings -- that L'Espalier was one of the best, if not the best, of the gourmet establishments in all of New England. L'Espalier's philosophy puts forth an unabashed embrace of everything that is opulence, punctuated by their recent relocation, nestling into the third floor of the brand new Mandarin Oriental Hotel Boston, adjoining the Prudential Center on Boylston Street in the heart of the Back Bay.

Their menu, which features a rotating seasonal menu as well as a constantly-changing tasting pre-fixe, aims to combine local ingredients with contemporary French cuisine, accented by an infusion of traditional New England cooking styles.

As Hanah and I were attending an event as opposed to a regular reservation, the menu was completely pre-fixed, which was fine, as I found all of the courses more than agreeable by the provided menu. Each dish was paired with a wine by L'Espalier's resident wine expert, or "cork dork," Erich Schliebe. Dork he was, but that's never really a pejorative, and though I generally prefer quietude and isolation for fine dining, it was nice to have a little more light shed on some wines I would ordinarily never try (translation: reds).

The first pairing was Tasmanian salmon and shrimp roulade with lemon-apple vinaigrette and arugula with apple strips cut similarly to the strings of carrot one finds in a bland salad. In this case, however, the apple strips paired nicely to give a sweet, tart juxtaposition to the bitterness of the arugula. The vinaigrette was sparse, which is probably for the best as the roulade was plenty moist by itself. The salmon portion of the roulade, which was a good two-thirds of the portion, was surprisingly pate-like in texture; I usually expect cooked salmon to be at least somewhat flakier. The shrimp portion, nested within the more generous salmon, was the best part of the dish.

It was enjoyable, but not necessarily masterful. In my opinion, the best dishes are defined by the way each element combines to make a singular taste sensation when combined in a single bite. In the case of the roulade, the arugula and apple strips seemed fairly auxiliary. This is, perhaps a testament to the strength of the actual seafood portion, but moreso it seemed like the flora was tossed on for the sake of color and texture variation, perhaps unnecessary for this particular dish. Enjoyable, not doubt... but not quite masterful.

The wine pairing -- appropriately white -- was a 2006 Domaine Richou, "Chauvigne," Anjou, Loire. Schliebe announced that it would have a distinct "wet wool" or "barn" aroma. Though these are two "flavors" I cannot say I'd posit as enticing, and though I found the description applicable upon first inhale, I nonetheless found the taste of the wine to be enjoyable. It was gentle and a bit steely, a fine accompaniment for the dish with which it was served.

The second course was a dark meat chicken lasagne with smoked bacon, tomato, olive and red wine. The red wine, in this case, was the same wine for this dish's pairing, 2005 Chateau Dubraud, Premieres Cotes de Blaye, Bordeaux, only it was an ingredient to the abundant sauce topping the lasagne portion. A small toss of baby pea greens was resting atop the dish, and like with the appetizer, I could not really understand its presence outside of a desire to introduce color and texture diversity to a dish which stands up fine without.

I ate the pea greens as quickly as I could to get them out of the way and then focused on the lasagne and my accidentally generous pour of Bordeaux. Both were very satisfying; though I have to be coaxed into white meat chicken these days, I needed no persuasion to indulge in its fattier, darker counterpart. The lasagne was hardy and perfectly portioned for the second course of four, and the Bordeaux -- in the sauce or in the glass -- was equally full.

When Schliebe was announcing the third wine of the evening, he invited interaction from his audience by asking what kind of nose this wine had. Across the room, the frumpier female component of the only couple that might've been close to the age of Hanah and me was busy taking a deep whiff. She then lowered her glass and confidently declared, "Grapes!"

Rather than laugh, the entire rest of the patronage exchanged knowing stares of mutual understanding. It was not so much that we all hated her, or that her knowledge of wine was lacking. It was just that, should some catastrophic event have trapped us in the restaurant for an indeterminate amount of time, and should the food supplies have been exhausted, chosing the first person to cannibalize was no longer going to be as difficult as it might've otherwise been, had she said, say, bacon.

