Japanese Roulette

Game theorists say that, if you intend to tip well, you should do it before the meal. Which my friend Ophir does, at least at sushi restaurants. He’ll sit at the sushi bar, slip the chef $50, and order Omakase – “at the chef’s discretion”. I’ve seen him do it several times when we’ve met for dinner, and each, the sushi served has been nothing short of extraordinary.

Ophir is vocal in his praise and appreciation as well, which spurs the chefs on even further. And whenever he orders a bottle of sake – something that, over the course of one of our average dinners, we do several times – he pours a glass for the chefs.

Which is how, a few months back, we found ourselves still sitting in the back of Bond St. Sushi, the restaurant long since closed, presented with course after course of ever more inventive and expertly prepared sushi and sashimi.

And, at the end, the coup de grace: a piece of fugu, each.

Fugu, from Takifugu, a Japanese pufferfish of the genus Diodon. A fish famous because its internal organs contain lethal amounts of tetrodotoxin. Prepared right, with just a bit of the toxic liver lining the meat, a small dose of the poison supposedly provides an unparalleled taste and texture sensation. But, a bit too much, and the poison paralyzes the diner’s muscles, leaving them fully conscious as they slowly asphyxiate.

So, in short, not something I’d previously placed high on my ‘foods to try’ list. And, certainly, nowhere on my ‘foods to try when prepared by red-faced sushi chefs who might have shared in just a bit too much of our three bottles of sake’ list.

Still, though the chefs swayed smilingly behind the bar as they stood, each deft flick of their knives betrayed their decades of formally trained muscle memory.

Or so I tried to convinced myself, as I stared down the chunk of fugu on my plate. I glanced sideways at Ophir, who, looking equally dubious, shot a glass of sake. Then glanced up at our new friends, the sushi chefs, who grinned on expectantly.

Eyes back to the fish. Then to Ophir, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. My heart thumping, I picked up the piece of fugu, and put it in my mouth.

The next morning, all the New York papers ran stories saying that Bond St. Sushi had sustained major fire damage late the night before, just an hour or two after we left. And while I can’t be sure that our drunken chefs played any part, held even indirect fault, I couldn’t help but imagine that they did.

Which made me feel doubly relieved. First that, despite it all, I was still alive. Second that fugu in particular hadn’t been my last meal. Because, truth is, despite the hype and the near-death experience, it just doesn’t taste that good.

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June 14, 2007

Weekender

After too long under fluorescent lights, Jess and I headed down this past weekend for a very brief jaunt to Miami Beach. The trip started off well enough, with a smooth flight down on Friday morning, and a free rental car upgrade to a new VW Beetle – which drove sort of like a turbo-charged go-cart – in the early afternoon.

We pulled up to our hotel, however, a ’boutique’ designed by Richard Meier, to discover an alarming array of rust stains running down the side of the building, and a valet parking attendant wearing, as a uniform, a pit-stained t-shirt and thoroughly yellowed khaki shorts. Further bad news inside, when we discovered that the hotel would shortly be razed to make way for a new, high-end Richard Meier condo, and that things had essentially been left to seed since the replacement had been planned, apparently a good five or ten years back.

As a result, the room, for instance, featured badly stained carpets, walls and ceilings, including what was clearly dried fecal matter crusted to the bathroom light-switch plate. The sheets looked dirty and threadbare, the closet doors hung at odd angles, and everything was pervaded with a slightly ‘pungent’ scent.

But, in an attempt to be good travelers, Jess and I looked past the room, and the crumpled used tissues littering the hall near our door. Instead, we figured, we’d head down to the pool and the beach, and simply spend as much of the weekend outside as possible.

Lo and behold, however, we discovered that the ‘private beach’ was actually a weed-ridden patch of shady sand, well removed from any observable body of water, scattered with rusted lawn chairs, and featuring an aging leathery woman sunning her low-hanging fake tits while chain-smoking Newports.

Still holding up our chins, we headed back to the pool, set out looking for towels, and were informed that we’d need to fork over an extra $25 ‘towel fee’ for the day. With that last straw, it was back to the room to retrieve our laptop, then down to the wifi-ed lobby to kayak.com an emergency transfer to anywhere less piece-of-shit.

