When it creeps up on you….

I woke early, still with this cough, and immediately needed to drain my nose. I have had this “thing” for 2 weeks now, where mucus has just drained from my chest and nasal cavity. It has made me learn to enjoy tea. I mean, any other day… fuck tea… But today I will side with tea with the intention of having it sort out my throat.

Other than that I feel great. I listened to the Yeah yeah yeah’s new release this morning whilst skating. Something bout that choir wailing on Sacrilege while the wind blew thru my hair seemed to make everything apear that much more
“epic”.

Afterwards I day-dreamed thru breakfast, wondering how deaf people felt about volume knobs. Then wondered how blind people felt about light switches. Then I wondered about people who lost their hands, and how they felt about joysticks and game controllers, then wondered how paraplegics felt about treadmills. Then things really started to get weird, which is when I realized I needed to finish my meal and get out of the house.

I headed to see a client, who had been trying to see me for a number of days. He’s an old man, who greeted me at the door wearing only his shirt with no pants. I began to wonder if he at least had underwear on under his shirt… but I wasn’t about to let it go beyond curious pondering… this is a dude in his 80’s, I’m not interested in investigating.

He has computer problems that he claims prevent him from banging chicks. This little jewish man, sitting around in his underwear (I assume), whining about how he’s just trying to meet women he can bang and can’t figure out why craigslist keeps taking down his posts. I explain that his post has been ghosted, and he just stares at me. I look at his previous posts and noticed a few things.

First being that he says he is 63, he can’t spell and he has standards that seem a bit unrealistic. He has stated that he isn’t interested if you are larger than a size 8, or over 135lbs, and no one over 40. He claims in the ad he is looking for a potential live in lover, however he complains to me that he has done it in the past, and he usually finds the person annoying after roughly 6 weeks. Says it sucks because it’s like you’re married and you have to pay for everything.

I draw up the ad, fix whatever issues he had pertaining to why it wouldn’t post, and run some updates. He talks about the past, and how growing old sucks. He offers me tea and I accept. He tells me he finds tea helpful for when he is hung over.

I ask him if he drinks much, and informs he that he can’t anymore. But back in the day he had it all and saw crazy things. I ask him to tell me, cuz I would like to know. I told him to make me feel Amish. He asks what Amish is, and I tell him to simply wow me.

I begins to talk about the 60’s when he had to studio, and in his studio he had every pill under the sun. Seconals, morphine, tuinals, mandrex, all filled in his refrigerator. Talks about a quack-doctor he had who told him to simply make a list of what he wanted and the doctor would give it to him cheaper than what he would have to pay for it on the streets.

One night he decided not to go home and instead sleep at his studio in Manhattan. Upon crawling in bed he stretched his arms out and felt a body lying next to his. It was dead girl. I asked him how the dead girl got there, and he stated that she was his studio assistant. She apparently had committed suicide by overdosing on one of the bottles of pills he had in the studio. He explained that he had to hide the rest before calling the cops. When fianlly called the cops and told them that there was a dead girl in his bed. They asked him how he knew that she was dead, and he had to elaborate that she was hard and cold, with puss coming out of her eyes, not to forget the piss and shit on the bed. All I could wonder is how fucked up was he that he didn’t smell that before laying down.. He must had been pretty loaded.

Do you have any idea what kind of buzzkill that must have been. I mean I’ve have been in the back seat of a car barreling down the freeway at 70 miles an hour on a head full of acid when the front tired just flew off the axle leaving us to grind into the pavement all the while sparks are flying everywhere and yet I knew that once we finally stopped it was simply an ordeal that only lasted 30-40 seconds. But this… would have just sobered me up so fast: finding a body, think of what to do and having to wait thru the cops coming to your house?… the night is shot.

I sip on the tea as he lays half a C-note on me. We talk about drinking for a few minutes and he tells me that alcohol just creeps up on you… he got caught up in it for 20 years. Says he would hide it in the bathroom so he had a place to drink where nobody would know what he was doing.

I can always smell when someone has been drinking, you can never hide that stench. Who knows… maybe they had better breathe mints in the 60’s.