Yes, bacon, the cork dork announced, was the aroma of the wine. A modest inhale did nothing to validate his claim, and Hanah agreed. I figured maybe I was missing something. That, or the bitch in the frock across the room wasn't so far off with "Grapes!" But a deeper breath revealed the bacony secrets of the 2007 Domaine Les Grand Bois, "Cuvee Les Trois Sceurs," Cotes du Rhone. A taste introduced something I don't often encounter; a red wine I'd actually purchase on my own.

The rich, meaty red was completely in step with the third course of grilled flank steak over rosemary polenta with sweet vegetables. This dish was exceptional; each element combined to a distinct harmonious sensation, and separate, each flavor was still its own treat. The only improvement would've been for the dish to have been hotter upon arrival, thus maintaining the freshly-cooked texture of the polenta through the full period of consumption. Or perhaps I should just talk less and eat more when the steak is served. Either way, here, at last, was what I'd not just been hoping for, but rather, expecting from L'Espalier.

The fourth and final course was the grand cheese tasting of "Soft Comforts."

The plate featured an array of six soft cheeses, served with small slices of very lightly buttered crisp baguette. The first one tried was a "Green Hills," from Sweet Grass Dairy based out of Thomasville, Georgia. It ended up being my second favorite of the assortment, even though it had no singular distinguishing quality.

The second cheese was "Grayson" by Meadow Creek Dairy in Galax, Virginia. Hanah pegged this one early on; it was very close to the more common Muenster. The firmest of the six, texture-wise, I did not bother to spread it on the baguette chips, simply parsing bits by knife or fork and delivering them directly to the pie hole.

Third up was "Nancy's Hudson Valley Camembert" from Old Chatham Sheepherding Company in New York. Very soft, this was light and airy, and spread more like melted butter than anything else. Fine, but nothing exceptional.

Fourth was an "Organic Triple Cream" from the Champlain Valley Creamery in Vergennes, Vermont. This cheese was a strange and fickle mistress. It was distinctly bitter when it was in my mouth, and yet the moment I had finished each bite, it left an aftertaste that made me wish to taste it again. That description probably applies to a few people, too.

Fifth was the only import cheese, a "Brie de Nangis" from Normandy, France. It wasn't true brie, we learned from Louis Risoli -- cheese expert of L'Espalier -- because true brie is made from unpasteurized milk and aged only for thirty days. The United States will not allow unpasteurized dairy aged less than sixty days into the country. Apparently I'll have to go to fucking France for real brie. This "brie" was humble, though it may have been difficult for anything of subtle flavor to follow the Vermont camembert.

I was lucky enough to save what would be my favorite cheese for sixth and last, the "Colorouge" from Muoco Dairy in Fort Collins, Colorado. It spread perfectly, carried a graceful balance of salt, bitterness and even a bit of tartness. Delicious.

Really, though, it didn't matter in what order I ate the cheeses, because the wine pairing was the highlight of the evening. I am partial to Alsatian wines to begin with, and the 2005 Schoenheitz "Holder" Gewurztraminer was spicy, tangy bliss. I've got to hunt down a full bottle for myself.

The event was topped off with a small plate of sweets. A mint-filled dark chocolate, a small cube of merengue, and a nougat cube with crushed pistachio for each of us was delivered with the check, keeping me from impulsively requesting a glass of the 2007 Banfi "Rosa Regale" Brachetto d'Acqui from the Piedmont region of Italy that I'd been eyeing since discovering the limited listing of dessert beverages.

As if the unexpected sweet plate was not enough, we were given strawberry Parisian macarons at the coat check.

L'Espalier is not my new favorite restaurant, but it was a very fine place to spend Fat Tuesday, and though it seems as though rough times may lie ahead for the gourmand -- in the wake of Excelsior's closing, Pigalle is suddenly offering three courses plus drinks for twenty bucks every Tuesday, whereas the Top of the Hub is participating in the dinner set of Restaurant Week for the first time in memory -- my faith in proper indulgence has been somewhat restored. I look forward both to my upcoming Restaurant Week reservations as well as an eventual return to L'Espalier for a crack at their regular menu.

