Hey Lady! Your perfume stinks like a possum that crawled under the house and died. Sorry to be so blunt, but right now the stench is snaking into my olfactory system and bombarding the inside of my nose with tiny daggers of smell and burning my eyes like tear gas. My juicy, perfectly-cooked steak, which I was thoroughly enjoying in this fine restaurant before you sat down at the next table, now tastes like your perfume. Didja bathe in that crap? Wash your clothes in it? The only possible explanation for your outrageous, wanton, liberal use of such a malodorous scent is that you, yourself, have no sense of smell. Or else, your continued use of that foully reeking miasma has chemically cauterized the nerve endings in your own nose. Now I can’t even sit and enjoy dessert and a chat with my husband – I gotta get outta here now! And I know I will have a headache by the time I get home. Thanks for ruining a nice evening.
Restaurants: you need a no-stinking section.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Asked in the Airport
I work in an airport, and the comments I have heard over the years astound me. Either people become totally brainless when they travel, or they are innately stupid. Nothing else could explain these:
“Where can my dog go to the bathroom?”
“Who will get me from my house to the subway station?”
“What flight did my brother come in on?”
“My ticket says my flight leaves at 2215. Is that morning or evening?”
“I have a ticket to Salt Lake City, and I’m sitting at the gate, and I see there’s a flight to Indianapolis at the next gate. I’d rather go there. Can I just go through that door?”
“My chain saw will fit in the overhead compartment, but they’re telling me I can’t carry it on board.”
“Instead of paying for my ticket can I just donate that amount to the Red Cross?”
“Do I need a passport to fly to Hawaii?”
“Can I drive to Hawaii?”
“Can I find out who has the seat next to me?”
“Where’s level 3?” Me: You’re on level 3. “I wanted to get to level 3.” (Shakes head and walks away)
“I left my leather jacket in the cab. You’re going to have to get it for me.”
Sadly, these are all true.
“Where can my dog go to the bathroom?”
“Who will get me from my house to the subway station?”
“What flight did my brother come in on?”
“My ticket says my flight leaves at 2215. Is that morning or evening?”
“I have a ticket to Salt Lake City, and I’m sitting at the gate, and I see there’s a flight to Indianapolis at the next gate. I’d rather go there. Can I just go through that door?”
“My chain saw will fit in the overhead compartment, but they’re telling me I can’t carry it on board.”
“Instead of paying for my ticket can I just donate that amount to the Red Cross?”
“Do I need a passport to fly to Hawaii?”
“Can I drive to Hawaii?”
“Can I find out who has the seat next to me?”
“Where’s level 3?” Me: You’re on level 3. “I wanted to get to level 3.” (Shakes head and walks away)
“I left my leather jacket in the cab. You’re going to have to get it for me.”
Sadly, these are all true.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Politics, politics, politics
I am so glad the election is over. In the end it doesn’t really matter who wins – they are all ego maniacs looking to win approval because daddy never gave them any. OK, there are a few who are probably altruistic – the Kennedys were, and Al Gore. And I used to admire Jimmy Carter until he went all anti-Semitic on me. The best part of the election being over is no more of those oversized postcards touting some candidate or proposition clogging my mailbox. And no more robo-calls! Yesterday, election day, three automated calls for one of the candidates came in the afternoon just minutes apart. A desperate waste of money that could have fed hungry children.
Politically I am (WARNING! WARNING!) pretty liberal. I was going to do a whole rant, but, thinking it over, decided not to. I’m willing to share the recesses of my emotional state and the failings of my body, but politics seems like too much of a hot topic. Eating El Camino is a no-foaming-at-the-mouth blog.
Politically I am (WARNING! WARNING!) pretty liberal. I was going to do a whole rant, but, thinking it over, decided not to. I’m willing to share the recesses of my emotional state and the failings of my body, but politics seems like too much of a hot topic. Eating El Camino is a no-foaming-at-the-mouth blog.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Baseball been bery, bery good to me
Yay, the Giants won the World Series. I admit to getting caught up in the excitement only during the playoffs. I used to love baseball, as a kid. During the summer there was always a game on TV or the radio, and that special sound, the hum of a stadium full of fans, was part of the texture of my childhood. Baseball is perfect for childhood, when the days seem endless and your life seems to stretch out into infinity. But at some point, probably around 1965, I suddenly realized that life just wasn’t long enough to sit through a scoreless game between the Cubs and the (pre-miracle) Mets.