Classic vinyl and double smoked bacon

Tags

dan's records, food, ridgewood pork store

I answered the phone and an old raspy voice asked for computer help. This is the geek, how can help the? He first says he’s retired, then says he’s on disability, something something computer, my mind wanders. He doesn’t have much money is what I gather, yet he needs his computer repaired.

Well I think we can work something out; he at least needs data recovery, maybe a reinstall. Before getting off the phone he drops a hint saying that he used to own a record store for thirty years. He tells this as if its supposed to sweeten the deal.

His name is Dan, and he lives in Jackson Heights. Mytchie once made an observation about Queens and why she didn’t like it. Everyone forms a line when getting on the train or bus, or wherever they are going, and she didn’t care for that. Come to think of it, I hate that shit… lines.. are they serious, get fucking real people.

The part of Jackson Heights we are headed to is also know as little Pakistan. 74th st, ground zero for that experience, is usually where I wind up. The trees are lit for the holidays, the sidewalk is lined with muslim and Hindi men chain smoking, and the shop windows display samosas, pakora and sweets. Most items go for a dollar, unless you are heading to a restaurant, which changes everything dramatically. I grab one samosa and notice a stage with a couple of Pakistani muslim men playing bhangra rhythms on drums like it’s nothing.

When I got to Dan’s apartment he showed me the computer in question. Dan is a rather large old man with a tiny chihuahua named Joey. I fucking hate chihuahuas; hate how they shake and growl and bark their little yapping barks non fucking stop. Dan is in pain and has a heart condition. Their is medication bottles anywhere and I am scanning all of them for pain killers. For roughly 90 minutes of this dude moaning and grunting as rattled on about how I am not listening to him as he struggles to figure out what it is he’s trying to say… all this while Joey the chihuahua yaps away.

He has an a middle aged nurse sitting on a lazy boy watching TV. Every time I glance at her she just shakes her head at him, as if she can’t believe the man takes up any space at all.

At one point Dan began to realize that I knew what I was doing. He started giving me attaboys and patting me on the back, then offered me food. Not knowing what he has, I decline. In a place like that, it doesn’t matter what he’s serving…. I am not interested.

When all is said and done, I racked up roughly 4 hours of work and was ready to rummage thru his record collection. He has saved all the records from the shop that he used to own. He was in business for 30 years, but had to give up the business due to his heart condition. The guest room is filled with records stacked from floor to ceiling.

I started digging thru the vinyl as he began to explain how he got his heart condition. He partied a lot, he didn’t care, he had fun, but he saved no money. He said is twice “I didn’t save any money”. I found a couple Dusty springfield records, god I love that woman. Also the Specials and the Shirells. He tells me du-wop was his specialty, then I find a bunch of bootleg Stooges, GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!

He says “Oh yeah, my brother loved punk, he used to just get high and party in my record shop and then we did it together”. He tells me of a rock n roll fund which supports people in the industry who have fallen on hard times. He claims he approached them, they researched his history and now he is getting his rent paid for the rest of his life. I mean, as long as he doesn’t outlive the fund. We all think at his ripe age of 75, that should be a problem.

I grabbed a few James Brown rarities, Siouxsie and the Banshees, and a Shangri-La’s. He was thrilled. So many bad experiences, he told me about. So many guys not wanting to do all the work. I think to myself I must be a shit business man. I’ll bet those guys who don’t want to do all the work make twice as much money as I do.

I get back to Brooklyn and reckon I have 30 minutes before the butcher closes and realize that I am overdue for a visit.

You see, just up the street about six blocks up lies a Romanian butcher with a shop called the Ridgewood Pork Store. It’s wall to wall pork and he smokes everything himself right there on site. Smoked cheese, frankfurters, sausage, salami and double smoked bacon. Everything there is outrageous. I Have to be the luckiest boy alive… the greatest Italian bakery down one street, and Romanian hog heaven up another.

I got some bacon, some dried sausage, cheese, spicy mustard and frankfurters.

So as the sun went down and I realize what I want. Breakfast with double smoked bacon, and smoked cheese over green eggs…. it’s on.