As the weekend fell smack in the middle of spring break, we were unable to find anything for Friday evening – instead sneaking in to the nearby Sheraton’s pool, and wandering the adjacent Shops at Bal Harbour, before sleeping fitfully on top of sheets we tried to touch as little as possible. But, early Saturday morning, we hopped back in the (delightfully comparatively clean) Beetle, and headed down Collins Ave., to the National Hotel in South Beach, a beautiful old art deco property, with a long, slender waveless lap pool (designed for Esther Williams), and rooms regularly cleaned and poop-crust free.

The downside: apparently, the hotel was also the home for a weekend DJ convention, featuring showdowns by some of the best trance, deep house, and otherwise thumpy music spinners in the world. Which, while making for a remarkably MTV Spring Break scene and attracting long, long lines of pierced and tattooed visitors to the hotel, also left sunbathing a bit less relaxing than it might otherwise have been.

Still, I didn’t mind. We were joined for part of the weekend by Jess’ wonderful younger sister, and generally enjoyed the chance to sunburn our way out of the winter doldrums, horse around in the pool, sip pina coladas, and feel condescendingly glad we didn’t look like most of the people wandering up and down Miami Beach.

Summer, bring it.

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March 27, 2007

A Tale of Two Showers

twoshowers.jpg

Right: Redken Pommade
Left: Neutrogena Shaving Cream

Guess which one I smeared through my hair this morning after shower number one, and, resultantly, before shower number two?

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October 16, 2006

Easy IPO

The girl is head of marketing for a high-end maternity-wear company; as such, I got a chance to visit their New York boutique, and was quite impressed by the stylish pairs of women’s jeans stocked there, with top few inches of fabric retofitted with stretch spandex.

And while, certainly, the market for such pregnancy-friendly women’s clothing is well documented, I’m convinced a men’s version of those same jeans could easily become the anchor of a similarly succesful product line.

Consider this: you’ve just eaten Thanskgiving dinner, or an overly generous mid-summer helping of baby back ribs. Your pants are uncomfortably snug around the waist. If only your jeans were able to stretch accomodatingly around your distended stomach. If only, in short, you were wearing a pair of of Eatin’ Pants(tm).

Despite what seems to me a compelling business case, the girl remains unwilling to jump ship from her current job to launch such a no-fail startup. So, entrepreneurs of the internet, I gift this concept to you. All I ask in return is a free pair from the sample run. 30″ length; 29″ waist before I start eating, and perhaps 36″ after a third helping of turkey, stuffing and cranberry come November 24th.

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September 19, 2006

Expedition

About a year back, I was struck by the idea of walking Manhattan from tip to tip. Foolishly, I shared this with my long-standing friend Jenny, who liked the concept enough to actually agree to do it with me.

The trip is 13.4 miles as the crow flies, and closer to 15 along any walkable route, which should have led either of us to conclude that’s more than anyone is meant to walk in an afternoon. But, as Jenny recently won the New Jersey marathon, she’s clearly missing the part of her brain that tells her to stop after hoofing some reasonable distance. In my case, I have no other defense than that I’m a complete idiot.

So, yesterday, just before noon, we headed up the 1/9 subway line to the 215th Street stop. Yes, the 215th Street stop. Apparently, Manhattan has lots and lots of streets. And nearly a third of them are below Houston, once you run out of numbered ones.

Nonetheless, we subwayed up, and we started walking back down. At first it was along streets like Nagle and Isham that I’d never even heard of before, much less realized were major thoroughfares on this island where I live. In upper Inwood, the Siberia of Manhattan, we passed stores selling live chickens, and stopped to use the bathroom at a McDonalds where I was nearly unable to purchase bottled water, seeing how none of the people behind the counter spoke English.

We trekked through Washington Heights and saw adds for sodas (Energy 69!) that absolutely don’t exist below 125th St, and arrays of dresses on sale in front of small shops for under five bucks a piece. Then down through Harlem, where we passed McDonalds and Papa Johns’ on every other corner, trekking all the way to Morningside Heights and the top of Columbia before we spotted our first Starbucks or sushi joint.

