restaurants

elfin

2005-12-10T20:41:48+00:00

It's been one of those months, in which you start tending to long-overdue tasks just because it's easier than listening to the emptiness of the house. Not that I minded … entirely; I'm notorious for liking large dollops of privacy with sprinkles on top, but this has been a bit much, even for me.I've called it the San Francisco Project, just because I don't know its real name. It's the one that sent Jeff out to—one guess—for three weeks, and promises to possibly send him out there again come February or so. It's meant not too many dinners together, unless you count my dropping off soups and the like for Jeff at his lab, and so last night was unusual.

We have our little traditions, Friday night dinner being one of them; we go out to a restaurant we like, settle in, chow down, and talk. Not purposefully, because if it were that way, we'd be doing it wrong. Just catching up.

We've been in an Indian-food rut for quite some time, as we've been dealing with a drought of decent Indian food in this town for several years and are happy to finally have an Indian restaurant in town that doesn't stink. We've become regulars, of a sort. So when Jeff suggested last night that we have Thai instead, I was surprised and agreeable.

"Six-thirty?" he suggested, and reminded me that if we drove in separately, we'd get to eat about a half-hour earlier than we would if he had to meet up with me at the house first. Plus, it meant we were more likely to avoid the madding crowd; after all, what else is there to do on a sleepy, chilly Friday night in Huntsville aside from chow down and go to a movie?

Exactly.

I beat him there, traffic having snarled his drive, and I doodled in my notepad while I waited. Mundanities: remember to take your tea strainer with you to Atlanta next week, and perhaps plan on hitting DSW first thing in the hopes of locating a well-fitting pair of loafers.

I forgot what I was wearing: blue sweater, blue wrap skirt, white tights … and my Santa hat. I was, apparently, completely oblivious to the stares and discussions that were going on two tables down from me.

There is something in my countenance that makes me eminently approachable. Even if I'm not smiling, which I tend to do for no apparent reason, I seem to have a sign over my head that says "Harmless! Please approach!" (Or, as my spouse likes to point out, people just come up to me and tell me things. We have no idea why, really. Pheromones are as good of an excuse as any.)

I looked up when the woman tapped me on the shoulder. Blond, late-thirties, a little careworn around the edges, a kind smile.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she said, "but you look like you're waiting for someone, and I thought you'd like to hear this."

I closed my notebook, nodded, waited.

"While we were eating, my children --" at which point she gestured over to her table, "saw your hat and said, 'Mom! Santa's eating dinner at the same restaurant we are!'" She smiled sheepishly. "I reminded them that there was no such thing as Santa, and they looked at me with these funny expressions and my daughter said, 'Then she's an elf!'" By this time, she was grinning fully. "I just thought you'd enjoy knowing that."

I thanked her, and they left the restaurant. Jeff slid into his place at the table moments later, and I said, "Just so you know, your wife is apparently an elf."

"Oh, really!" he replied.

"Bet you didn't know that." We both laughed.

(Now to figure out what my magic elf powers are.)

It was a good dinner. We talked over a lot of things that have had to stay unsaid while we were both busy: he with his project, and I with mine. It was the kind of cozy, lazy dinner that I just can't quite figure out how to have with anyone else but him. We've been leading separate lives for the past month, which will hopefully change after this next week. His project will calm down, and I'll wrap up my errands in Atlanta.

It's enough to make me a happy little elf.

Maybe I should get a hat.

Slug. Chew.

2003-12-05T19:49:27+00:00

I have a confession to make. It will surprise a few of my friends, but not Jeff, who has insisted in the truth of this statement for quite some time, to my disbelief:I am a chilehead.

* * * * *

Ages ago, someone who didn't know me very well asked me what my favorite restaurant was. (Anyone who knows me well would inherently recognize the dangers and long-windedness inherent in such a topic, and would steer clear. It's almost as bad as asking me about my cats.) My response was typically obtuse, yet truthful:

"What kind?"

"Oh, any."

I wish I could remember the gist of my response, but I told the truth. If I want to go to a Japanese steakhouse, I have to go to Tuscaloosa, to have Ben-Kei's shrimp sauce. If I want sushi, it's Vancouver. Blue crab? The little shack that Andy took me to a few years ago. Cheesesteaks? Philadelphia. Indian? Little Rock.

Along with that list would be "Mexican? Rosie's, in Huntsville." Not necessarily for the food, which I thought was pretty decent, but not spectacular, but because the margaritas were the best I'd ever found.

No more.

Mexican food? Margaritas? Los Dos Molinos has it.

I wasn't aware that there was a subspecialty of Mexican food called "New Mexican," and I must confess that I don't know if it's referring to something new or just to the state of New Mexico in general. However, I've discovered that I don't care.