Crack Shack-a-lac

Tags

brooklyn, ft greene, mac shack

I got a call from Karen today. She just lost her lease on the office she has had for the last 8 years, and was only give a months notice. I probably started working with her in 2006 when she was introduced to me by Janice.

We caught up while I fixed her computer, and afterwards helped myself to her food. She had a fruit bowl in the center of the kitchen table. Nothing out of the ordinary, but she had gala apples, which I tend to favor. I love Gala and Roma, everything else is just a crapple in my opinion.

I couldn’t help but notice how good the apple tasted as I looked at her and stated this. She was at a loss of knowing what I was getting at. I live in Bushwick which is still a poor latino neighborhood, the produce is shit. She lives in Windsor Terrace, there is an obvious difference.

After getting everything online and up and running, we shot the shit and caught up for about an hour. We talked about family, business and how everyone seems to be in the act of reinventing themselves. Five years ago, everyone was sitting pretty, yet now we are both in uncomfortable places. We have both watched our businesses slowly slip through our fingers in the past couple years and realize that a good sorting was in order.

When I first met Karen she was a graphic designer and now she worked with kids. She mentioned that they have an honesty to them. I told her that they don’t loose it when they get older, they just save it for the internet… usually for the comments section on various video  sites, or maybe craigslist rants and raves.

When I left I hopped on the F train at Ft Hamilton only to realize that I would rather skate home, so I got off at 7th ave. I haven’t skated since before the hurricane and debris was all in the street, which made 8th ave sort of a bitch but Underhill was a breeze. At least it was till I got to Atlantic an noticed that Washington was completely blocked off. I went a couple of blocks up and cut across to Fulton when I saw it….Mac Shack.

Aziz had told me about Mac Shack; not that it was any good, just that a friend of his owned it. I called Aziz to see if he was nearby so we could do this together. It was when the phone began to ring that I remembered there was a gas shortage and people weren’t driving anywhere. Before I left Karen’s earlier we joked how the gas shortage reminded us of the 70’s. She then commented “odd numbers one day, even number the next”… Wow, I didn’t remember that, but then again I was only 5 at the time.

I have only 3 memories of the 70’s, shame really but one was voting for Carter in our 1st grade mock election. The second was going to Herman park zoo and seeing a black muslim, dressed in a dishadasha, singing John Lennon’s “Come Together”, whilst playing it on the steel drum. The last is actually my first, and that is watching my sister in a high chair and my father encouraging her to eat by telling her to “go on and stab that food”.

Talk of stabbing food brings me back to the Mac Shack. Before I could cross the street a woman asked me for directions to the A train. After pointing to her I noticed she had a Mac Shack bag in her hand and asked what she ordered. She claimed the lobster was good but this time she got the Brooklyn Burger Mac.

It was cold out and that actually sounded good. I also noticed they sold their own brand of root beer, which on those few occasions I want something beyond seltzer, root beer or a gasosa is usually it.

They made my food fresh or, at least I assume they did seeing how it took 15 minutes to get it. While waiting I chatted to Aziz on the phone. The election was what was the biggest buzz in the air, and as much as we could truly say we weren’t about Obama, how the fuck could you vote for Romney, and how was the election this close, and why did it take a natural disaster like hurricane Sandy to surge Obama in the polls.

I skated home, and shared the mac’n cheese with Lily. We got thru half a large before we were full.

Verdict: It was bland, and if it weren’t for the hot sauce I put on, it would have almost been a waste. For $15, I guess I can’t call it overpriced, however almost $3 for the root beer threw me off. I will confess that I feel I should go back and try something more exciting. Maybe the lobster, though the jerk mac really seemed more my taste.

While I do feel that the “Brooklyn Burger”, was rather basic, I honestly felt it still could have had more flavor.

Tales of Tamales

Tags

chicano, mexico, tamales, tex-mex, texas

I can remember living in San Francisco, if you were out late enough at a bar, the infamous “Tamale Lady” would come around selling tamales she made fresh in her home. I remember when I first came to New York, and was living in Spanish Harlem, 116th and Park, and if you were out early enough in the morning you would see various ladies selling tamales.