In the meantime, however, I've got to get on finding that Gewurztraminer.

Some People Got It

2009-02-23T22:56:00.008-05:00

I completely on board with Veruca Salt until she says "I want to lock it all up in my pocket; it's my bar of chocolate," because, if you think about it, that's a recipe for disaster.

When I was a little kid, I took child roles in local theater for companies that put on productions in Red Bank, New Jersey. By age eight, I had performed at both The Strand and Count Basie theaters, and landed the title role in "Oliver!" I think it's disastrously hilarious that it's not even the only Dickens novel that was churned into a musical.

On a more personal disastrously hilarious note, "Oliver!" was one of several productions I had the pleasure of putting on with an individual named Jared Gertner. I recently stumbled onto him -- completely at random -- in YouTube videos. It turns out he ended up making it to Broadway with "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee" in the lead role, and the man can still sing.

I, on the other hand, was only barely ever able to carry a tune to begin with -- landing roles on sheer cuteness and the uncanny ability to memorize the lines for entire plays in a matter of days -- and when the long-awaited man-gifts of puberty finally arrived, the ability to sort-of sing was one of the first things to go.

Regardless, I think I got the better end of the trade.

The Delicious Future

2009-02-19T19:44:00.005-05:00

If you're ever down on your luck, or down on your finances, I highly recommend purchasing a box of these bitches right here. I realize the photo is backwards; for this I apologize. I have zero graphics editing capability, but I'm willing to imagine that you get the fucking idea.

Unlike risking it by ordering from your local Chinese takeout or delivery establishment, a box of La Choy guarantees satisfaction. I'm here to tell you that they are efficient. They battle hunger and bad moods at the same time, as the cookie part is, well, a fucking cookie, and the fortunes are overwhelmingly optimistic.

I still trust them, however, because they swirl largely around the original three tenets of fortune-telling from ancient China: wealth, travel, and wealth-fueled travel. Because fortune-telling is a delicate art, it's important to eat the entire box, like I just did, in order to get the clearest picture of your future.

Here's what I learned:

"You income will increase."

This is great news, assuming they meant "Your income will increase." If they really meant it the way they spelled it, well, then I just don't know what to make of it.

"You will lead a rich and successful life."

Boosh! Clarification. Clearly, my financial standings are on the upswing. Let's do this.

"Grant yourself a wish this year, only you can do it."

I'm pretty sure that needed a semicolon, but that's nitpicking. The cookie is right; only I can grant myself a wish. Maybe this is the year I finally visit Europe. Or fuck Grady Sizemore. Thank you for lighting the way, La Choy!

"You will find good luck when you go home."

See what I'm talking about? Does my future rock, or what? Eh? And this one's right, too. I'm already home, and I've got kickass fortune cookies. Also, vodka is here.

"No need to worry! You will always have everything that you need."

I wish I knew how to quit you.

"Be on the lookout for coming events. They cast their shadows beforehand!"

Translation: if I look for what happens in the future, I will be able to know what happens in the future. Side note: if, in the future, mankind discovers time travel, I'm coming back to rape myself at this exact moment. Okay, future-me didn't appear. I hereby predict that we never figure that out. Or that my memory is just awful.

"Soon life will become more interesting."

Considering that "May you live in interesting times" is technically an archaic Chinese curse, I am hereby worried about my relationship with La Choy.

"Opportunity is knocking at your front door."

And we're back. La Choy knows my bedroom preferences; I trust La Choy again. But what is this strange opportunity?!

"A friend will bring you a big surprise soon."

I am glad I am not a woman, especially at this moment, as this could surely have been a reference to the pregnancy-related interruption of one's menstrual cycle. But the most recent dong-check came back positive; I can probably just take this prediction straight-up. But which friend will it be?!

"A gathering of friends brings you lots of luck this evening."

Unless I don't have to be present for this one to pan out, I'd better go hang out with the roommates tonight, because really, who am I to defy the fates?

"Soon you will be sitting on top of the world."

Well, looks like success of all kinds is imminent if not unavoidable.

