12.22.07
Theme from a winter place.
By Thursday, Manhattan was eerily empty, cleared of its constant noise and the hubbub of busy, busy people leading their busy, busy lives. Even the oddly comforting white noise that comes from traffic horns and exhaust pipes and the occasional popping of a tire were absent. I felt like I was starring in my own version of I Am Legend, which, oddly enough, was shot partly in my neighborhood last year. Early Friday morning, a bar fight woke me up. The unintelligible shouts were being traded in the unmistakable tone of threats and promised violence. As I listened intently, I was soothed instead of annoyed, relieved for a moment that New York still had enough breath and life left in it to yell.
By Friday night, I was home in Ohio, and found my hometown just as eerily empty as the city I had left –save for the noise from the bars. It’s amazing how you can travel 700 miles, to some place that “ain’t the big fancy city,” and find the same silence. The streets were dark grey, slick with drops of rain, the trees bare except for twinkle lights, and the corner of Main and High may as well have been the corner of Lex and 42nd.
That’s a thought that’s especially amusing since my friends and I were gathered in my favorite townie dive bar, tossing dice, tossing back drinks, and watching Cash Cab on The Discovery Channel. As the yellow SUV carried its contestants through the streets of the city I just left, the guys asked me if I recognized the bright lights and the bustle of each path it took. Not that night, no.
Everyone has cleared out for the winter, gone away to hibernate, vanished from the streets. They’ve reappeared underground, where it is warm and artificial light takes the place of the daylight everyone hopes will soon return to the surface.
It’s like living in a post-apocalyptic movie. An alternate universe. A place where “home” and “away” are suddenly the same thing. Until the sun rises, and Ohio becomes, once more, distinctly Ohio, and I become distinctly a New Yorker.
12.16.07
A, B, C, D… W, T, F: musings of a disconnected desi
What’s the definition of a “good” desi? There is no denying my South Asian, Indian-American, whatever PC term you want to use, heritage. It’s who I am. You see it on my skin. But since moving to the city three years ago, my extent of “Being Desi” has been ordering Indian food once a week and practicing my Hindi and Bengali with the guys who work at the local convenience store and the local Dunkin’ Donuts, respectively. That’s it.
When I was younger, I wrote a horribly depressing (not to mention craptastic) novella that included ruminations about “weekend Indians” — people who drive out to the Indian stores, go to temple, do everything cultural on a Saturday or a Sunday to hold on to their heritage, while going about their assimilated lives during the week. I’m not even a “weekend Indian” anymore, unless you count hiding out in my apartment and eating samosas while watching Bollywood films I’ve Netflixed.
We try to be bi-monthly Indians, I’ll give you that. Some of the kids I grew up with, we send e-mails back and forth in the hopes that we’ll find time in our crazy schedules to meet somewhere, laugh about our parents, our “aunties” and “uncles,” and feel connected to where we came from. There’s a shorthand between us, a code, a shared language of in-jokes and eye-rolls that can’t be duplicated. It’s ours and only ours. Unfortunately, that sense of mini-community comes very sporadically. Payel, Soma, Ronjan… we’ve all got our own lives… and mine seems somehow lacking.
Because in Cincinnati, in Dayton, there was a community already in place, we didn’t have to DO anything. There was always some place to go, a temple to visit every few weeks, a function to MC at, or dance at, or sing at. Here, upholding those traditions are far more difficult. Who wants to hoof it all the way out to Flushing to go to the mandir alone? But I am still brown, I still think in Bangla and touch my forehead when I kick something. Not “doing” it doesn’t mean I’ve stopped “being” it.
I am the only South Asian in my particular industry. Mine is a lone voice, a tremulous one at times. But, still, it’s there. It infuses much of my work, shapes my point of view and my handling of issues. Still, many of my co-workers don’t know how many languages I speak, and don’t really know that though I grew up in a Judeochristian community and understand it, it’s not completely my world. Just because I have no accent and say “ain’t,” and cuss like a sailor and generally act more like a midwestern, teenage boy than I do Aishwarya Rai doesn’t mean I am not an Other.