I continued, however, to admire the idea of baseball – as a contest between worthy competitors, as a metaphor for the hero’s journey, as a symbol for the pure innocence that once was America. And I love baseball novels – The Natural, of course, and The Great American Novel and Bang the Drum Slowly, plus ones you might not have heard of, like The Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars and The Universal Baseball Association, J. Waugh, Prop. Sadly, the reality of modern baseball did not keep pace with the ideal. When I saw the new and improved Mark McGwire I wondered why no one seemed to be commenting on his Popeye arms. Forearms like that do not happen naturally outside of cartoons! And now critics are calling this baseball’s steroid era.
So I watched the World Series on TV, and boy, those commentators do not shut up! Since we can see what’s going on they feel they have to fill the silence with meaningless statistics. My dad used to turn off the sound on the TV and listen to the game on the radio, and I understand why. Radio broadcasters paint a picture of what’s going on, and it’s beautiful and poetic, plus they get excited: “The count is 0-and-2 and here comes the pitch, a high fastball, and Mays leans into it, and it’s back, back, back, it’s bye-bye baby!”
That was baseball.
I continued, however, to admire the idea of baseball – as a contest between worthy competitors, as a metaphor for the hero’s journey, as a symbol for the pure innocence that once was America. And I love baseball novels – The Natural, of course, and The Great American Novel and Bang the Drum Slowly, plus ones you might not have heard of, like The Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars and The Universal Baseball Association, J. Waugh, Prop. Sadly, the reality of modern baseball did not keep pace with the ideal. When I saw the new and improved Mark McGwire I wondered why no one seemed to be commenting on his Popeye arms. Forearms like that do not happen naturally outside of cartoons! And now critics are calling this baseball’s steroid era.
So I watched the World Series on TV, and boy, those commentators do not shut up! Since we can see what’s going on they feel they have to fill the silence with meaningless statistics. My dad used to turn off the sound on the TV and listen to the game on the radio, and I understand why. Radio broadcasters paint a picture of what’s going on, and it’s beautiful and poetic, plus they get excited: “The count is 0-and-2 and here comes the pitch, a high fastball, and Mays leans into it, and it’s back, back, back, it’s bye-bye baby!”
That was baseball.
Monday, November 1, 2010
NaBloPoMo
I signed up for National Blog Posting Month – NaBloPoMo, I think – because it might help me get back to blogging and, by extension, art journaling. I have no illusions that I will actually post every day, however, but they have this every month, so maybe something will click. And, I get to post my link on the NaBloPoMo website, so there’s a (slim) possibility that someone besides me will actually read this.
There are hundreds of blogs listed on their site, which is only a fraction of the bloggers out there in the general blogosphere. I clicked on some of the links. Some of the blogs are interesting, some not. For some reason I seem to always click on the ones that are about faith and daily affirmations, when I would really like to find the ones that are mean, nasty, and sarcastic – like me. Everyone thinks I am so sweet and nice, when at my core there is a block of ice.
I guess I am feeling icy right now because my mom (age 97) is failing on a daily basis and, according to Toasty, I am not facing it. I am in denial. He’s right, to a certain extent, but what I am really feeling is terrified. Watching someone you love fade away bit by bit is frightening. The person who was my mother is mostly gone, and it has happened so fast. It hasn’t been that long since she criticized something I was wearing. Now I’m just glad she recognizes me. She’s almost completely helpless and not eating much. I want my mother back! I want the mother who was brisk and competent and always made a pickled tongue when I came to visit.
It’s also terrifying because I see myself. Man, I do not want to become confused and helpless. I plan to live a long time AND go out on a high note. It can be done. My father, while failing physically, kept most of his wits and even cracked jokes just 2 weeks before he died – right before we put him under the care of hospice and let him slide away on a cloud of morphine. Mom doesn’t seem to be in pain, but that part of her that is still there is so miserable and unhappy. Such mixed emotions…
There are hundreds of blogs listed on their site, which is only a fraction of the bloggers out there in the general blogosphere. I clicked on some of the links. Some of the blogs are interesting, some not. For some reason I seem to always click on the ones that are about faith and daily affirmations, when I would really like to find the ones that are mean, nasty, and sarcastic – like me. Everyone thinks I am so sweet and nice, when at my core there is a block of ice.