When I lived at Bedford and Dekalb, I would see tamale ladies set up on Myrtle ave, and now that I live in Bushwick, I see that Wyckoff and Knickerbocker has its share of ladies selling tamales. If you’re out at 6:30 it’s not uncommon to vaqueros drunk from the night before side by side with families on their way to work, all in line to buy tamales.

My personal love with tamales goes back to a very young age, where I grew up in Houston Texas. I reckon I was around 13 years old when my mom started buying tamales off this woman named Maria. Maria had a truck on the side of highway 90, just outside of the city limits. I don’t know how it is now, but I remember back then you would see trucks all along the highway selling whatever their specialty was. There were BBQ trucks, strawberry trucks, pecans, watermelon, okra, you name it.

I don’t know how my mom, and Irish/Italian from Brooklyn, began buying tamales. I’m sure it had something to do with her naturally adventurous personality, Her “whats the worst that can happen?” attitude. Either way I have a hard time believing it was my father, an Italian from Brooklyn as well yet stiffer than my mom, bringing up the idea of trying tamales. However, I’m sure when he reads this he will want to dispute it. Anywho, my mom became friendly with Maria. My mom would easily hang out with her for a half hour and just shoot the breeze. Inadvertently, my mom would bring me along because I couldn’t be trusted at home.

I was a trouble maker from a very young age, so as a punishment, or perhaps just out of fear of how bad I would make things on my own, my parents started bringing me with them everywhere. My brother and sister were self sufficient on there own, but I always got into something. To make things worse, whenever they asked me for an explanation why I did something, my best answer was always “I don’t know”.

So whenever my mom went to see Maria, so did I, and after a while my mom noticed that I was always well behaved with Maria. My mom also knew that Maria was a single mom who lost her only child to gang violence. So I guess one day my mom put 2 and 2 together and decided to leave me with Maria. All day Saturday and all day Sunday, to sell tamales and sometimes nachos with Maria.

My mom must have thought she hit the jackpot, and it did keep me out of trouble. Maria was always so nice, I never remember feeling like a wanted to get into any trouble nor do I remember feeling bored. Maria just put me to work, serving all the clients for her. Hell in her eyes she was a chicana who had free labor from a gringa.

The fashion of tamales in Houston were established a long time ago, I call them Chicano tamales. Chicanos aren’t exactly Mexicans. Chicanos are the descendants of those who were Mexicans before the boarders changed in Texas, California and everywhere in between. Born of Mexican decent, but are U.S. citizens, cut off from Mexico. In this day an age its hard to be cut off from any part of the world, but anything predating the 90’s, had a definite effect on the sense of isolation .

So you can call Texas tamales Chicano, or Tex-Mex tamales, but here in New York, the tamales are quite different. In Texas restaurant only one type of tamale is typically served, usually pork, maybe chicken and they tend to be hard and greasy, while in Mexico tamales come in a myriad of varieties. Seeing how the tamale ladies(or men) are direct from Mexican, their tamales reflect this. You have a choice of verde, roja, mole or even dulce; I tend to choose either verde or roja.

Growing up as an Italian in Texas, I have noticed something. There is a southern influence, so I grew up eating grits, there is the Maria influence, so I love Tamales, and of course being Italian I love polenta. All these things are based around corn meal. So I started wondering, why hasn’t someone made tomato/basil with garlic Tamales, or bacon/shrimp with hot sauce tamales? They are all based around the same concept, it’s not rocket science… Sounds like an in home experiment.

Acquired tastes vs food you’re just not that into.

Tags

acquired food, bistro petit, delicacy, magic cobra, medicinal, pies and thighs, rocket mountain oysters

Last night I had to go to the south side of Williamsburg to fix Janet’s wifi card. Afterwards I went by the Magic Cobra where her boyfriend works to hangs for a few minutes. I was still hungry and thought about going to get some grits from Pies and Thighs when I remembered that right across the street from Magic Cobra was a place call Bistro Petit that served truffle macaroni n cheese.

