Friday, October 31, 2003
Olfactory Sensations
(I had to look that word up!)
This week: Two dining experiences I can share.
On Wednesday, I met C at the East Afrian Restaurant for Ethiopian, and we shared three vegeterian dishes scooped up with injira (sp), the sponge-y bread; and a bottle of wine we brought in. Total cost for wine/dinner for both: $22.
And last night: I met my landlord J, his boyfriend B and three of their other friends for a dinner celebrating J's 36th birthday. We met at John Robert at Pigall's, which is burning up the awards and charts as Cincy's finest restaurant, displacing even La Maisonette. B knew the Maitre'd from their days at La Maisonette, where B used to be a sous-chef. As a result, we also got three complimentary plates "courtesy of Jean Robert". My personal bill came to $140 -- a new record in gluttony.
I tried some appetizer with a Quail's Egg for the sole shallow reason of having heard about How Delicious they are from the twit I had dated earlier this year. Yup -- delicious. Then, I had venison for my main course -- cubed and darkened on the edges, tender, juicy pink in the center. Venison, folks. It finished with a dark chocolate tort of some sort with amaretto flavoring. Add to that three glasses of a California cabernet ($10 a swiggle!), and I was a very happy camper. Surprisingly, I was not too full at the end of the evening -- it went down that easy! $140!
Charge it, please! Thank you, Plastic Fantastic.
This week: Two dining experiences I can share.
On Wednesday, I met C at the East Afrian Restaurant for Ethiopian, and we shared three vegeterian dishes scooped up with injira (sp), the sponge-y bread; and a bottle of wine we brought in. Total cost for wine/dinner for both: $22.
And last night: I met my landlord J, his boyfriend B and three of their other friends for a dinner celebrating J's 36th birthday. We met at John Robert at Pigall's, which is burning up the awards and charts as Cincy's finest restaurant, displacing even La Maisonette. B knew the Maitre'd from their days at La Maisonette, where B used to be a sous-chef. As a result, we also got three complimentary plates "courtesy of Jean Robert". My personal bill came to $140 -- a new record in gluttony.
I tried some appetizer with a Quail's Egg for the sole shallow reason of having heard about How Delicious they are from the twit I had dated earlier this year. Yup -- delicious. Then, I had venison for my main course -- cubed and darkened on the edges, tender, juicy pink in the center. Venison, folks. It finished with a dark chocolate tort of some sort with amaretto flavoring. Add to that three glasses of a California cabernet ($10 a swiggle!), and I was a very happy camper. Surprisingly, I was not too full at the end of the evening -- it went down that easy! $140!
Charge it, please! Thank you, Plastic Fantastic.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
London, Paris, Rome, Rochester
I spent last weekend in Rochester, NY. I lived there between 1989 and 1991. Back then, I was a paralegal: I wore suits, power ties, 100% pinpoint cotton shirts with button-down collars, and wing-tips; I had a Secretary and read the Wall Street Journal. I managed the trusts and estates of wealthy clients for a downtown law firm. I visit Rochester every now and again. As I drive east on 490 approaching downtown, I always encounter a strong feeling of nostalgia when I first see the skyline.
There they all are: the Bausch & Lomb HQ building, Midtown Tower, Xerox HQ, First Lincoln Bank (probably not called that anymore), the zephyr figure on top of the Ganett Building (probably not called that anymore either). To the left, there's the Kodak HQ complex with a red light at the tip of the pyramid of its main building, and the warehouses around the High Falls. To the right, I'll pass by the greek revival and later victorian mansions of canal-era Rochester and over the wide Genesee River (and the bridge over Rochester's abandoned subway system).
Most of the weekend was overcast, drizzling. The trees were orange and brown. I went on a lot of long walks: East, Park, University, Goodman, Barrington, Prince, Culver. My old stomping ground.
It is always good to see my friend Bump. Each time I visit, his stereo system has gotten more complex. He demonstrated his latest with a DVD that played Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody". I'm not the kind of person who goes in for hyper-technology, but it was amazing -- I had him repeat the song twice. Queen, looking alternately tragic and terrifically glam, was right there in the room with me on the large flat-screen TV. Freddie Mercury looked good, strutting around in his tight white silky pantsuit. When they sang the lyric "any way the wind blows", it floated around the room moving from speaker to speaker. It was a natural high.
Bump's taste in home decor looks like 80s gay bar -- Bubbling tubes, colored glass candles in geometric shapes, fiber-optic lights and glass plates with lightning-like electrodes in sync with the music (they went nuts on the hard-rock portion of Bohemian Rhapsody). He has a new addition: One of those lights with the fake orange flame.
Bump has talked nothing but Ecstasy the last few times we've spoken. If there was a dark side to my visit, it was watching my friend being obviously addicted to it. I spent the first evening with him as he took and placed calls, pitting two dealers against each other with that associated drama of rising tempers and hair-pin turns regarding pick-up locations, prices, quantities. I watched movies on his full-range of cable channels while he met the runner at a chinese restaurant. The rest of the weekend, he rolled. That meant he didn't sleep much, felt sick and queasy. We would come home from somewhere, ready for bed, only for me to wake up at 3 a.m., then 5 a.m., with him getting ready to go out and cruise. After he would presumably sleep for a few hours, he was popping another tab and it would all start over again. In order to keep up with this regime, I accompanied him to the store to purchase supplements meant to replace nutrients, such as Pedialyte, Ensure, Gatorade. If you must do drugs, do drugs responsibly... He drank Pedialyte from the bottle. I tried it; it tastes like stomach acid. Whether from the drugs or lack of sleep, by the end of my visit, B was becoming jumpy and anxious, unable to complete sentences or thoughts -- jumping from one topic to another and back again. A facial tic and jumpy fingers became progressively worse, his eyes darted around and he was obsessively pulling at his hair.