I guess I am feeling icy right now because my mom (age 97) is failing on a daily basis and, according to Toasty, I am not facing it. I am in denial. He’s right, to a certain extent, but what I am really feeling is terrified. Watching someone you love fade away bit by bit is frightening. The person who was my mother is mostly gone, and it has happened so fast. It hasn’t been that long since she criticized something I was wearing. Now I’m just glad she recognizes me. She’s almost completely helpless and not eating much. I want my mother back! I want the mother who was brisk and competent and always made a pickled tongue when I came to visit.
It’s also terrifying because I see myself. Man, I do not want to become confused and helpless. I plan to live a long time AND go out on a high note. It can be done. My father, while failing physically, kept most of his wits and even cracked jokes just 2 weeks before he died – right before we put him under the care of hospice and let him slide away on a cloud of morphine. Mom doesn’t seem to be in pain, but that part of her that is still there is so miserable and unhappy. Such mixed emotions…
Friday, December 11, 2009
That Time of Year Again
I have always longed for Christmas, which is complicated because I’m Jewish. My family observed all the Jewish holidays, although we didn’t keep kosher, but in our small Illinois town we were more American than anything else. When my grandfather came over from Russia he understood right away that to get ahead he had to assimilate, at least in public. This means wishing everyone you meet “Merry Christmas” and then doing whatever you want at home.
It’s hard for a child to understand this, especially in middle America where Christmas is ubiquitous. I have friends from New York who grew up within sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, in neighborhoods where schools closed on the Jewish holidays, celebrations such as Halloween were unknown, and Christmas was confined to Connecticut. But in the heartland the Christmas season starts in early November. Rosy-cheeked Santas and scarf-wearing snowmen decorate the stores. In school we made Christmas cards during art period and sang carols during music. I was often the only Jewish kid in my class, and sometimes the teacher would ask me to bring in my menorah and tell the story of Chanukah. My classmates were mainly interested in the fact that I got presents for 8 nights. I didn’t tell them that this was probably no better than what they got, considering one night was always underwear (who ever decided that cotton underpants was a good present?) and one night was my father’s invention, a money hunt: ten dimes, hidden around the house, that kept me searching for hours, an excellent return on his investment.
Eventually I understood why we didn’t celebrate Christmas, and I came to appreciate Judaism for its own wonders and mysteries. But still, Christmas holds particular appeal for me. My version, however, has nothing to do with religion. It’s totally superficial, a longing for a Yule log and egg nog and red velvet bows and a long plaid taffeta skirt in red and green. And the tree – especially the tree. Every year I have an imaginary tree, decorated according to the current fashion. I’ve done this since I was little, in the days when a pink flocked or aluminum tree with shiny pink balls was the height of sophistication. I’ve since done a homey tree with wooden ornaments, a Raggedy Ann tree with gingham and rick-rack, a hippie tree with bandana bows and popcorn garlands, and a Feliz Navidad tree with ornaments made of straw and unglazed pottery. This past year my tree would have been elegantly Victorian, with swags of white beads that look like pearls, white lace bows, white silk tassel ornaments and – guess what? – shiny balls in silver and gold.
Every Christmas Eve we would pile in the car and drive around and criticize everyone’s Christmas decorations. At least my father, the self-appointed arbiter of good taste, criticized. He was opposed to most lawn displays, Santas on the roof, and excessive lighting. I secretly drooled for trees and tinsel and lights. Sometimes, driving by, we could see people heavily involved in conviviality inside the houses, dining rooms with white linens, chandeliers shining, woodwork glowing. Such scenes always tore at my heart. There was festivity going on in those gleaming rooms. My family was rarely festive – our idea of a good time being community criticism. Most Jewish holidays are somber affairs more in tune with the original construction of the term “holy day,” celebrating some near-escape. In fact, there’s an old joke that says Jewish holidays can be summed up thusly: “They tried to kill us; we won; let’s eat.” Families celebrating Christmas in those houses seemed to be happier than mine. I guessed it had to do with the pine boughs draped over the mantle and the Christmas stockings hanging below. Now I’ve learned that pine boughs do not prevent dysfunction, but they do give the appearance of unity.
I made things worse, in a way, by going to boarding school for high school. Boarding school! The very bastion of preppy – and WASPy – sensibility. My classmates were the real thing, the old thing. Not just money, but pearls and houses and manners. I wanted to be one of them, to have a nickname like Muffie, to date a guy named Trip, to play tennis and ride horses. In the summer I wanted to be slender in a white bathing suit by the pool, graceful in the afore-mentioned taffeta skirt by the fireside in the winter. I decided I was a tall, slim woman with a sleek blonde pageboy trapped in the body of a short, pudgy, frizzy-haired woman. There is not enough surgery or peroxide in the world to effect that degree of bodily reassignment, however. My mother told me my hands are like my grandmother’s, stubby peasant hands good for kneading bread. As for tennis, forget it. My arms are too short. Besides, Jews don’t ride horses. Cossacks ride horses.