I feel closer to buying my own island. But in the much more immediate future, clearly there should be some grocery shopping.

With This Snooze, I Be Wed

2009-02-18T08:19:00.005-05:00

I have never been a graceful riser. I am a snooze-button junkie, and always have been. My mother used to wake me up through my high school years, because I literally failed at using an alarm clock effectively.

My subconscious would have full conversations with her in the early morning, bargaining for extended slumber and specific breakfast items. When I actually woke up, I would not remember speaking with her, but I was very glad I had apparently requested oatmeal and tea.

She dreaded my move to college as she was convinced that I would sleep through my alarms -- as in, from two different sources -- and miss all my classes.

Lucky for me, missing all my classes did nothing to prevent me from graduating.

In my time as a "working man," I have made incredible strides; my initial alarm goes off at 6:35 A.M., and I usually manage to physically leave the bed by 7:10 A.M.

Nonetheless, every now and then, ancient demons arise.

This morning, as the series of alarms began, I must've been in very deep sleep, as my dreams simply incorporated the alarm right in. The only thing I recall distinctly is that when I looked at my ringing cell phone -- which has become my alarm clock -- the area I would typically touch to hit "snooze" or "turn off alarm" were absent.

Instead, the only option by which to silence the phone read "Get married."

And, feeling the lingering affection of the pint glass-sized nightcap I poured myself last night, this seemed like a bargain, so I hit it.

Epic Cure for the Epicure

2009-02-17T15:34:00.004-05:00

The mourning of Excelsior will officially cease on February 24th, with my inaugural visit to L'Espalier in its new location at the posh Mandarin Oriental Hotel on Boylston Street.

In the same cholesterol-impacted vein, I've finally gotten around to making the appropriate preparations for the winter edition of Boston's Restaurant Week. Thankfully, the title itself is false advertising, as the event is actually two weeks long, with several restaurants -- such as OM Restaurant & Lounge in Cambridge -- extending the pre-fixe offer through the entire month of March.

Though the idea is to try new places in the search for a "new favorite" restaurant, I couldn't help but mix in a few returns when I was slotting the seven reservations I've made for the late March event.

The lineup:

Friday, March 20: Clink at the Liberty Hotel - This is a place I haven't been to before, but the pre-fixe they've posted is engaging to say the very least.

Saturday, March 21: Oishii - This will be a lunch outing, as Oishii decided to break from the majority and continue to offer the lunch pre-fixe on that particular Saturday.

Monday, March 23: Tremont 647 - I haven't been here before, but even just from their limited Restaurant Week menu, I have very high hopes for this place.

Tuesday, March 24: The Palm Boston - I've been here twice, which makes the return feel like cheating. But I've only ever had their 16 oz. filet mignon extra rare with asparagus; that's not offered for the event, so it's an opportunity to branch out.

Wednesday, March 25: Gaslight - Okay, so I've been to every place that's left on the list at least once. Gaslight offers traditional French cuisine, and since they've included braised veal cheeks, cassoulet, and champagne sorbet for this one, I can't really resist.

Thursday, March 26: Le Petit Robert Bistro (Kenmore) - I've been to the Columbus Ave. ("South End") installment, and loved it. French food, again -- this time with a little more creative flair on the menu -- this location is a little closer to home, where I'm hoping for a slightly less crowded atmosphere. It looks like they're offering their full, standard menu for the event; a major plus.

Friday, March 27: Top of the Hub - I've only ever been here for drinks and a split dessert, and it was enjoyable, but at the same time, a total tease. So I've landed -- unexpectedly -- Friday night reservations sixty stories up in the Prudential Tower. Who knows; maybe they'll even honor my request for a window table facing downtown.

By the end, I hope to have a new love. But I'm sure to have a larger ass.

Rancors Away

2009-02-16T22:45:00.003-05:00

I experience mild discomfort when it becomes apparent that my AIM-using mother has viewed one of my more sexually-charged or vulgar status messages, leaving a loving "Hi bebe, hope you are having a relaxing weekend" to an auto-reply of "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hung like me?!"