I hung out with my ex, DC. I went to see Casa De Los Babys, a film by John Sayles, at the Little Theater, followed by dinner at Jines, our old hang-out on Park Ave. It was great getting caught up, and to think I'm still comfortable with an ex boyfriend I dated for four months in 1990... well, maybe I'm not so hopeless after all. But in the course of getting caught up, we chatted about his cancer. He had prostrate problems, then bladder cancer that involved removing a fist-sized tumor. He's had chemo and two additional surgeries as well. It's from smoking, and even when I met him 13 years ago, he smoked so much he had a gravely voice. Has he stopped or even cut down? No. He tried the patch, half-heartedly, and now he's back to where he was. He goes in for some more test results this Thursday; the doctors found two new suspicious red dots at his last check-up. I don't care, DC said, in his best Harvey Fierstein rasp.
On my drive up to Rochester, C had lent me some Cocteau Twins: Soothing rhythms and melodies with breathy, little-girly voices. On the drive back to Cincinnati, I switched over to the loudest, rawest punk I could find. On a compilation CD, I found selections by The Vines and Loudermilk. The loudest setting on my car radio was not loud enough. From about Buffalo down to the Pennsylvania border, I cried. I did not make noise, I just had tears, and they just sort of rolled out. The next time I visit Rochester, I bet it will be for a funeral.
London, Paris, Rome, Dayton
There they all are: the Bausch & Lomb HQ building, Midtown Tower, Xerox HQ, First Lincoln Bank (probably not called that anymore), the zephyr figure on top of the Ganett Building (probably not called that anymore either). To the left, there's the Kodak HQ complex with a red light at the tip of the pyramid of its main building, and the warehouses around the High Falls. To the right, I'll pass by the greek revival and later victorian mansions of canal-era Rochester and over the wide Genesee River (and the bridge over Rochester's abandoned subway system).
Most of the weekend was overcast, drizzling. The trees were orange and brown. I went on a lot of long walks: East, Park, University, Goodman, Barrington, Prince, Culver. My old stomping ground.
It is always good to see my friend Bump. Each time I visit, his stereo system has gotten more complex. He demonstrated his latest with a DVD that played Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody". I'm not the kind of person who goes in for hyper-technology, but it was amazing -- I had him repeat the song twice. Queen, looking alternately tragic and terrifically glam, was right there in the room with me on the large flat-screen TV. Freddie Mercury looked good, strutting around in his tight white silky pantsuit. When they sang the lyric "any way the wind blows", it floated around the room moving from speaker to speaker. It was a natural high.
Bump's taste in home decor looks like 80s gay bar -- Bubbling tubes, colored glass candles in geometric shapes, fiber-optic lights and glass plates with lightning-like electrodes in sync with the music (they went nuts on the hard-rock portion of Bohemian Rhapsody). He has a new addition: One of those lights with the fake orange flame.
Bump has talked nothing but Ecstasy the last few times we've spoken. If there was a dark side to my visit, it was watching my friend being obviously addicted to it. I spent the first evening with him as he took and placed calls, pitting two dealers against each other with that associated drama of rising tempers and hair-pin turns regarding pick-up locations, prices, quantities. I watched movies on his full-range of cable channels while he met the runner at a chinese restaurant. The rest of the weekend, he rolled. That meant he didn't sleep much, felt sick and queasy. We would come home from somewhere, ready for bed, only for me to wake up at 3 a.m., then 5 a.m., with him getting ready to go out and cruise. After he would presumably sleep for a few hours, he was popping another tab and it would all start over again. In order to keep up with this regime, I accompanied him to the store to purchase supplements meant to replace nutrients, such as Pedialyte, Ensure, Gatorade. If you must do drugs, do drugs responsibly... He drank Pedialyte from the bottle. I tried it; it tastes like stomach acid. Whether from the drugs or lack of sleep, by the end of my visit, B was becoming jumpy and anxious, unable to complete sentences or thoughts -- jumping from one topic to another and back again. A facial tic and jumpy fingers became progressively worse, his eyes darted around and he was obsessively pulling at his hair.
I hung out with my ex, DC. I went to see Casa De Los Babys, a film by John Sayles, at the Little Theater, followed by dinner at Jines, our old hang-out on Park Ave. It was great getting caught up, and to think I'm still comfortable with an ex boyfriend I dated for four months in 1990... well, maybe I'm not so hopeless after all. But in the course of getting caught up, we chatted about his cancer. He had prostrate problems, then bladder cancer that involved removing a fist-sized tumor. He's had chemo and two additional surgeries as well. It's from smoking, and even when I met him 13 years ago, he smoked so much he had a gravely voice. Has he stopped or even cut down? No. He tried the patch, half-heartedly, and now he's back to where he was. He goes in for some more test results this Thursday; the doctors found two new suspicious red dots at his last check-up. I don't care, DC said, in his best Harvey Fierstein rasp.
On my drive up to Rochester, C had lent me some Cocteau Twins: Soothing rhythms and melodies with breathy, little-girly voices. On the drive back to Cincinnati, I switched over to the loudest, rawest punk I could find. On a compilation CD, I found selections by The Vines and Loudermilk. The loudest setting on my car radio was not loud enough. From about Buffalo down to the Pennsylvania border, I cried. I did not make noise, I just had tears, and they just sort of rolled out. The next time I visit Rochester, I bet it will be for a funeral.
London, Paris, Rome, Dayton
