February 6
The funny thing about having dinner in Queens this evening was that I was supposed to have been in Las Vegas.
I had been contacted a few months ago by the American Society of Interior Designers to speak on a panel at the IntersectWest conference there. Apparently someone had seen me speak on a panel the previous May about foodservice trends at HDExpo 2007 and wanted to duplicate that very panel.
Now, I don't know why one group of designers would want to put on the same panel that a design magazine put on less than a year earlier. Surely it would attract a similar crowd and look boring, repetitive and kind of stupid.
But I figured I could update my PowerPoint presentation with new and fascinating information, and clean up the layout a bit as the HDExpo 2007 attendees, while drinking with me later, had praised my information but disparaged the layout, so that even if the ASID looked silly, I would not.
Today's Wednesday, and by Monday I had finished all the work I needed to do for my regular job at Nation's Restaurant News. I'd had to back out of a Super Bowl party that I really would have liked to go to (thrown by my excellent colleague Milford Prewitt) to finish my work, but I did it. I had set up nice meals to have in Las Vegas, and was ready to leave the following day. I e-mailed my contacts at ASID and asked if they needed anything else from me, and I asked at what hotel I was staying.
I got a reply, from the person who had replaced one of my contacts, with a press release attached. The release said that IntersectWest 2008 had been canceled. The release was dated January 23. Hadn't I heard?
I wondered how I would have heard if they hadn't told me, since, being a food writer, I am not generally informed about the scheduling of design conferences any more than I'm informed about the price of tungsten or the latest innovations in printed circuit board assemblies.
Since it hadn't been rescheduled, they were releasing me from my contract.
Wasn't that nice of them, releasing me from my contract?
The contract had said basically that I would show up and that they would pay for my flight and lodging.
My new contact also told me I would be reimbursed for any out-of-pocket expenses I'd incurred.
I thought of flying to Las Vegas anyway and billing ASID for my flight and lodging. But instead I went to Jet Blue's web site and learned that I could cancel my flight for just $40.
So I billed ASID for $40. I was told it would be taken care of, and I believe it.
Today I got an e-mail from another one of my contacts, whom I'd also asked if they needed anything else from me and wondering where I was staying, saying she wasn't sure what I was asking about to.
I said that explained why she and everyone else at ASID had neglected to tell me that IntersectWest had been canceled.
Her answer was priceless and exemplifies what's wrong with America: "I didn’t neglect to tell you about Intersect/West because I wasn’t working with that and had no idea it was cancelled."
You see, that's the wrong answer.
The right answer is, "I'm sorry."
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Ploy Thai
February 6
Joe DiStefano from Gothamist said something to me the other night that I always like to hear.
He said he liked my work.
"We should go out for Thai food," I said, because Joe lives in Queens, where we New Yorkers keep most of our Thai food, and because ordering Thai food is one of the things I do best. If people like what I write, I want to order Thai food for them.
Joe liked the idea of this, because there was a place in Elmhurst, Ploy Thai, that he wanted to check out.
Actually, he'd checked it out, and was dismayed that they ignored him when he said he wanted the food to be spicy. Pehaps he would have better luck if someone ordered it in Thai.
Ploy Thai? Ploy? What the heck, I wondered, does ploy mean? So when we walked in, after saying hello in Thai, that there were two of us, and that, yes, we would eat it there, not to go, I said "Koh thot, khrap. Kham wah 'ploy' pleah wah arrai, khrap?" ("Excuse me, what does the word 'ploy' mean?")
It turns out it means gem, or jewel. Good to know.
Joe was a little bit disappointed that the specials on the board were no longer just written in Thai, but had English translations, too. But he didn't know that one of the specials, yam plah dook foo, or fluffy catfish salad, was an unusual (for New York) and fun dish to have, and that som tam pu, or green papaya salad with mud crab, was an unusual modification (for New York) of the som tam with peanuts (and ideally dried shrimp), that was more common both in the US and in Bangkok. It was a variation from Thailand's northeast.
"Isaan," Joe said, so I'd know that he was no neophyte when it comes to Thai food. Isaan is what Thais call the Northeast.