By the time we’d made it to the Upper West Side, we were less than halfway, and already looking rough. The day was overcast and muggy, we had sweated through our clothing, and we were possibly hungry, though too churned up from constant walking to want to actually eat.

Near the Museum of Natural History, we stopped in at my brother’s apartment, where he handed off a pair of rum and Cokes like Gatorade passed to long distance runners.

A bit further still, at Columbus Circle, we decided maybe eating wasn’t such a bad idea after all. So, we stopped at Bouchon Bakery in Time Warner Center, relishing the sitting even more than the first-class eats.

In Hell’s Kitchen, I stopped to lance the blisters that had formed on the back of both of my feet, and to drop off an apparently unneeded, but somewhat pokey, umbrella hauled in my backpack. And then we got back on the road.

It was at about this time that I started trying to pansy out. I had several good ideas, such as subwaying down to the next-to-last stop then walking the final stretch. Or calling it for the day and picking up the second half of the trek on a subsequent weekend. Both, I reckoned, qualifying as tip-to-tip travel, at least with explanatory footnote.

But, Jenny, being far more used to motoring mechanically through such minor problems as excruciating knee pain, kept us moving ahead. By this point, clearly neither of us were enjoying the walking, though we had reached a point of sufficient delirium that we were still happily laughing through it, talking loudly about people we passed and wondering what they might be making of our bedraggled, foot-shuffling duo.

We walked through Chelsea, the West Village, SoHo, and TriBeCa, though by that point my recollections are largely a blur. I do recall stopping at a firehouse, ostensibly to get an estimate of remaining distance, though mainly so Jenny could put the moves on a cute firefighter.

We kept walking. Down past Ground Zero, through the financial district, and, limpingly out to South Ferry. By 6:15, we stood looking at the Statue of Liberty, wondering why we didn’t feel accomplished and elated so much as in need of somewhere flat to lie down.

The South Ferry stop on the 1/9 was closed. So, one foot placed gingerly in front of another, we walked back up a bit, staggering down into the Whitehall subway station, then slumping into the seats of an uptown R train.

Back at the top of Times Square, I saw Jenny off on her ride further uptown, headed home, showered, then went back out the door. And while dinner at Blue Smoke and drinks at Pete’s Tavern were both excellent, it’s nearly a miracle I made it ambulatorily from one to the other.

This morning, scuttling plans for vacuuming on the grounds that it involved even small amounts of moving around my apartment, I instead searched online to price out Rascal and Jazzy scooters. If I ever walk again, it will be too soon.

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August 27, 2006

Bediquette

First, there’s the issue of side. Which, if I’m sleeping alone, is the left. But I’m flexible on that one. Either side of the bed works well enough for me, making the choice an easy first concession.

Then there’s pillow selection, which I’ll also happily give up, for the good karma, and the illusion of being accommodating.

The trouble sets in with sleep position. Left to my own devices, I’m largely a stomach sleeper, with occasional side forays. Most girls, however, seem to covet the shoulder/neck nook as pillow, which necessitates back-sleeping. Or, rather, back-not-sleeping. Because, as comfortable as the position actually turns out to be, I can’t really sleep in it. Spooning’s a bit better, though I’m never quite sure where to keep my bottom arm.

Sooner or later, it’s some slightly separated yet leg-intertwined position. Which works well for the most part. Except that a surprisingly large percentage of girls seem to kick involuntarily while deep in REM. Some, the former soccer or field-hockey players the worst amongst them, kick hard. All deny it once awake.

And, of course, all girls steal the blankets, somnolently bunching comforters with reckless disregard for their co-coveree.

A large percentage, too, are total insomniacs. Or, perhaps, just a large percentage of the ones I like, given my prodigious ability to develop crushes on smart yet totally neurotic girls. They can’t fall asleep. They toss and turn. They wake up in the middle of the night, then wake me up to announce that they’re awake. Or they steal my computer and respond to their work emails from three until four in the morning. Or they do both. The same girl, night to night, is utterly unpredictable.