In The Clear

2009-02-16T11:41:00.002-05:00

I think I have a pretty lovely solution to the debacle swirling around the list of one hundred-plus names of players who failed the random testing for performance enhancing drugs in 2003. Two names have been released, Barry Bonds and Alex Rodriguez. I understand the argument that this is not fair to the two. However, one could easily turn around and question why it is necessary to handle these two fairly when they didn't seem much concerned about fairness before they were caught breaking the rules.

More than anything, though, I want baseball to save face, and I think I actually even have a solution.

Why not leak the names of people who passed in 2003? Players who are, you know, actually clean? I'm sure that somewhere in the list of people who passed are at least a few big names. We only ever hear about people who tested positive for steroids. Isn't it time we heard about someone testing negative? How about lots of people testing negative?

By doing this, Major League Baseball does not necessarily have to turn around and name the other hundred-plus who failed. They also do not do so by default because not everyone was tested, so if a player is not named as "clean," it may simply mean that he wasn't tested in the 2003 random testing. I see no reason, however, why they not clear some people's names and clear the organization's image in the process?

A Brilliant Excuse To Give To Charity

2009-02-15T16:46:00.004-05:00

And by give to charity, I mean buy something.

Some charity called War Child -- which, from what I gather, helps children in war-stricken areas -- has gotten together an album wherein legends of rock have chosen up-and-coming artists to cover a song of their choice.

Among the track listing are such choice pairings as:

Beck (Bob Dylan - “Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat”)
Lily Allen feat. Mick Jones (The Clash – “Straight To Hell”)
Yeah Yeah Yeahs (The Ramones – “Sheena Is A Punk Rocker”)
Franz Ferdinand (Blondie – “Call Me”)
Duffy (Paul McCartney – “Live And Let Die”)
Estelle (Stevie Wonder – “Superstition”)
Rufus Wainwright (Brian Wilson –“ Wonderful & Song For Children”)
Scissor Sisters (Roxy Music – “Do The Strand”)
Peaches (Iggy Pop – “Search And Destroy”)
TV On The Radio (David Bowie – “Heroes”)

I'm quite excited, especially considering that I've been jonesing for something new from the Scissor Sisters, and only recently discovered TV On The Radio.

You can hear the Lily Allen track by following the link above.

Oh, and, you know, it's for a good cause (here: my personal enjoyment).

Dealing With V D

2009-02-14T20:42:00.004-05:00

Valentine's Day. A day to send text messages to select individuals containing the curious greeting "Enjoy your V D!"

The scene is Downtown Crossing T Station. Our hero is being eyefucked by a Mormon teenager, all dressed up with a name tag, while in the background, an elderly woman singing Johnny Cash covers has completed her personal rendition of "Ring of Fire," and has moved on to a hauntingly inapplicable version of "Boy Named Sue."

The afternoon was spent smoking hookah and sipping Maker's Mark on the rocks with Colin, watching a special on the Alamo hosted by David Carradine. It is now clear that Carradine received absolutely no direction in his role as Bill in Kill Bill Vol. 1 and Kill Bill Vol. 2, confirming a new level of David Carradine's coolness. He is the man.

As for the evening, I met up with an alarming number of familiar faces at The Roxy in the hopes of getting my dance on. I don't think I've ever been part of so many grind-chains. They just kept happening. One minute someone's backin' it up on me, the next minute I am sandwiched with at least two people undulating somewhat-rhythmically on either side of me. This is fine if the goal is to work up a semi, but I had come to bust moves to repetitive beats, and would not be denied.

And so the mission was a complete success, the only casualty being about five to ten percent of my ability to hear. When I was younger, I recall expressing fervent distaste for the deluge of decibels that is club music. I become completely deaf on the dancefloor; surely the loudness was keeping me from enjoying meaningful drunken conversation.

These days, I see the deafness as an absolute defense against enjoying meaningful drunken conversation. Several individuals tried to say things to me, but I just issued some makeshift sign language to indicate my sudden disability and kept on grooving into the night.

I cannot hear you, because I am awesome.

O Captain!

