Monday, April 20, 2009
Fiona's Sweetshoppe
While wandering around Union Square with Mr. Park over this weekend on a mission to find him some suitable pants, sans holes (the ones that he has been wearing to work have become less and less viable for public consumption), I stumbled upon the cutest of cute candy stores on Sutter at Kearny: Fiona's Sweetshoppe. The Sweetshoppe stocks imported British candies of in all assortments and flavors, and they might be responsible for one, perhaps two impending cavities. I bought two pounds' worth of lemon fizz drops and have likely gone through nearly half of them already. [Sigh.]
Friday, March 6, 2009
Crazy Crab
A few nights ago, Mr. Park and I decided to don our finery and head out to a newish Thai restaurant not far from our abode called The Grand PuBah. It's kind of chi-chi and has an extensive menu of delicious-sounding dishes, from the fancy, categorized as "land" and "sea," to the more humble, under the heading, "Thai street food."
When we arrived, the place was bustling with energy, and we settled into a nice two-top at the window where we could see the entire dining room--and vice versa. We ordered some wine, which arrived in short order, and we gulped it down, delighting that we were able to put ends to our respectively dull and frenetic work days.
By the time our server came by for our food order, the wine had taken effect and we were feeling pretty adventurous. We decided boldly to go forth and order an appetizer, curry and brown rice, and something on the menu called "Crazy Crab," with no price listed, just one of those scary "AQ" designations.
A few moments passed and our appetizer arrived. It was delicious. We ordered more wine. We joked about the crab. How crazy could it really be?
And then, about twenty minutes and two glasses of wine later, Mr. Park and I were jolted into semi-sobriety, realizing that the two servers gliding out of the kitchen and balancing what seemed like eight trays, were coming our way.
Mr. Park's face looked on in horror as one of the servers set in front of us a long, narrow plate and systematically lined it with mechanical instruments--tongs, small picks, and forks with scoops on the ends. And then, the server cleared as much room on the table as possible and placed an enormous platter in front of us, filled with absolutely the biggest crab we both had seen cooked and served in a restaurant. The crab was covered in a batter of beer, lime and garlic, and its legs literally hung over the sides of the plate and threatened to knock over all of the accumulated glassware on the table--and to poke out our eyes if we were not careful.
Mr. Park and I have eaten crab before, but not like this one. This was a behemoth, a prehistoric crab of epic proportions. Fueled by the booze and a can-do attitude, we rolled up our sleeves and started cracking and chipping, cracking and pulling, hammering and pulling, cracking and hammering. Legs were flying. Crab meat was flying. Beer batter was flying. [Oh, but it was GOOD.] People eyed us with suspicion. People eyed us with disgust.
Crab, crab everywhere.
After about a half-hour of head-down crab mayhem, we decided to call it quits. We sat back in our chairs, stunned, and surveyed the situation... em, the mess. There was a spray of crab meat across my wine glass and even across the window next to the table where we sat. Crab on my jacket, which I had laid next to me in the booth. Crab on Mr. Park's shirt. Crab on our pants. Crab in the front pocket of my purse.
We were embarrassed. We were so busy with the crab that we forgot about the curry.
The servers, sweet and gracious, and probably wishing that we'd never come in, came by and removed the carcass. They attempted to wipe the table down (it was likely a job best done after we had gone) and took our leftovers back to the kitchen for wrapping into to-go boxes.
We were full and marveled at what we had just accomplished. We subdued the Crazy Crab.
And when the bill came, we were pleasantly surprised that the A.Q. topped out at $38. Much better than the $100 we feared. We decided that it was worth every penny--and that next time, we'll bring bibs and plastic pants, so that we can be hosed down afterward.
Oh, we still have two legs left in the fridge, if anyone wants to come over and have a "crack" at them. [Groan.]
When we arrived, the place was bustling with energy, and we settled into a nice two-top at the window where we could see the entire dining room--and vice versa. We ordered some wine, which arrived in short order, and we gulped it down, delighting that we were able to put ends to our respectively dull and frenetic work days.
By the time our server came by for our food order, the wine had taken effect and we were feeling pretty adventurous. We decided boldly to go forth and order an appetizer, curry and brown rice, and something on the menu called "Crazy Crab," with no price listed, just one of those scary "AQ" designations.
A few moments passed and our appetizer arrived. It was delicious. We ordered more wine. We joked about the crab. How crazy could it really be?