So, what’s a good, young, hip desi these days? Someone who friends everyone brown on facebook or MySpace? Someone who wears desi pride t-shirts or goes to the South Asian Film Festival? Someone who goes to Bhangra parties and writes for South Asian magazines? Does it come in a package deal with med school or your college Indian Students Association and the yearly group dance for Diwali? I don’t know.
I have no answers. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve successfully integrated the Amrikan side and the Bangali side that were always at war when I was a kid, but I’m no less conflicted. I’m still an American Born Confused Desi despite all efforts to find a little bit of clarity and a place where I fully belong.
12.15.07
I am the untamed soul of Africa…
Ah, Google. What would we do without Google? Something that didn’t even exist ten years ago is now a search engine that dominates the market. I use it for work, I use it to amuse myself, and at least three times a week, I Google myself. Is that too personal? Should I not be admitting that?
I think most people who are computer savvy Google themselves often. How can you resist the curiosity? The potential ego stroke…or getting knocked down a few pegs? It satisfies that need to know that you exist in this strange new world of the Internet… that an entire community moving to cyberspace hasn’t rendered your basic existence null and void.
And, lo, here are some of my favorite search results:
The Mala Mala Game Reserve in South Africa.
The Global Mala Project (I always knew I was international).
The Mala Ocean Tavern in Lahaina, Maui. I wonder if they would comp me drinks if I went there? Someone want to buy me tickets to Hawaii so I can find out?
Mala Bhattacharya, a noted soprano. Hey, I had NO idea I could sing! Who’dathunkit? But it makes you wonder…does she ever Google herself and stumble upon my name and feel the same sense of strangeness, of connectivity?
It is sort of gratifying to see that someone who shares my name is in a nontraditional field for Indian-American women, just like I am. We’re both creative, both out there doing what we love. We’re the untamed soul of something. Possibility, perhaps?
Last, but not least, when I typed my name into the search field on YouTube, I came up with this lovely gem from 1959’s Love Marriage, starring actress Mala Sinha and my first ever cinema boyfriend, Dev Anand:
12.13.07
Go pug yourself!
I have a terrible, terrible addiction to YouTube and to Cute Overload. Both are things that brighten many, many dark days in the city, even when they aren’t as dreary and sleet-y as tonight.
So, I bring you this hilarious (and perhaps even terrifying) video that cropped up courtesy of both of those sites today:
Yes, that peahen is the SCARIEST THING EVER.
12.12.07
“Ladies, please!” or starting the day with commercialism.
Has anyone caught the In Memoriam Charmin ad for Dick Wilson, a.k.a. “Mr. Whipple”? I saw it the other day and here’s a link for those who’ve missed it.
Even though I grew up at the tail-end of the Mr. Whipple “era,” I’ve gotta say… I had no idea he was SO pervy. One should not be that into their toilet paper! Note how he’s eyeballing the women with this vaguely Chester the Molester glee and their scandalized cry of “Mr. Whipple!” when he jumps out at them makes it sound like he’s doing something far worse than shilling TP. I mean, what exactly is “squeezably soft” here, People?
Most troubling of all? I don’t know if anyone else has noticed this, but “regular” Charmin is no longer squeezable! Sometime in the last year, they changed the paper quality and it’s pretty much just like everyone else’s. The soft, cushion-y, grope-able rolls no longer exist. I think you have to go “Charmin Ultra” or something in order to find that. Poor Mr. Whipple. Maybe they were just waiting till he passed on?
Luckily, there are some classic holiday-themed commercials running to counteract the questionable feelings evoked by the Charmin commercial (“show me on the doll where the strange people squeezed you…”). They’ve whipped out (hee!) the Campbell’s Soup Snow Boy, etc.
I have YET to see my favorite ad: Peter! Oh, you’re home!. I’m a Maxwell House girl, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see Peter wake up his family with the aroma of Folger’s.
I also did a quick search for a generic Oreos commercial with a dad teaching his kid how to separate and dunk but couldn’t find it. The little boy is named Gary and I think he played CJ on One Life to Live for a bit. Yes, I remember things like that. Like how wee, pouty-lipped baby Lucas on General Hospital went on to play a baby on the short-lived Baby Talk with Mary Page Keller and baby Frederick Crane on Cheers. (A cursory search says these twins were Christopher and Kevin Graves. They’re 18 now. I’m so OLD.)