2009-02-10T14:56:00.004-05:00

According to an article on ESPN.com, Jeter isn't fielding -- among other things -- questions on Alex Rodriguez until "everybody is [there]." I guess every member of the press who might feel like asking Derek Jeter about Alex Rodriguez had better get on the same page.

Perhaps I'm nitpicking, but I can't help myself here (this is from the article):

"I'm not addressing Alex's situation until everybody is here," Jeter said Tuesday after working out at the Yankees' minor league complex. "If you've got baseball questions, I'll do that."

My only question for Jeter, were I to be a member of the media collective he seems to think should assemble before he should speak, would be this:

"How are questions about your teammate's admitted use of performance enhancing drugs anything but baseball questions?"

Trust Falls

2009-02-10T12:17:00.004-05:00

The cat is out of the bag; the best player in baseball for the last dozen years -- Alex Rodriguez -- used performance enhancing drugs at some point. I say "at some point," because, well, I find myself unable to trust his half-hearted confession. It's difficult to trust public statements by clientele of Scott Boras in general to begin with, but the infidelity caveat applies here: he who has cheated before may well cheat again.

That is to say, Rodriguez is now copping to the fact that he's used banned performance-enhancing substances, and this makes his previous statements of categorical denial into blatant falsehoods. Therefore, why should anyone decide to now take him at the specific details he offers -- or doesn't offer -- in the interview he gave to Peter Gammons. Was the use limited to his time with the Texas Rangers? Was he truly unaware of what substances were going into his body?

The oblivion defense is disturbing. Not because it's so unlikely, but rather, if it's actually true that so many baseball players, in their youthful naivete and ambition, were wholly unconcerned with what substances were being injected into their asses, then I could've had quite the sex life in my late teens by posing as a sports trainer and hanging around spring training to offer experimental -- but totally organic! -- suppliments. No pain, no gain, eh slugger?

More disheartening to the baseball fans and purists is that Rodriguez and Bonds are just two of over one hundred players who tested positive in the 2003 testing conducted by Major League Baseball. How many more giants of the game were tainted? Will we ever find out the full list of names? Do we even really want to know anymore?

In recently discussing the topic with an acquaintence, he poignantly quoted: "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you."

It is nearly impossible to wrap my mind around the magic of the 2004 Red Sox if it were to suddenly surface that Manny or Ortiz or Millar was on that list. It would cheapen what is, to me, the greatest sports comeback story in history. It would cheapen the World Series win. And yet, I think I'm willing to risk that considerable loss for the sake of the truth.

I'd rather know.

As for Rodriguez, my annoyance is endless. His talent is unquestionable, "PED's" -- as they're now apparently to be referred -- be damned, and he has an excellent shot to overtake Barry Bonds as the official career home run leader. Much as it pains a Red Sox fan to embrace a Yankee, prior to the recent news of the failed drug test, I had sort of a soft spot for Rodriguez.

Though I don't know all the details of his personal life, every one that does occasionally surface indicates that the guy is a head case with talent only matched by various layers of insecurity. Reviled by fans of his former team, reviled by New Yorkers even when he was putting up numbers that would've been awe-inspiring from anyone else, quietly disliked by teammates and recently thrown under the bus in book form by Joe Torre, Rodriguez was something of a tragic hero in my eyes.

A total asshole whose talent shined regardless of a persona that comes off as, to be kind, less than endearing. In previously believing that he was clean, and that Bonds was not, I considered Rodriguez to be a strange if not bittersweet salvation for the purity of baseball. I am a fan of baseball before I am a fan of the Red Sox, and I similarly value integrity over results. This being the case, it was easier to digest a jerk of a Yankee atop baseball's most hallowed career record list than to stomach the resillience of Bonds's farce.

The dilemma is no longer gently weighted by a hint of righteousness, it is simply the choice between a rock and a hard place at this point, demanding that we continue to tip our respective teams' caps to Hammerin' Hank. With Alex Rodriguez no longer truly eligible for the crown, the search begins for someone who actually has a shot at the heights once he's done re-setting the "record."