Or, at least, seems so at first. But, inevitably, there’s (some) method to the madness. Which is what bed-sharing – and, perhaps, relationships in general – is really all about: spending enough time with someone to figure out their idiosyncrasies, to determine how those line up with your own, then compromising, practicing. All in the name of somehow finding that comfortable, sustainable, “I could sleep like this for the long-haul” groove.

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August 24, 2006

The Usual

[Meant to post this on Tuesday, but my week has been a mess.]

Monday night. My brother David comes over to cook dinner with me, then gets a call from a mutual friend, Robbie, a big dude from Georgia who recently moved to NYC to further his stand-up career and audition for Broadway musicals.

Robbie swings by my apartment as well, and we toss back a few rum and cokes, then head out on the town. As it’s a Monday, most bars are closed or dead, so we head up Broadway to Ava Lounge, atop the Dream Hotel. The place is packed.

We grab a table, order up a round of drinks, and begin intently discussing which Disney character is the hottest, which degenerates into our singing “Part of Your World” in falsetto. Ranging from one topic to the next, we’re cracking ourselves up, and people surrounding us stop their own conversations to intently listen in.

In any bar, people fall into two groups: the observers and the observed. Some tables are just clearly having more fun than others. Our table, that Monday night, is patently obviously the most fun one in the bar.

The waitress starts spending more time talking with us. Then another waitress, who comes bearing a round of Tequila shots, starts hanging out at our table as well. A middle-aged couple walks by in formal wear. “How was the prom?” my brother asks. They pull up seats.

With sufficient mass, the gravity of our group increases. Next drawn in are three Dutch lingerie salesmen and the cadre of blonde Canadian girls they’d picked up earlier in the night.

An attractive brunette in glasses walks clear across the bar, announces that we’re ‘more real’ than her friends, and plops down at the table as well.

A rock-paper-scissors tournament ensues. Free drink are poured. We learn how to say “may I kiss the baby” and “show me the way to the nearest keg” in Dutch. Phone numbers are exchanged, laps are sat on.

Two in the morning. We close the bar, stagger down to the street, and head our separate ways.

The next morning, my eyelids stick to my eyeballs as I first try to open them. Coffee, black.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

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August 3, 2006

Dick Move

1. Sit at the bar.

2. Look for a table full of women.

3. Get the bartender to fill a bunch of highball glasses with ice water, garnishing each with a piece of fruit.

4. Get a waitress to bring the garnished ice water to the table of women; have her tell them that the the drinks are “compliments of the man at the bar.”

5. Graciously acknowledge with a small wave and nod.

6. Wait for them to realize you’ve sent them water; let the hilarity ensue.

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July 26, 2006

Mamma Mia

One afternoon, when my brother and I were about 5 and 8, respectively, our mother picked us up from school in the family Volvo. She then drove down the road about five hundred feet before announcing that she wasn’t our mother, but rather an alien, who had come to kidnap us.

Obviously, a debate about this ensued, with my brother and me insisting that she was, in fact, our mother, and her insisting, no, in fact, she was an alien, but that the other aliens had just done a remarkably good job in making her look precisely like our mother. The debate raged for nearly the entire ride home, with my mother holding out just long enough for my brother and I to start developing serious doubts.

To this day, I’m not entirely sure what possessed her to do that, but if she were to do it again, I also wouldn’t be terrribly surprised. Because, while she’s smart and articulate and logical and organized and successful, my mother also jumps on beds and pushes people into swimming pools without warning.

Or, at least, without much warning; by now, my brother and I have both learned to recognize that certain gleam in her eyes which serves as the signal for both of us to run for our lives.

Apparently, my mother inherited this troublemaking streak from her own mother, who once, while measuring her for a skirt she was shortening, poked my mom in the posterior with a pin, “just to see what would happen.”

So, on this Mother’s Day, to any readers who have been following along with self-aggrandizement and wondering what the hell is wrong with me, I say: go ask my mom. Much as she’d deny it, her genes clearly account for at least half of the whack-job traits I possess today.

Happy Mothers Day to moms everywhere, but especially to my own, because, frankly, she’s better than yours.

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May 14, 2006