Many articles describing LDM describe the food as "lethally" hot; so much so, in fact, that Kara told me that she planned on only having a salad, because she didn't think there was anything on the menu she could eat.

Sign #1 that you are a chilehead: statements such as that one make you run to, not from, a restaurant.

Like most Mexican-style restaurants, diners are presented with bowls of salsa and chips upon being seated. I was amused to watch one of my dinner companions grab a chip then timidly dip it into the salsa. As she ate the chip, Kara and Matt stared at her, waiting for a verdict.

"Uh... Ow. It's pretty dang hot."

Sign #2 that you are a chilehead: statements such as that one make you think, "Bah, can't be that bad!" instead of "Perhaps I should proceed with caution."

I grabbed a chip and dug it into the salsa. And chewed. And swallowed. And the fire came, roaring over my tongue and up into my nose, and oh dear God was it tasty. I realized that in my left hand, I held one of the world's most perfect heat-quenchers: a frozen strawberry margarita.

Slug. Chew.

Slug. Oooh, pass the salsa. You don't want any more? Darn. More for me. Chew.

Food? Oh, I'll have the carnitas. Just after I have another sip of the margarita.

Slug. Maybe I'll have just one more bit of salsa. Chew.

Slug. Hmm. These are extraordinarily good margaritas. Good thing we got a pitcher. Perhaps I shouldn't drink so much of this. Oh, we're going to watch Pirates of the Caribbean afterwards?

Two hours and several full margaritas later, I'm curled up on the couch of someone I barely know, petting a cat whose name I can't remember, and floating on a chile/alcohol buzz while watching Pirates. Mmmm. Why is the rum gone? I don't care. Orlando Bloom is pretty. Pity we don't have any more salsa.

I might have to come back to Phoenix, just for the food.

I have a photo of the restaurant. I just can't offload it yet. I'll make mention of it when I'm able to.

Speed bumps and slow raccoons

2003-01-16T05:44:52+00:00

When Viet Huong opened in Huntsville, we celebrated: at last, Eastern food that wasn't a) Thai or b) buffet Chinese (which, we might add, has the approximate China Content of a porcelain teacup made in Mexico). Therefore, we visited, and we ate.

We weren't the only ones. The ricers showed up too, as they are wont to do, driving around and doing their business and unwittingly provoking howls of laughter among the rest of us who have far better things to spend our money on.

It boggles my mind, really. Haven't something like three-point-five million economic forecasters decided that we're in a recession? Someone (strongly resembling me) might be fooled into thinking that silly things like economic recessions might make people spend less money on tricking out their lame cars, but it seems that I am either grossly mistaken or have no sense of the true priorities in life.When we pulled up at Viet Huong for a nice lunch, I was squeaking and pointing at this tricked-out blue Civic. It, better than any other car I have ever seen, epitomizes the lofty ideal: you can never have too many body kits. Kits on the front ... kits on the side ... kits on the back:

The wing, you see, is really necessary. In addition to making the car go faster than the speed of sound, these body kits have the unfortunate side effect of causing the car to float slightly above ground. In order to maintain contact with the road, the owner needs to do everything he can to force the car to actually roll along the ground.

The front is actually a bit dull; nothing but replacement headlights (oh, for a photo of the Civic with hood of blue flames that I saw today!). Performance gain: six horsepower.

But...wait. Let's look at the back of the car again. Yeah, at the tailpipes. Hey. Wait a second. Is that....

Yes, ladies and gentlegerms, behind the front and back body kits we have the 100% ricer classic that is spray-painted chicken wire. Look at it and weep for your poor stock cars that know not the beauty and speed that could be yours if you only had spray-painted chicken wire on your car. (performance gain 25 horsepower)

In addition, we have special tires:

While I'm shocked and appalled that he didn't use the extra spray paint (left over from painting the chicken wire) to spray-paint the wheels, I suppose white will just have to do. These aren't just any wheels, though—they're the extra-special rated R wheels:

I wonder what the 'R' stands for? Speculation from the peanut gallery? Bueller? Bueller?

Now, now, don't get snarky. I have to point out that this guy is truly devoted to speed; he has realized that to have a truly performance-oriented car, a car owner must go further than just the standard taillights, wing, body kits, and chicken wire. Few things provide more of a performance boost than replacing the slow, pokey dashboard with a faster, sleeker model (performance gain: 3 horsepower) and all-cow interior dyed to match the paintjob (performance gain: 16 horsepower).

After staring at this car, stifling giggles, and madly snapping photos, I have only one question. Go back to the driver side photo of the car and ask yourself the question that Stephen's father asked me:

"What does this guy do about roadkill?"

