02.28.08
Taking a gamble on food.
February afforded me a peek into the world of casino dining, thanks to my trips to Atlantic City and Las Vegas, respectively. Most people who hit the East and West coast gambling meccas these days know that it’s not just about the slots and the tables; it’s become very much an “experience,” with shows, family-themed activities, and, of course, food!
In Atlantic City, since the gals and I were based in the Tropicana and really didn’t go elsewhere, all of our eating experiences took place there. We didn’t really venture out and do anything particularly experimental, choosing instead to eat at Hooters and Corky’s BBQ during our brief stay. Neither place, as you might expect, was particularly stand out. The boneless wings at Hooters were subpar: supposedly flavored with their medium wing sauce, but I couldn’t taste a thing and it appeared that the thin sheen of oil at the bottom of the paper-lined basket was what passes for their “sauce.” At Corky’s, we all went for a standard half rack of ribs and sides, but after becoming staunch Daisy May’s converts here in the city, the very pink meat and very orange dry rub just didn’t cut it. Both meals left us unsatisfied and I have a feeling we should have tried out Cuba Libre, which seemed to have a much more inventive and flavorful menu.
I had the bad luck to be sick and on antibiotics in Las Vegas last weekend, so between the medication and the smoke permeating the casino floor, I couldn’t enjoy the more vice-oriented aspect of the trip. (Does holding my brother’s beer while he sat at the poker table count? Methinks not.) However, I did have enough of an appetite to enjoy our few gastronomic sojourns: Le Café Île St. Louis at Paris, Hamada at the Flamingo, and Canal Street at the Orleans.
Though I’m not sure we really ‘enjoyed’ the poor service and unremarkable fare at Le Café Ile St. Louis. My brother seemed to like his Bloody Mary quite a bit, as well as his Provence omelet, but I found my vanilla bean French toast too vanilla-y. Fortunately, the coffee and bacon (when they finally remembered to bring it to me) made up for it. Our dinner at Hamada, with tableside hibachi grilling, was really quite fun. Our chef, a bit whimsical, tipped spice shakers and lemons into his hat, and cooked us fried rice and chicken with remarkable efficiency and ease. The food itself was fresh, perfectly spiced, and came with steaming miso soup (perfect for my sore throat) and cucumber salad. We ordered edamame as well, which was a little tough and not nearly buttery enough for my taste. It was a good meal, of which I could only finish a fraction. I made a much better effort Saturday night at Canal Street, where we nearly stuffed ourselves on the complimentary bread basket, barely leaving me room for the 9 oz filet mignon my brother suggested i order instead of the 6 oz. If you guessed that I had about 3 oz of steak leftover, you’d be right. But, damn, that was a good steak…cooked exactly to my specifications, accompanied by really, really awesome garlic mashed potatoes. We capped off the meal with an order of creme brulee, that they really would have had to have worked hard to mess up. Since we split it three ways, it was just the right dash of sweetening we each needed after the heavy meal.
I’m definitely ready to go back to Vegas healthier, with a healthier appetite.
02.19.08
Homeless Where the Heart is.
More than the Empire State Building, more than the Brooklyn bridge, my every day, stock image of what New York City is…is the crazy homeless dude. I’d venture to say that almost every neighborhood has one, sometimes two. A person you walk past every morning or every night, who sits on your stoop with their roller bag or garbage bag full of possessions and talks to people only they can see. I have two on my block that I see on a regular basis: one who likes to spout political commentary and antifeminist rhetoric (he made me laugh once with a supposed Martin Luther quote about beer) and another who is a wizened old man, often with that stereotypical bottle in a paper sack.
And more than it being a commentary on our nation’s Welfare program or a growling instance of “why don’t they get a job before all the immigrants take ‘em?”, to me it’s a commentary on the state of our nation’s health care. Forget the homeless part, there’s the CRAZY part to consider. The old dude on my stoop, with his transistor radio, mumbling to himself, isn’t exactly the picture of mental health. He’s not the happy-go-lucky college educated boheme squatting in Alphabet City ala the cast of Rent. He’s straight up, off-the-chain, lost-his-marbles, crazy. (And, yes, that’s the clinical term…) So, why isn’t he being cared for in some kind of facility? Where is the medicine for his schizophrenia? Whose responsibility is it to take care of the ill and indigent in this country? The person who walks by and tosses change in a cup? I don’t think so.
I find it so, so sad that there is no system in place to care for the mentally ill… that they just wander, clad in rags. Is that really what our “enlightened” First World society has come to? “You don’t have insurance and you can’t hold down a job to GET insurance, so we’re just going to let you stumble around and fend for yourself.”
And, okay, I’m not some kind of bleeding heart liberal (even though I am a liberal). Coming home to find a crazy homeless dude on my stoop may spur me to philosophy, but it certainly doesn’t make me feel particularly safe. Crazy people can’t be held accountable for their actions! Crazy people can snap and chop people like yours truly into bits! There is absolutely the health and safety of the homeless themselves to consider, as WELL as the safety of the rest of the neighborhood. Though, really, this paranoia could just be from reading Autumn Street, by Lois Lowry as a child and being scarred for life by the protagonist’s fear of Ferdie Gossett. I don’t even remember what happened in that book except that he was a wandering crazy person and she thought he killed her friend, Charles (and maybe he did!).
In any case, what do you do? As Keanu Reeves says in Speed: what.do.you.do?
I keep walking up to my door and opening it, saying “excuse me,” as politely as I can. But when is the government going to say that? And should they even be excused?
02.13.08
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
I turned 30 without fanfare last week, an ordinary week for what I’ve considered a milestone –and perhaps a millstone– for so long. However, as soon as I get my pictures developed, I will share the Tropicana Adventure that preceded it.
For today, it’s a rainy day in Manhattan. The sidewalks are slush, and the constant rush of traffic is nearly indistinguishable from the sound of what’s coming down from the clouds. I sang to myself as I made the trek to work, Wynonna Judd and Bengali folk songs, and remembered auditioning for South Pacific in high school.
I sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” a capella, and afterwards someone told me, “Mala, I didn’t know you could sing.” I couldn’t. I can’t. Not really. I’m better suited to showers and Karaoke bars than soloist in a church choir. But oh, there were some girls in that high school with voices that could make you see God even if you were an athiest. I remember a girl with a golden voice who no doubt hoped it was her golden ticket out of a house where her mother rolled joints on the coffee table. Where is she now, that magical creature with black polish on her nails and a musical theatre repertoire, that girl who made my belly tighten with envy and perhaps something else entirely?
If life were a Hillary Duff movie, she’d have a scholarship to Juilliard, a recording contract, fame, lights, and fortune. But I turn on MTV and VH1 and she is nowhere to be found. Her life is no movie, her song on no movie soundtrack.
Nobody knows she could sing.
But I won’t forget.