And, wow, I seriously wandered from my original topic, didn’t I? That, my friends, is the Curse of YouTube…only slightly less dangerous than the Curse of Wikipedia.
12.08.07
The wind beneath my wings.
I grew up in a college town, which meant that you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a wing joint. We didn’t get a Buffalo Wild Wings until the ’00s, so up until that point, it was all local places, with their “Nuclear” and “Chernobyl” wings. Mind you, since my stomach is not exactly cast iron (hasn’t been since I was 15, oh the humanity!), I never really indulged in those higher hotness end treats. Then, we got the BW3 and I gloriously indulged in their Caribbean jerk and Thai wings and their garlic…mmmm. Okay, my mouth is watering while I type. Let’s not drool all over the keyboard, shall we? In any case, I have a longstanding love of wings. They’re messy and saucy and spicy and just…awesome. And, let’s face it, they’re not the most attractive food in the world. If you want to go out and look dainty and feminine, they’re not what you order. In fact, I was rather lustily and salaciously sucking my fingers clean tonight. GASP!
I indulged my fetish at the Wharf Bar and Grill on Third between 38th and 39th, where the drink specials are quite awesome (All drafts are $3.50 on Saturdays), and the wings are addictive. Their hostess turned me on to the barbecue flavored ones, and I’ve been a convert since. I tend to shy away from hot or medium Buffalo wings, just because I don’t want to suffer the next day. So, the barbecue option is perfect. I love the sauce, I even love the bleu cheese dressing (let’s not even get INTO my fungus issues). Honestly, I may be able to put away a fair amount of food, but I usually can’t even finish an order of 10.
The advantage of ordering from SDS back in Oxford was that you could request the wings be “run through twice,” so they were more crunchy than saucy. You lose a lot of steam licking your fingers clean and trying to maintain propriety. Eating should never be that taxing and time-consuming. So, by the time I got to my 8th wing, I was exhausted!
In fact, I’m pretty much ready to sleep at 9:30 on a Saturday night! One thing that could potentially keep me awake? What exactly do they DO to the rest of the chicken?
Don’t tikka me off…
I’m having another quiet Saturday in the city, primarily because my Friday wasn’t so quiet. That’s what I get for meeting Tiff and D. on Restaurant Row for post-work dishing. I think we actually talked about our favorite TV shows for a good four hours, spurred on by a few cocktails. (I vaguely remember something about GH’s Sonny ending up in a purple sparkly gown ala Anna Lee’s Lila and going, “Oh, Edward!”) I got home around 10:30 and promptly microwaved leftover chicken tikka masala and rice for dinner. God it was good. Probably because I was so hungry and it was so late. Everything always tastes better when you’re hungry, doesn’t it? Sometimes you scarf down something that, on a different day, might not taste nearly as delicious to you.
I tend to be very hit and miss with chicken tikka masala, since most places make it with that freakishly bright red sauce that looks like it could in no way come from anything natural. (It’s like a cardinal abuse of paprika.) The place near my apartment has changed their menu for the trillionth time in the last year and has a new version that’s not quite so bright (more orange than red) or so sugary sweet. Also, I can’t shake the feeling that chicken tikka masala is a made up Indian food, because, I swear, it’s not a dish I ever remember seeing in restaurants when I was growing up. Maybe it’s not fake. Maybe it made the transition sometime in the last ten years. But it still feels odd to me!
I’m trying to rack my brain for other “fake” ethnic foods that were basically invented in the U.S. and have become standard parts of ethnic restaurant menus. I keep coming back to chop suey, but I think there’s an Italian dish, too, and I caaaaan’t rememberrrrrrrr.
At some point, I think I’m doing a Borders and Bath & Bodyworks run, so I can pick up Christmas presents for Mom. That involves leaving the house, though. Hrm.
12.06.07
Currying favor…or at least blog hits.
Posting in a weblog that nobody reads may seem like an exercise in futility, but I hope that one day, someone actually does find these ramblings 1)mildly entertaining and 2)useful.