Lucky for me, another recently-started search for "Number One" will be much more pleasant. Though I had embraced Excelsior as my favorite restaurant through its closing, I had, regrettably, never had the pleasure of dining at the establishment which is routinely ranked as the tops in New England, Boston's own L'Espalier.

L'Espalier, according to Babel Fish, is French for "The rib stall." Which is not actually helpful. A rib stall, according to my attempts to translate English to English, is "the name of a form of Arbre, generally fruit-bearing, obtained by a technique of size making it possible to have a tree with form punt. The technique was popular with the Moyen-âge in Europe to decorate the walls, but the creation of the technique is older and could date from the ancient Egypt. The word rib stall refers to the lattice on which the seedling is pressed at the time of its growth."

I confess, I was kind of hoping it would translate to something promisory of a grand eating experience, like "delicious explosion" or "Excelsior." But I'm glad I've at least cleared up what it means. Which is lattice. For fruit-bearing trees. Brilliant.

Anyhow, I'll be assessing their fare two weeks from today, joining Hanah for their "Cheese Tuesday" traditions. Per their website, the theme for the installation we'll be experiencing is "Soft Comforts." C'est la brie!

Great Strides

2009-02-09T07:36:00.005-05:00

My quest to sample every champagne house took another step forward yesterday. Insisting that I try something new when I pick up a bottle is keeping me from returning to my favored few, but it's still greatly improving the quality of my mornings, afternoons, evenings, and nights. Yesterday's sampling, Joseph Perrier, is mysteriously absent from Wikipedia's listing... but the bottle said champagne, and it has PDO status, so I'm counting it. It's actually somewhat pleasing. Kind of like when you punch a previously-invisible coin block in Super Mario Bros.

I slept terribly last night, and hereby challenge the moon to a fight (which I will win).

In Memoriam: Fantasy Football '08

2009-02-05T16:08:00.004-05:00

Looking back on my fantasy football season, and seeing that Derrick Mason was my most productive WR in a PPR league, I cannot help but wonder what the Hell I was smoking on draft day. Then again, who could've foreseen that Plaxico Burress's career would implode that badly, or that Braylon Edwards would begin performing like the kid in "Little Giants" who ends up having to load his hands full of that sticky tar stuff just to catch a pass? Nonetheless, appalling.

On that note, this gem comes from friend and fantasy confidant Peter:

"I had a number of those Derrick Mason moments myself. It's that moment where you look at the roster of a playoff opponent who is absolutely stacked, then go back to trying to decide whether Dominic Rhodes, Warrick Dunn or LeRon McClain is going to be your #2 RB and, in a sudden, blinding flash of clarity, you realize that you're not going to win."

And how.

Adieu Excelsior

2009-02-05T11:48:00.002-05:00

In the past week, I have lost two things. Two things which were incredibly dear to me, only one of which was replaceable. My debit card vanished, seemingly into thin air, during a week in which I had just sent out rent as well as another check for a substantial sum. I don't panic often; few things legitimately throw me off. But before I actually got through to a representative from my bank on the phone, I was nervous. As it turns out, my fund had not been touched, and my checks had cleared without a hitch. A new ATM card is supposedly already en route. Instant relief.

The other loss, however, is absolutely irreplaceable. And, as I am an awful human being, causes me more actual grief than when I hear about people I don't know dying. My favorite restaurant, Excelsior, closed.

Getting dressed up and going out for fine wining and fine dining is one of my favorite things. I cannot help it; I just love it. And Excelsior was always my favorite; it was just right. In recalling a recent trip there, I wrote this past August:

"Excelsior is the kind of place the pulls out all the stops. Situated in a prime location on Boylston, the ground level is limited to their bar menu, with only handful of tables and leather seats harbored in a dark room of raspberry chocolate invitation. Having given my name, the three of us were escorted to the metal-trimmed glass elevator, a sort of Wonkavator for adults. The elevator has but two options for floors, one and two, though it actually escorts you through second floor -- at which you are treated to a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of their wine keep -- before arriving at the third floor, still surrounded by wine selections on three sides, where the other door opens and the host is expecting you.