It took a while – years, in fact – for me to learn to accept myself for what I am: a zaftig, middle-aged Jewish woman with a good heart and a sarcastic sense of humor whose family has only been in this country since 1905. I still like Christmas, and I still decorate my imaginary tree every year. My friend Sally and I have continued the tradition of driving around on Christmas Eve to look at – and criticize – the decorations. Last year we passed a beautiful old house festooned with lights. Looking inside I saw a dining room with a burnished mahogany table set with white linen place mats, crystal goblets, and candles in silver holders. The room was empty except for a blonde woman standing by the table. I decided she was the hostess because she had a pageboy hairdo. She wasn’t wearing a plaid taffeta skirt; instead she had on black leggings and a red sweater, and I became conscious of how retro my fantasy attire had been and did a quick update. “Go slow!” I told Sally. I wanted to peer into those French windows as long as I could. As the car crept past the house the woman put her hands over her face. I don’t know if she was crying or stressed out from the holiday preparations, but it was if she couldn’t stand to look at one more red velvet bow. And suddenly, I couldn’t either.
It’s hard for a child to understand this, especially in middle America where Christmas is ubiquitous. I have friends from New York who grew up within sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, in neighborhoods where schools closed on the Jewish holidays, celebrations such as Halloween were unknown, and Christmas was confined to Connecticut. But in the heartland the Christmas season starts in early November. Rosy-cheeked Santas and scarf-wearing snowmen decorate the stores. In school we made Christmas cards during art period and sang carols during music. I was often the only Jewish kid in my class, and sometimes the teacher would ask me to bring in my menorah and tell the story of Chanukah. My classmates were mainly interested in the fact that I got presents for 8 nights. I didn’t tell them that this was probably no better than what they got, considering one night was always underwear (who ever decided that cotton underpants was a good present?) and one night was my father’s invention, a money hunt: ten dimes, hidden around the house, that kept me searching for hours, an excellent return on his investment.
Eventually I understood why we didn’t celebrate Christmas, and I came to appreciate Judaism for its own wonders and mysteries. But still, Christmas holds particular appeal for me. My version, however, has nothing to do with religion. It’s totally superficial, a longing for a Yule log and egg nog and red velvet bows and a long plaid taffeta skirt in red and green. And the tree – especially the tree. Every year I have an imaginary tree, decorated according to the current fashion. I’ve done this since I was little, in the days when a pink flocked or aluminum tree with shiny pink balls was the height of sophistication. I’ve since done a homey tree with wooden ornaments, a Raggedy Ann tree with gingham and rick-rack, a hippie tree with bandana bows and popcorn garlands, and a Feliz Navidad tree with ornaments made of straw and unglazed pottery. This past year my tree would have been elegantly Victorian, with swags of white beads that look like pearls, white lace bows, white silk tassel ornaments and – guess what? – shiny balls in silver and gold.
Every Christmas Eve we would pile in the car and drive around and criticize everyone’s Christmas decorations. At least my father, the self-appointed arbiter of good taste, criticized. He was opposed to most lawn displays, Santas on the roof, and excessive lighting. I secretly drooled for trees and tinsel and lights. Sometimes, driving by, we could see people heavily involved in conviviality inside the houses, dining rooms with white linens, chandeliers shining, woodwork glowing. Such scenes always tore at my heart. There was festivity going on in those gleaming rooms. My family was rarely festive – our idea of a good time being community criticism. Most Jewish holidays are somber affairs more in tune with the original construction of the term “holy day,” celebrating some near-escape. In fact, there’s an old joke that says Jewish holidays can be summed up thusly: “They tried to kill us; we won; let’s eat.” Families celebrating Christmas in those houses seemed to be happier than mine. I guessed it had to do with the pine boughs draped over the mantle and the Christmas stockings hanging below. Now I’ve learned that pine boughs do not prevent dysfunction, but they do give the appearance of unity.