So we ordered those items, along with a couple of standards that are good markers of quality in a Thai restaurant: stir-fried pork with basil and green curry, which we got with chicken.
I insisted in Thai that they make both of the salads spicy. "Ta mai pet, mai arroy," I said -- If it's not spicy, it doesn't taste good.
They brought out the papaya salad first and waited for us to taste it to make sure it wasn't too spicy. It was, actually, but it's what we were looking for. I think flames might have shot out of poor Joe's mouth. I'm not sure. I have a pretty high threshold for capsaicin-induced pain, but I tasted the danger and avoided anything that looked like a chile. It reminded me of eating som tam in Thailand.
"Perfect," I said, and she brought out the rest of the meal.
Here's what struck me: They didn't pretend that Thai salads are like white people salads, to be eaten as a separate course. They brought every dish out the instant it was ready, as one does in Thailand. It had been so long since that had happened in New York that I had forgotten it was possible.
Joe's reviewing the place for Gothamist, so I'll leave him to it. It should be posted in a few days.
Joe DiStefano from Gothamist said something to me the other night that I always like to hear.
He said he liked my work.
"We should go out for Thai food," I said, because Joe lives in Queens, where we New Yorkers keep most of our Thai food, and because ordering Thai food is one of the things I do best. If people like what I write, I want to order Thai food for them.
Joe liked the idea of this, because there was a place in Elmhurst, Ploy Thai, that he wanted to check out.
Actually, he'd checked it out, and was dismayed that they ignored him when he said he wanted the food to be spicy. Pehaps he would have better luck if someone ordered it in Thai.
Ploy Thai? Ploy? What the heck, I wondered, does ploy mean? So when we walked in, after saying hello in Thai, that there were two of us, and that, yes, we would eat it there, not to go, I said "Koh thot, khrap. Kham wah 'ploy' pleah wah arrai, khrap?" ("Excuse me, what does the word 'ploy' mean?")
It turns out it means gem, or jewel. Good to know.
Joe was a little bit disappointed that the specials on the board were no longer just written in Thai, but had English translations, too. But he didn't know that one of the specials, yam plah dook foo, or fluffy catfish salad, was an unusual (for New York) and fun dish to have, and that som tam pu, or green papaya salad with mud crab, was an unusual modification (for New York) of the som tam with peanuts (and ideally dried shrimp), that was more common both in the US and in Bangkok. It was a variation from Thailand's northeast.
"Isaan," Joe said, so I'd know that he was no neophyte when it comes to Thai food. Isaan is what Thais call the Northeast.
So we ordered those items, along with a couple of standards that are good markers of quality in a Thai restaurant: stir-fried pork with basil and green curry, which we got with chicken.
I insisted in Thai that they make both of the salads spicy. "Ta mai pet, mai arroy," I said -- If it's not spicy, it doesn't taste good.
They brought out the papaya salad first and waited for us to taste it to make sure it wasn't too spicy. It was, actually, but it's what we were looking for. I think flames might have shot out of poor Joe's mouth. I'm not sure. I have a pretty high threshold for capsaicin-induced pain, but I tasted the danger and avoided anything that looked like a chile. It reminded me of eating som tam in Thailand.
"Perfect," I said, and she brought out the rest of the meal.
Here's what struck me: They didn't pretend that Thai salads are like white people salads, to be eaten as a separate course. They brought every dish out the instant it was ready, as one does in Thailand. It had been so long since that had happened in New York that I had forgotten it was possible.
Joe's reviewing the place for Gothamist, so I'll leave him to it. It should be posted in a few days.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Today is Tuesday the 5th of February, and therefore it has been a while since my last written effort. Last time I had written about how each individual had come to decide to skip to Canada in their own peculiar ways, and in a brief re-reading I realize I have neglected to highlight a crucial point.
Three months is a long time. I don’t care who you are or where you come from, three months may pass in a few instants in hindsight, but to think of it stretching out before you, the period of time seems almost interminable. That’s not to mention the further four or so months Josh intends to stay for. I make this point as a certain memory comes to mind, and I can see a dozen different characters milling outside the customs portal of the departures terminal of Tullamarine Airport.
