Blustery Sunday

monshu is in the other room doing his nails and watching Sisterhood of the travelling pants.

I can't imagine that anything in the next thousand words I'm about to write will be as amusing as that one sentence, but that's not enough to stop me from going ahead anyway. The weather is nuts today; we've had everything from full sun to a wind-driven downpour. The latter occurred right as I'd finished with my laundry and was preparing to go fetch some lunch; reconsidering, I settled on a bowl of instant seafood ramen squirreled away for emergencies. Then I noticed the expiration date of early 2005 and thought better of it.

By this time, the storm had died down to a straightforward rain, so I girded my loins and headed down the street to Riques. The smells in the hall gave me a hankering for fish--unfortunately, as it turns out, since the new owners make the tacos de pescado Baja with catfish a.k.a. the sewer rat of the aquacultural world. At least the queso con chorizo was tasty, although given the proportions it really should've been called chorizo con queso, but the best mouthful I had was easily the empanada de cajeta sliced and set out for snacking.

Little Miss Saigon

Yesterday was a lovely one. First, I got the rare pleasure of rising before monshu and sitting at his feet to observe him as he slept on the couch. SO CUTE. We lazed around the morning and then finally dragged our lazy asses down to Argyle in the afternoon. I have to say that Quán Ăn Phở Xưa looks almost as good inside as it does outside; from outside you can't see the gorgeous fresco on the back wall, but you also can't see the fake flowers along the walls or the ugly lamps above them, so it's a wash. cpratt, you will not recognise this place as the dim Laotian dive where I took you and danlmarmot to dine during your last Chicago visit. They've transformed the interior into a bright, airy, and open space with orange velvet upholstered seats and mod teacups.

Unfortunately, the food didn't wow me. The spring rolls arrived in a jiffy, but I was so hungry from a day of fasting that I couldn't tell if they were really excellent or just very good on a palate whetted by hunger. Bò lá lốt is one of my favourites and they had it as an appetiser, but something was lacking; I couldn't tell if the meat was underspiced, the lolot leaves were overcooked, or both. There were similar issues with the bò lúc lắc which I talked monshu into getting because it was e.'s favourite dish at Pasteur. The meat was good and tender, but it just didn't have the depth of seasoning I'm used to. That wasn't a problem with my lemongrass ginger pork, but the cut was: Chunks of pork belly that were equal parts tough meat and juicy fat. It's a cut I love when it's slow simmered so that the fat renders and the pork tenderises, but it's all wrong for stir-frying.

Service was mixed: Our cuter little waiter was initially all solicitous, but after a couple of larger parties showed up, he never seemed to make it all the way back to our table any more. At one point, there were five servers behind the counter only twenty feet away and I couldn't get any of them to come over and bring the check. Odd. Still, I think I'll be bringing friends there. After all, Hải Yên looks shabby next to it, making it easily the swankest joint on the street, and the food is probably no worse than anywhere else. It's all a matter of figuring out what their strengths are and ordering to them.

We had a cocktail party that night and our hostesses had foolishly neglected to give us anything to bring, so we decided to comb the shops for the most dire piece of kitsch we could find. We were finally crowned with success at a little gift shop just past the el; I wish I could post a picture of the perfectly hideous vase we found, but I would've been afraid of breaking the camera anyway. Suffice it to say that pearly iridescence, metallic gold paint, and sinuous pastels all had a part to play in bringing a glorious undersea fantasy to life; also, the alto relief sea creatures were spiny enough to fend off prying childish hands, ensuring its preservation for years to come.

In the process, I discovered that a mild-mannered storefront I had never suspected of harbouring more than knockoff designer watches is actually a treasure trove of SanRio goodness. Anyone need a Hello Kitty! microwave? (You have your choice of colours as long as your choice is PINK.) Also, since we had to continue on to Q-Ideas for the lucky bamboo to fill the vase, I proposed a stop at the bubble tea lounge next door that I've always been curious about. Although the funky orange couches would seem to instantly secure it a spot on my guided tour of North Chinatown, I wasn't sure myself until I tasted the tea myself and found it good. Funky or not, there's no excuse for having crappy bubble tea in that neighbourhood when there's so much good to be found.

The cocktail party was a blast--the vase went over like a silk balloon--but getting there, oy! Somehow we managed to net the world's stupidest cabbie. We got in, monshu told him the address. Before he could even get going, someone from another car requested directions and we heard him spell out a route ending up in Old Town. Then he asked again for the address, which happens to be on Ridge Road. "Northbrook?" he asked us? No, RIDGE ROAD! "Oh, Hyde Park?" For those of you unfamiliar with Chicago, you've got to understand that Ridge is a MAJOR artery in both the northern part of the city and North Shore. It's definitely on the test that you need to pass to drive a cab in the City. At this point, I was seriously ready to abandon ship and said so, but since it wasn't far monshu was willing to direct him turn by turn.

This seemed to go okay at first, but he clearly told him "At Broadway, take the diagonal street" and what did he do? He started to turn north on Broadway! Then monshu asked him to let us out at the next corner, and instead he drove past it, crossed the road, and began to drive up the street behind our friends' house. We had to yell at him to stop and let us out (right onto a massive sheet of ice, natch). In retrospect, I really should've taken down his name and complained. The one compensation was that afterwards monshu mused, "It makes you wonder about the directions he gave that other guy." I chortle for like an entire minute wondering whether he and his car full of buddies ended up anywhere near where they intended to go.

Polar opposites

I don't know what possessed me (or was it monshu? Hmmmm...) to stow my Bruno Schulz on the Chinese philology shelf, I'm just happy that after a month or so of searching every place I could think to have put it I have it in my hand again. One paragraph of his writing--chosen at random--is enough to compensate for any amount of time spent with one of the authors on Myers' shitlist. It's full of lyricism but it's not "lyrical", it's powerful but it's not "muscular"; it's just beautiful solid writing that rewards every bit of effort you put into reading it.

Speaking of Polish master of fiction, I forgot to mention that I tackled Gombrowicz's Cosmos the other week, didn't I? Now that was some fucked-up shit. Unfortunately, I only discovered after I was some pages into it that it was a translation of a translation (or, rather, two; apparently, both the German and French translations served as sources) and that a new version done directly into English has been available for a few years now. Still, I'm more interested in ever than taking on Ferdydurke now--must remember to add it to my WishList!