Think about it. We're looking at a ground clearance of what, about 0.08 microns? The only two things that could kill this car (aside from a Ford Expedition, marauding plastic-eating bacteria, and a spiked baseball bat, but that's another entry) are speed bumps and slow raccoons. The only way this car is going to make it over a speed bump between now and eternity is if that wing has a Temporary Eject button.

(Release the wing, and—remember—the car will magically float a few inches off the ground. Bad for traction, great for ground clearance.)

Otherwise, what you've got is a really expensive and really useless teeter-totter.

As for those slow raccoons, can you imagine this guy calling up his insurance agent and explaining that he needs an insurance check to repair his car because the raccoon he hit last night screwed up fourteen body kits?

Oh, well. It's the price you must pay to be cool.

seven deep and seatbelt free

2002-11-26T06:03:16+00:00

In the time when man reckoned his life by season and snow, it was called the hunter's moon. The hunter's moon meant many things, sinking low in the sky, gravid with the promise of winter; the time to procure the beast and fowl that, preserved, would be the mainstay of winter. In the time of rapidly shifting electrons, it is nothing more than an impediment to the Leonids.We toddled off for Thai in the borrowed van of a near-stranger, piled seven deep and seatbelt-free on our way to the ATM. Despairing of a way to connect various ATM cards (held in the pockets of various near-strangers in the back of the van) with the exterior ATM, Sean declared a Chinese fire drill. We bailed out, our breaths pluming silver trails behind us. One by one, money in hand, we climbed back in the van and headed off for Thai, where we learned that the difference between three-star heat and native Thai was the difference between a pleasurable tingle and mouth-numbing fire. Thirty minutes before the show was scheduled to start, we found ourselves once again seven deep and seatbelt free in the van, but with a different driver. We arrived. We waited. I toyed with my braids; Margaret threatened to play jump-rope with them. I retaliated by taking photos of her. The total: two hours, one rumor of the drummer having his car broken into, one pitcher of beer, one round of tequila shots, and countless cigarettes later, we got a show. Not a concert; a concert would imply a performer playing to a group of strangers. In this room, the audience talked back, demanding favored songs, heckling, collectively blowing smoke rings toward the unseen ceiling hiding that silent hunter's moon. The drummer muffled his instrument with sheets. We bought music and cheesed. We stumbled out of Crossroads hoarse and husky from the smoke and pointed the van to Krispy Kreme, carefully jostling each other as we reached for stray dollar bills to fund the 1:40 a.m. purchase of donuts. Three dozen, chocolate and regular glazed, were passed through the drive-through window, the boxes warming Kat's hands as she snuggled up against them. We opened the boxes before we could get back to the apartment, wolfing down dough and sugar and that special southern something that we were all addicted to. Someone put on coffee, which nobody drank. We avoided the napkins, licking our fingers instead, and pretended not to notice that we weren't the only ones going back for a fourth donut. We pulled up at Kat and Sean's sometime on the wrong side of two a.m., having divided up what few donuts hadn't already been instantaneously devoured. We exchanged email addresses and promises to see each other next week before the Thanksgiving diaspora. Our breaths left silver trails behind us as we fumbled into cold cars, hands clumsy like clubs in the chill. I had dreams of a quick race home and a kamikaze jump into the warmth of an early Sunday morning bed, dreams that hardened and stilled under my breath as I attempted to defrost my windshield with nothing but the heat of my car's engine. I drove home, viewing the world through slowly-expanding patches of clarity, bobbing and weaving from patch to patch in an attempt to see the road and upcoming traffic. By the time I crossed the highway, the heat of the car had cleared the windshield. I drove faster, angling north, tucking my car into the safety of the garage and greeting the cats with unfamiliar odors of donuts and cigarette smoke. The bed, when I finally slid into it on the wrong side of three a.m., still held the chill silver glow of the hunter's moon.

Queen of Flames

2002-04-28T03:13:53+00:00

He wrapped his hands around the martini glass. I watched, with one eye on my pad thai and the other on his finger, which idly swirled his toothpick-speared cocktail olives around in his glass.

Call me a professional eavesdropper, but it's pretty hard not to pay attention when you're trying to have a quiet dinner with your spouse at the local Thai restaurant, and the flaming queen sitting at the bar is asking the waiter, "So what are the rules on orgies in Alabama? How many people does it have to be? Fifteen, sixteen?"