With truffles, a little goes a long way. I told this to Aziz a few weeks ago when he mentioned not caring for truffles stating “isn’t it more of an acquired taste?”. Well, I guess it depends on your definition of acquired, or more importantly, how we use the word.

It’s a vague term, used liberally and as far as I am concerned, very misleading. According to TLC, coffee, alcohol, blue cheese and olives were all “acquired tastes”. Seriously?… Because I would find it safe to say that the number of people who drink coffee and alcohol easily outnumber the people who don’t. I don’t drink coffee, even though I love the smell of it. I don’t think it’s acquired, because I just think it’s mediocre in the taste category. I’m not disgusted by it, it’s just not my thing.

Then what about chinotto, people in Italy and surrounding areas love this stuff. I had a friend from Geneva over one night, he was drinking chinotto and I was drinking root beer. I told him I couldn’t drink that chinotto for I thought it tasted like cough syrup, and upon hearing this he asked to try some of my root beer. Turns out he was just as disgusted by my root beer as I was by his chinotto. Was root beer and acquired taste?

Then there is ginger, it’s a staple in Jamaican cooking, as well as with sushi. However I cannot not stand it… maybe I have yet to acquire a taste for it, and if thats the case, how will I acquire the taste for it? From eating it over and over again until my palette submits, or until my mind begins to associate it with good memories. I am like that with music; I can listen to Journey not because I think it is good music, but because I have enough positive memories behind it.

Is this all mind over matter, this whole “acquired” business? I didn’t care for “I’m a fool to do your dirty work” until I heard Tony Soprano singing it, then I thought it somewhat menacing in it’s only little way. A Simular situation with octopus: I would have never eaten those tentacles until one day I saw these old Italians happily slurping them up much to other peoples disgust. So then I thought they must be fine, and I would like to disgust people too. Now I just love octopus and Steely Dan… well that one song at least. You can keep “Ricky don’t lose that number”, shit just makes my penis soft.

My ex hated tamales, I should have told her it was an acquired taste, same goes with my future defense for White Castle. Wasn’t the preferred level of spice in our food acquired too, and wait isn’t whether or not one uses salt in their cooking acquired? When does it stop being a preference and start being acquired?

What about Tarzan, while he was fictional, he did eat magots and what not. Are magots acquired or are they a delicacy and when does something go from being an acquired taste to being a delicacy. Ever heard of rocky mountain oysters? They’re bull calf balls, sometimes pig or sheep testicles are used, and they are considered a classic western delicacy. Crickets, snails, sea urchen, octopus, fish eggs, cow balls are all delicacies, and quite possibly acquired tastes all at the same time; They’re sort of like transformers.

With that, sea horse, tiger penis, dried scorpions, horse gallstones, and rat fetus, are neither delicacies nor are they acquired, because they are medicinal. Men in China think eating the penis of a tiger will cure their impotence. Hey I got an idea, why don’t you find someone new to fuck. How much of this is a placebo affect, and how much is in your head? But more importantly, When does food stop being medicinal, and just start being nasty ass shit nobody wants to eat, but will if their motives lie outside the bounds of basic general hunger?

I thought everything we digested affects your health in one way or another. I make red sauce from scratch and could eat this food every week not only because I love the way it tastes but also that I find myself having a positive association with it. Therefore it is medicinal for my mental health. In Addition, I eat vegetarian spinach salads not simply because I think they are good, but also because they are good for flushing out me bowels, once again demonstrating a medicinal use of food. I think all food is medicinal in a myriad of ways.

Lets say that if it isn’t water, it’s quite clearly acquired in one way or another, and it’s always a delicacy to somebody. Have you noticed that whenever they serve food on Fear Factor or Jackass, the word “delicacy” is commonly thrown around.

The next time I meet a vegan, I am going to argue that meat has medicinal value, and is obviously an acquired taste. I will then further elaborate that they seem to possess a rather unrefined palette, but there are certain foods with medicinal properties that they can take to cure that. Then I will take to them to Popeyes stating that while I understand that spicy fried chicken is an acquired taste, in Afghanistan, it’s considered a delicacy.

Truffle Mac’n Chz