And then, about twenty minutes and two glasses of wine later, Mr. Park and I were jolted into semi-sobriety, realizing that the two servers gliding out of the kitchen and balancing what seemed like eight trays, were coming our way.
Mr. Park's face looked on in horror as one of the servers set in front of us a long, narrow plate and systematically lined it with mechanical instruments--tongs, small picks, and forks with scoops on the ends. And then, the server cleared as much room on the table as possible and placed an enormous platter in front of us, filled with absolutely the biggest crab we both had seen cooked and served in a restaurant. The crab was covered in a batter of beer, lime and garlic, and its legs literally hung over the sides of the plate and threatened to knock over all of the accumulated glassware on the table--and to poke out our eyes if we were not careful.
Mr. Park and I have eaten crab before, but not like this one. This was a behemoth, a prehistoric crab of epic proportions. Fueled by the booze and a can-do attitude, we rolled up our sleeves and started cracking and chipping, cracking and pulling, hammering and pulling, cracking and hammering. Legs were flying. Crab meat was flying. Beer batter was flying. [Oh, but it was GOOD.] People eyed us with suspicion. People eyed us with disgust.
Crab, crab everywhere.
After about a half-hour of head-down crab mayhem, we decided to call it quits. We sat back in our chairs, stunned, and surveyed the situation... em, the mess. There was a spray of crab meat across my wine glass and even across the window next to the table where we sat. Crab on my jacket, which I had laid next to me in the booth. Crab on Mr. Park's shirt. Crab on our pants. Crab in the front pocket of my purse.
We were embarrassed. We were so busy with the crab that we forgot about the curry.
The servers, sweet and gracious, and probably wishing that we'd never come in, came by and removed the carcass. They attempted to wipe the table down (it was likely a job best done after we had gone) and took our leftovers back to the kitchen for wrapping into to-go boxes.
We were full and marveled at what we had just accomplished. We subdued the Crazy Crab.
And when the bill came, we were pleasantly surprised that the A.Q. topped out at $38. Much better than the $100 we feared. We decided that it was worth every penny--and that next time, we'll bring bibs and plastic pants, so that we can be hosed down afterward.
Oh, we still have two legs left in the fridge, if anyone wants to come over and have a "crack" at them. [Groan.]
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Hey, Mr. Office Chair Driver
HAD to post this before I forget, because it is one of those "only in San Francisco" moments: a few days ago, I was dropping a friend off at his home in North Beach, and I was nearly broad-sided by a man careening down Green Street (which has quite a steep grade) towards Grant, on an office chair. You know, those cozy ones, like you see in law firms on TV.
Sweet.
Sweet.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Tone it down, Ms. Cranky Park
How do I know I'm getting old and cranky? Well, pretty easily: I used to be somewhat more mellow and Kumbaya-lovin', but now, whenever I go to the über-hip coffee shop around the corner and down the street from my building, I literally want to grab the painfully disaffected barista by his greasy Sex Pistol-esque locks and shake him until his stripey, espresso-stained sweater is unravelling, the next time he rolls his eyes at me for ordering decaf. I also fantasize about yelling, "I AM old, you Devendra Banhart-worshipping pipe-cleaner of a man! And yes, that's right, I sometimes order decaf--and sometimes I listen to Journey AND enjoy long walks on the beach! So suck it!"
Oy.
But the coffee is delicious, so I suppose that I should cut it out, try to be nice, and save the yelling until I'm over 80 and can't as easily be jailed.
Clearly, I do not need the caffeine.
Oy.
But the coffee is delicious, so I suppose that I should cut it out, try to be nice, and save the yelling until I'm over 80 and can't as easily be jailed.
Clearly, I do not need the caffeine.
Monday, January 12, 2009
When comics mirror reality...
I haven't really posted about my current job in the "exciting" world of scholarly publishing (because it typically hums along in the background of a more colorful state-of-being, commenting on such interesting things as crazy people wandering around public places, booze at the holidays, and MUNI), but holy ravioli, Dilbert is me! And I am Dilbert!
Help?!
Help?!
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Put some pants on, for godsake!
On my way to the gym this evening, I spied with my little eye, a crazy homeless dude walking down 3rd Street, near Mission Bay, with his pants down--and he was cruising around as if they were on (and not as if he had "business" to attend to).
I absolutely LOVE my neighborhood.
I absolutely LOVE my neighborhood.
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