In typical Phillips fashion, I had no-one in particular to see me off (Mum having dropped me outside the terminal before driving away) and still there was a veritable crowd of folk there to see the others off.
I remember that the folks had wanted a group photo of all of the departing, and after we stood in an awkward line for a few minutes, it was finally and yet suddenly time to say goodbye, a goodbye that was to last all of those three months for most of us.
Goodbyes are interesting things. They can be very casual, but when they actually mean something they can become a highly intimate affair. So there I stood and watched the large group pinch itself off into smaller knots of people, all intent on savouring a few last moments with each other. Josh and Jin are notable cases. Josh for the obvious reason that his stay in Canada was intended to be a longer one than the rest of us, and whilst his parents had already reconciled this, his relationship with Anna inevitably led to a tearful goodbye. A complicated interaction for obvious reasons.
In Jin’s case some of you will be aware that his brother, Sam, is in the process of moving away to begin his adult life in Canberra, complete with apartment and new job. Jin and Sam were well aware that Sam would be gone by the time Jin returned, and so I’m sure the realization that things between them would be different in some way or other from then on, was only really setting in. Apparently Sam returned home to find a written message from Jin left on his pillow.
I’ve written an account of these goodbyes as further insight into each person’s ‘exit psychology,’ the problems they would have with leaving, obvious or otherwise and to highlight the similarities and differences between each case. I don’t think it was necessarily any easier or harder for any one person to step through the queue at customs, as we all were saying goodbye to friends and family. Kyle’s recent video on youtube is testament to the feelings shared by all, and I’m sure that there are many folk back home who have spent a very different summer than they would have otherwise.
I recall walking through customs and eventually onboard our flight, thinking and wondering about how things might change whilst we’re away, and I even now more than ever look forward to hearing all the stories from the folks back home about what’s been going down in our absence.
Oh, and I can’t truthfully claim that I had absolutely no-one to see me off at Tullamarine Airport. I just didn’t see them doing it.
Three months is a long time. I don’t care who you are or where you come from, three months may pass in a few instants in hindsight, but to think of it stretching out before you, the period of time seems almost interminable. That’s not to mention the further four or so months Josh intends to stay for. I make this point as a certain memory comes to mind, and I can see a dozen different characters milling outside the customs portal of the departures terminal of Tullamarine Airport.
In typical Phillips fashion, I had no-one in particular to see me off (Mum having dropped me outside the terminal before driving away) and still there was a veritable crowd of folk there to see the others off.
I remember that the folks had wanted a group photo of all of the departing, and after we stood in an awkward line for a few minutes, it was finally and yet suddenly time to say goodbye, a goodbye that was to last all of those three months for most of us.
Goodbyes are interesting things. They can be very casual, but when they actually mean something they can become a highly intimate affair. So there I stood and watched the large group pinch itself off into smaller knots of people, all intent on savouring a few last moments with each other. Josh and Jin are notable cases. Josh for the obvious reason that his stay in Canada was intended to be a longer one than the rest of us, and whilst his parents had already reconciled this, his relationship with Anna inevitably led to a tearful goodbye. A complicated interaction for obvious reasons.
In Jin’s case some of you will be aware that his brother, Sam, is in the process of moving away to begin his adult life in Canberra, complete with apartment and new job. Jin and Sam were well aware that Sam would be gone by the time Jin returned, and so I’m sure the realization that things between them would be different in some way or other from then on, was only really setting in. Apparently Sam returned home to find a written message from Jin left on his pillow.
I’ve written an account of these goodbyes as further insight into each person’s ‘exit psychology,’ the problems they would have with leaving, obvious or otherwise and to highlight the similarities and differences between each case. I don’t think it was necessarily any easier or harder for any one person to step through the queue at customs, as we all were saying goodbye to friends and family. Kyle’s recent video on youtube is testament to the feelings shared by all, and I’m sure that there are many folk back home who have spent a very different summer than they would have otherwise.
I recall walking through customs and eventually onboard our flight, thinking and wondering about how things might change whilst we’re away, and I even now more than ever look forward to hearing all the stories from the folks back home about what’s been going down in our absence.