In food news, I tried takout pad thai from the new Thai place at 339 Lexington Ave (@ 39th), Red Curry, and was sorely disappointed. There was NO SALT. How do you make food without salt? In India, that’s practically a cardinal sin. The pad thai was bland, hard to choke down, until I finally grabbed my shaker and went to town. When the fried tofu appetizer is more tasty than the main dish, you know there’s a problem! I didn’t really like the pad thai at Jaiya either, and I wonder if I’ve been spoiled by the version I always ordered back home at Phan Shin? I think I’m biased.
I broke down and got a facebook page; now I have a “social networking site” matched set. I still don’t feel particularly socially networked, though.
It’s funny, but when I was visiting my parents in Ohio last month, a friend of the family, Rajib Uncle*, actually suggested I start up a blog about living here. Now that I’ve done it, I haven’t actually told him or anyone else from the desi community. Oops. Sort of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? “I’m going to start writing about life in the Big Apple…and tell no one I’m doing so.”
*He’s like the “cool uncle,” and half the time I forget to tack on the respectful title. Mom does not approve. Heh.
12.02.07
Gravy and snow…both are white and cover things, but I only like one.
Somewhere in between 4:30 and 10:30 AM it began snowing. I was shocked when I looked out the windows to Third Ave and saw a fine layer of white dust covering the hoods of the parked cars and the restaurant awnings. We’ve had a crazy mild fall and winter so far in the city, and snow feels alien, unwanted.
Last night, TnT and I went to Acme, 9 Great Jones St. (between Broadway & Lafayette), for dinner. The gals had been there before, but since I tend to stay away from anything below 14th street for the sake of my sanity, this was my first trip. Yes, I loathe going the Village, the West Village, the East Village, the Gaza Strip, etc. I’m sorry, I just cannot deal with the cat’s cradle of streets, how turned around I get when I come off the train, and how everything is impossible to find. I’m just not cool enough and not into “scene” enough to put that much effort into where I go. Case in point, I took the 6 down to Acme, following their directions to take it to Bleecker and “walk two blocks north.” Walking two blocks north on Bleecker did NOTHING. Did they say “turn on Broadway”? Nope! So, I wandered aimlessly for 10 minutes, asking no less than six people how to get to this place.
I finally made it to Acme, and went back to the bar to meet Tiff, and ordered a Lynchburg Lemonade off of their cocktail menu. NOT the best start to the evening, since the lemonade was so subpar, the Jack Daniels may as well have been cut with water. At $7.50 a pop and on their menu as a standard drink, you’d think they’d make sure their “homemade lemonade” doesn’t taste like lemon Kool-Aid! I ended up meekly asking for a new drink, feeling horrible for it but unwilling to drink something crappy, and it was something very fruity with rum.
After about 20 minutes at the bar waiting for Ty to show up and to land a table, we were seated. Acme is pretty much just tables, all utilitarian and wood. It’s not as kitschy a place as Trailer Park but not quite as spare as Daisy May’s. But, like both of those places, it all comes down to food. Trailer Park has the allure of high school cafeteria nostalgia food in its grilled cheese and tater tots; Daisy May’s has the best barbecue in the city. Acme fulfills that same desire for big portions and comfort food. Buyer beware: come here if you like to eat, not if you’re trying to maintain your waistline.
I had their Cajun fried chicken, which basically meant it was smothered in white gravy and dusted with pecans, and the portion was so large I couldn’t finish it. I settled for eating all the pecans, practically licking the gravy off the plate, and eating the “crunchy parts.” My sides were their garlic mashed potatoes (with the awesome gravy) and collard greens, both of which were quite tasty. Though, honestly, my favorite greens are made at The Smokin’ Ox in Oxford, Ohio. I have no idea what kind of crack owner Sean Pennington puts in his greens, but they’re damn good. Anyway, back to Acme. Favorite part of the meal? The complimentary cornbread. It was fluffy and airy instead of dense like so many places make it, and so flavorful that I didn’t even need butter.
Man, I love food. I love eating in this city. Even when it snows.