I made things worse, in a way, by going to boarding school for high school. Boarding school! The very bastion of preppy – and WASPy – sensibility. My classmates were the real thing, the old thing. Not just money, but pearls and houses and manners. I wanted to be one of them, to have a nickname like Muffie, to date a guy named Trip, to play tennis and ride horses. In the summer I wanted to be slender in a white bathing suit by the pool, graceful in the afore-mentioned taffeta skirt by the fireside in the winter. I decided I was a tall, slim woman with a sleek blonde pageboy trapped in the body of a short, pudgy, frizzy-haired woman. There is not enough surgery or peroxide in the world to effect that degree of bodily reassignment, however. My mother told me my hands are like my grandmother’s, stubby peasant hands good for kneading bread. As for tennis, forget it. My arms are too short. Besides, Jews don’t ride horses. Cossacks ride horses.
It took a while – years, in fact – for me to learn to accept myself for what I am: a zaftig, middle-aged Jewish woman with a good heart and a sarcastic sense of humor whose family has only been in this country since 1905. I still like Christmas, and I still decorate my imaginary tree every year. My friend Sally and I have continued the tradition of driving around on Christmas Eve to look at – and criticize – the decorations. Last year we passed a beautiful old house festooned with lights. Looking inside I saw a dining room with a burnished mahogany table set with white linen place mats, crystal goblets, and candles in silver holders. The room was empty except for a blonde woman standing by the table. I decided she was the hostess because she had a pageboy hairdo. She wasn’t wearing a plaid taffeta skirt; instead she had on black leggings and a red sweater, and I became conscious of how retro my fantasy attire had been and did a quick update. “Go slow!” I told Sally. I wanted to peer into those French windows as long as I could. As the car crept past the house the woman put her hands over her face. I don’t know if she was crying or stressed out from the holiday preparations, but it was if she couldn’t stand to look at one more red velvet bow. And suddenly, I couldn’t either.
Tadich Grill
Tadich Grill does not need me to review it. It’s an institution, the classic San Francisco restaurant experience. Think Sam Spade, 1920’s or earlier. Lots of dark wood surrounding individual booths that make you feel like you belong to the special club. Tiny white tiles on the floor. Waiters nearing or past retirement age. The best sourdough bread in the City. Those elements alone would qualify Tadich as THE San Francisco restaurant, but wait, they also serve seafood!
This is not a trendy place with fish cheeks poached in exotic mushroom foam. The food is straight up old school as the kids would say, if the kids went to Tadich. Mostly it’s business guys having a side of sand dabs with their martinis. I did have an octopus salad with an Asian-style gingery dressing when I ate there recently with my son, Crouton, and his wife, Cupcake. But the fare is mainly plain, with large portions. We shared the fried calamari appetizer, and I admit that I prefer the garlicky versions you find elsewhere, like Steamers in Los Gatos. Crouton had the Boston clam chowder that is thick enough to plaster walls, and the sand dabs. Cupcake had the cioppino which looked like the best deal on the table. I had a crab-shrimp casserole in a zesty tomato sauce. We were too full for dessert. Our waiter had a pleasant, witty attitude which is sometimes hard to come by among the cranky old men waiting tables there. I gave him a nice tip and then we sailed out to another SF tradition, the deYoung Museum.
So to sum it up, it’s the whole package that makes Tadich special – the location, the ambiance, the sourdough bread, and the food. Take any one away and it would be just another place to eat.
Tadich Grill
240 California Street
San Francisco, CA 94111
(415) 391-1849
This is not a trendy place with fish cheeks poached in exotic mushroom foam. The food is straight up old school as the kids would say, if the kids went to Tadich. Mostly it’s business guys having a side of sand dabs with their martinis. I did have an octopus salad with an Asian-style gingery dressing when I ate there recently with my son, Crouton, and his wife, Cupcake. But the fare is mainly plain, with large portions. We shared the fried calamari appetizer, and I admit that I prefer the garlicky versions you find elsewhere, like Steamers in Los Gatos. Crouton had the Boston clam chowder that is thick enough to plaster walls, and the sand dabs. Cupcake had the cioppino which looked like the best deal on the table. I had a crab-shrimp casserole in a zesty tomato sauce. We were too full for dessert. Our waiter had a pleasant, witty attitude which is sometimes hard to come by among the cranky old men waiting tables there. I gave him a nice tip and then we sailed out to another SF tradition, the deYoung Museum.
So to sum it up, it’s the whole package that makes Tadich special – the location, the ambiance, the sourdough bread, and the food. Take any one away and it would be just another place to eat.
Tadich Grill
240 California Street
San Francisco, CA 94111
(415) 391-1849
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