Oh, and I can’t truthfully claim that I had absolutely no-one to see me off at Tullamarine Airport. I just didn’t see them doing it.
Ending a night with slimy noodles
February 5
I think Sloan “Allergic Girl” Miller gets up earlier in the morning than I do. She certainly wrote her blog entry about Padre Figlio earlier than I wrote this one. It was nice to meet her in person; we had merely e-corresponded before. She’s pretty, and looks a lot healthier than I’d imagined. We spoke about allergies, but also about other things, like Firefly, which I think was the best TV series of all time, although I just got turned onto it a few weeks ago. She has a friend who worked with its creator, Joss Whedon, who is my hero.
Padre Figlio is a brand new Italian restaurant by the people who owned Da Antonio. For their opening party they had a buffet spread that I picked at, but mostly I drank Chianti and Cabernet Sauvignon and chatted with Arlyn Blake, Francine Cohen, Joe DiStefano — a Queens expert who works for Gothamist and others — and a few other regulars of the New York restaurant opening world, and Allergic Girl. It was a good time.
I didn’t eat much, though, so I walked around the corner to Soba Totto. The full menu is in place now, and I snacked on cucumbers with red miso and a skewer of grilled shishito peppers before diving into a hot bowl of yamakake soba.
Yamakake soba has a root in it that the Japanese call nagaimo or yamaimo, and that often is translated into English as mountain yam or Japanese yam. It's a tuber, but more like a watery potato than a yam, with one big difference: It has a slimy, slippery texture that the Japanese think is just a wonderful quality in food and that Americans think is, uh, slimy and slippery. And viscous. Like saliva, but a little thicker. Or mucous.
But really, if you know that's what you’re getting, you can steel yourself and be ready for it. Or at least I can.
So they brought what I think was a raw quail egg to the table, along with a cup of puréed nagaimo and a bowl of hot soba. I was to add the egg to the purée and pour it into the bowl. Which I did.
The soba had little bits of yuzu zest in it, which I didn't expect. The broth with the added nagaimo was a little slimy, which I did expect, and I figured I’d mention it again so you know what to expect when ordering yamakake soba. No one wants that kind of a surprise in noodles.
I think Sloan “Allergic Girl” Miller gets up earlier in the morning than I do. She certainly wrote her blog entry about Padre Figlio earlier than I wrote this one. It was nice to meet her in person; we had merely e-corresponded before. She’s pretty, and looks a lot healthier than I’d imagined. We spoke about allergies, but also about other things, like Firefly, which I think was the best TV series of all time, although I just got turned onto it a few weeks ago. She has a friend who worked with its creator, Joss Whedon, who is my hero.
Padre Figlio is a brand new Italian restaurant by the people who owned Da Antonio. For their opening party they had a buffet spread that I picked at, but mostly I drank Chianti and Cabernet Sauvignon and chatted with Arlyn Blake, Francine Cohen, Joe DiStefano — a Queens expert who works for Gothamist and others — and a few other regulars of the New York restaurant opening world, and Allergic Girl. It was a good time.
I didn’t eat much, though, so I walked around the corner to Soba Totto. The full menu is in place now, and I snacked on cucumbers with red miso and a skewer of grilled shishito peppers before diving into a hot bowl of yamakake soba.
Yamakake soba has a root in it that the Japanese call nagaimo or yamaimo, and that often is translated into English as mountain yam or Japanese yam. It's a tuber, but more like a watery potato than a yam, with one big difference: It has a slimy, slippery texture that the Japanese think is just a wonderful quality in food and that Americans think is, uh, slimy and slippery. And viscous. Like saliva, but a little thicker. Or mucous.
But really, if you know that's what you’re getting, you can steel yourself and be ready for it. Or at least I can.
So they brought what I think was a raw quail egg to the table, along with a cup of puréed nagaimo and a bowl of hot soba. I was to add the egg to the purée and pour it into the bowl. Which I did.
The soba had little bits of yuzu zest in it, which I didn't expect. The broth with the added nagaimo was a little slimy, which I did expect, and I figured I’d mention it again so you know what to expect when ordering yamakake soba. No one wants that kind of a surprise in noodles.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
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