From there, we were escorted through the main restaurant space to our table by the window overlooking the Boston Public Garden, with clear view of the pond and bridge. For this alone, going to Excelsior makes me feel like a king, minorly indulging my Yertle the Turtle complex -- by which I feel like master of all I survey -- and if their menu offered peanut butter and grape jelly on Wonderbread white with the crusts cut off, it wouldn't really change a thing.

The view is beautiful. The wait staff is refined and handsome. The patrons are sharp and luxurious. Life is good at Excelsior, before one has even ordered."

You get the idea.

This morning, in making dinner plans for Sunday with Erika, I decided to see if OpenTable lists the restaurant we're planning to hit up. Alas, no luck; no points. But while I was at their site, I decided to poke around and check out the menus of the newer restaurants. And they didn't quite pique my interest. And then it occurred to me that Excelsior had probably put up a new menu since their New Year's Eve dinner, which I unfortunately did not attend. So I pull up the website, and notice that there are no links for menus, or directions, or... anything at all.

Just some brief "Thanks for the memories" blurb from the owner, informing roving gourmands like myself that they had closed, promising to reopen as a different restaurant providing a more casual dining experience.

But I don't want a more casual dining experience. I want Excelsior.

And really, reopening as a different restaurant sacrifices such a fantastic name. Excelsior is the kind of name you give to an estate. Or a powerful vehicle. Or a magical crystal. One comedian, I vaguely recall, suggested it replace the word "vagina," as a means of empowering women.

How had they closed without my knowing? Where were the warnings? Did I skip over the wrong part of one of the foodie newsletters I get? I did a quick search for some sort of news on when this had occurred, only to discover that it had happened yesterday. Had I known they were closing, I'd have gone just one last time. I was supposed to go in December, when they participated in OpenTable's "Restaurant Stimulus Week," which was essentially an impromptu Restaurant Week with a pre-fixe menu for participating establishments. But the now-ex-boyfriend was uninspired by the menu, and so we didn't go.

My last meal at Excelsior, it turns out, was the dinner outing for my twenty-third birthday. The details, recounted, are worth remembering:

"Roast leg of lamb with Vermont goat cheese, ratatouille, and Israeli couscous. I lucked out in my rare-as-possible order, as the lamb was practically still twitching. But I also had an end-piece that clearly had been sitting on the bottom, so even the most cooked of the three quarter-inch-thick slices was tender and juicy. The couscous were firm to the point of almost being grainy, and slightly dashed with olive oil and sage. They blended into the chevre flawlessly, and the vegetable portions from the ratatouille polished off a quartet of textures while the ratatouille juice and lamb drippings made each bite incredibly moist. Truthfully, I'm not sure what the point of Irsaeli couscous is, as they were tasty but in no way significantly stood out from any other couscous I've had. It was one of the best dishes I've had in a very long time, rivaled perhaps only by the lobster schnitzel offering that's a regular staple of their winter menu."

The lobster schnitzel mentioned was their signature dish. It was a flattened, breaded lobster tail drizzled in creamless yam lobster bisque, accompanied by a generous amount of lump claw meat stacked on a custard of cave-aged gruyere cheese resting atop gently pickled green heirloom tomato slivers. It was, as an old acquaintance of mine would have put it, "the true definition of oral sex."

They also made one of my favorite cocktails -- Bailey's and Frangelico on the rocks -- perfectly.

Dammit.

From what I can gather from the news bits on Excelsior's closing, the tough economic times are to blame. And so it comes to pass that, for the first time, in the strangest and most unexpected of ways, I can actually feel the sting of recession. In my mouth.

My courses of action are clear. Step one will involve mourning. Mourning will involve drinking.

Step two is to voraciously search out new love during the winter edition of Restaurant Week.

On a completely unrelated note, there ought to be a way to tell Pandora "I don't really want jazz right now. Keep the jazz in there, but when I hit next, and there's another jazz song, and then I quickly hit next again, and there's another jazz song... yeah, take a hint. I just need some time and space. From jazz. I'll call you. No, yeah, it's cool. I'll call."