Eat your pad thai, girl, I thought. He's drunk, he's getting drunker, and it's just going to get funnier—as long as he doesn't realize that anyone's listening to him…

I'd caught references to 'San Francisco' a couple of times. His accent, a bizarre combination of Valley talk and Barney Frank, matched perfectly with his appearance. Paisley—but not too paisley—shirt, perfectly pressed. Tucked in any more tightly, the shirt would've ripped at the seams if he moved his arms. Shorts, perfectly pressed and creased, belted despite the fact that no belt was needed. Casually expensive loafers, equally cheap socks. Buzz cut.

On the four-matchstick scale of Queen of Flames, this guy got four flaming matchsticks out of four.

He drank. We ate. He talked. I listened. He didn't notice. I made certain he didn't have a reason to.

Bartending tonight were the Goateed Bespectacled Twins. Not exact twins, mind you; one was auburn-haired and the other was a brunette, but they had the same practiced chuckle-along-with-the-drunks laugh that you learn after dealing with one too many people who, if they weren't slightly sloshed, would probably be perfectly normal co-workers or neighbors. Both of them had that clean-cut collegiate look of kids tending bar on nights and weekends to pay their way through school.

After finishing his drink, the stories started getting better. He pushed his empty martini glass toward the auburn-haired Goateed Bespectacled Twin and said in his best drunken sotto voce, "Make me somethin'. I don't care. Make it up."

The bartender arched an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses. "You sure about this?"

"Oh, honey," he said, flapping his wrists, "I trust you with all my heart." He turned his head to his female friend and motioned for her to turn her head around, away from the bar—and directly toward our table. More drunken sotto voce: "As long as it doesn't cost something like"—here he flapped a wrist again—"thirty-five dollars for a single drink."

At this point, a miniscule carrot sliver on my plate suddenly became extremely interesting. I felt the need to stare studiously at it for about thirty seconds. In the meantime, the female friend whispered something in his ear. He shrank back from her, pretending to be shocked, and said, "What are you talking about, honey? They are just two exquisitely beautiful young men, and I am an exceedingly generous tipper."

A man and a woman chose that moment to enter the bar. The woman next to four-flaming-matchsticks fellow leaped up—very quickly I might add—and began a round of introductions. She seemed rather determined to make sure her friend didn't take any—or all—of the bartenders home with him.

Hope bartending pays well at Thai restaurants.

Enough chemicals for one night

2002-04-15T04:38:10+00:00

By the time I returned from grocery shopping with Kat and Sean this afternoon, I was somewhere between light-headed and seriously low on blood sugar. A quick rummage in the fridge turned up real honest-to-goodness yogurt—the real kind, with fruit, sugar, and calories.

After I ate it, I settled down at my desk to fire off some emails. Jeff came in with a dinner idea, just as I was finishing giving Gareth the details he needed for a script I've been begging him to write for me. "Why not try the new Vietnamese place?" Jeff suggested. "Okay," I said. "Give me a sec, and let me finish giving Gareth the information he needs to write this script."

After that, a shave on Jeff's part and a momentary hunt for keys on my part, we headed out. We tiptoed into the restaurant an hour before they closed, and settled in at our side table in the mostly-deserted restaurant. A quick scan of the room indicated that Anglos were in the minority. (In Huntsville, this is usually a good sign; the blonde Anglo types tend to stick to the Americanized restaurants.)

Somewhere between the drinks, the appetizer, and the free-flowing conversation, my headache began to lift. With its absence came my curiosity—no, not the three fellows stuffing down pho as fast as they could cram it into their mouths—but, instead, the music.

You'd expect something at least vaguely-ethnic when eating at a Vietnamese restaurant, no?

Do orchestral versions of Beatles tunes count? What about orchestral versions of "Auld Lang Syne" and the theme from The Godfather?

I tried making sense of that while chomping on my appetizer. Didn't work very well. Not at all. Someone in Vietnam has apparently found a way to cross Barry Manilow, Paul McCartney, and James Horner, and the resulting combination is quite frightening.

When the waitress finally refilled our drinks, I found myself wanting to ask her to please ease up on the psychedelic ingredients in the pho. It's a good restaurant, I suppose; they have both ticklingly-warm and slightly-incendiary hot sauces available for the diners. I availed myself of both, and was eventually forced to admit to my spouse that maybe I'd overspiced mine a bit (the runny nose and watery eyes were a definite tip-off).

But the wafting, slightly-psychedelic music made it all better.

On the way home I found myself craving—of all things—coffee. Which I almost never crave. Since coming back from Arkansas, I've had a vacuum-sealed packet of Turkish coffee waiting for whenever my next coffee urge would be.

Not tonight, though; I think the wafting psychedelics and the capsaicin from the Vietnamese restaurant were enough chemicals for one night. If my craving coffee isn't enough of a sign, I don't know what is.