Life on adventures of an omnomnomnivore in NYC

All Look Same

Sun, 01 May 2016 09:27:45 -0400

I have a small confession to make: I’m face-blind.

It’s basically what it sounds like: I have a lot of difficulty remembering and differentiating people’s faces. I’m sorry I don’t recognize you, but it’s nothing personal, I swear.

I’ve mentioned it to some of my close friends, but only if it comes up in context (usually out of concern that I’ve offended someone by not recognizing them).

On Running, or How To Do Anything in Life

Tue, 12 Jan 2016 18:45:08 -0500

“When you’re running… there’s a little person that talks to you and that little person says, ‘Oh, I’m tired. My lung’s about to pop. Oh, I’m so hurt; I’m so tired. There’s no way I can possibly continue.’ And you want to quit, right? That person… If you learn how to defeat that person when you’re running, you will learn how to not quit when things get hard in your life.”

Tales from a Mexican Line Cook

Thu, 09 Apr 2015 23:20:09 -0400

Like many restaurants, my kitchen was staffed largely by cooks/runners/dishwashers of Latin American origin, particularly Mexicans from the state of Puebla. This made sense, given that we were cooking Latin-influenced food, but you’ll find Mexican cooks everywhere in New York, from diners to Chinese restaurants to fine dining.

There are many great cultural exchanges to be had from hanging out with Latino cooks, from hearing the latest reggaeton to learning the true meaning of Cinco de Mayo. (Turns out it’s not just about cheap margaritas.) But as you while away hours peeling yucca in the slow afternoon, sometimes the conversation takes a turn for the serious. You ponder aloud: what you’re doing with your life, what your dreams are, who you love, where it all went wrong. You share your hopes for your family, your fears that you’re not good enough, your ambitions to go to college. You tell your life story, how you came to the US and found your footing here. You do all this while crammed into a closet-sized space, with tweezers in one hand and a fish fillet in the other. This is the trench.

Myself in Notes, 2014

Sun, 05 Jan 2014 18:27:20 -0500

This list was inspired by Lorraine Hansberry’s series of birthday notes, written annually from when she was 23 to 33. You can see these candid, intimate glimpses of her life on display at the Brooklyn Museum until March 16th.

I love:
The Park Slope Food Coop
My office “family”
Learning obscure skills (blacksmithing)
Traveling to foreign countries
Efficiency (though not at the cost of human relationships)
Handwritten letters, and making time to write them
Carbs: bagels, pizza, pasta, rice, beer
Biking year-round
Lucky Peach
Sherlock Holmes (BBC)
Being fit
Being alone
Sleeping on the floor
Brooklyn

Return to Ithaca: 5-Year Nonreunion Edition

Mon, 03 Sep 2012 20:20:36 -0400

About five years ago, I graduated from Cornell. I picked up my diploma from the economics department, took another walk around the Arts Quad, and drove 4.5 hours back to MA with stinging eyes. My undergrad days were over, I was cast out into the cruel Real World, and nothing would ever be the same.

But you know what they forgot to tell you in college? Life is even more awesome AFTER college. After spending Labor Day weekend at Cornell, I can confidently say I have no desire to go back to my college days.

An Employment Epistle

Fri, 21 Oct 2011 12:02:57 -0400

Dear R.,

It has only been six weeks since that napkin-crumpling, tear-stained breakfast with you at the Z-7 Diner, but it feels like years have passed. My job was on tenterhooks; I needed to find a new one or soon join the swelling ranks of the unemployed. Murmurs of a double dip recession were getting louder. I had so many questions and too little time. What do you do with a gastronomy degree anyway? Why is it that the sustainable, “socially responsible” organizations are the ones offering only unpaid internships? How do I land a new apartment lease in the highly competitive NYC real estate market if I can’t demonstrate an income? I am a fighter, yes, but this city is one who fights back. And I was determined to go down in a Viking pyre of glory.

On Fast Food, Money and Child Labor: I Grew Up as a Restaurant Brat

Sun, 11 Sep 2011 11:51:00 -0400

The roach skittered towards a cardboard box, and Cheryl raised her hand to smash it before the customers could see. The kitchen was in the weeds—we were short-staffed because the fry cook had been jailed last night for a DUI. Dad would stop by later to bail him out and give him another futile lecture. Meanwhile, the insistent beep of the drive-through sensor rang out. I scurried back to my post atop an overturned milk crate and pressed the speaker button. “Welcome to Lucky Phoenix, can I help you?” Just another June afternoon working at the family restaurant.

Rats

Wed, 07 Sep 2011 12:58:05 -0400

If you rub a mouse on the nose,
It will pee in your palm.
I poke the moist, fuzzy snout
Then set it on Marian’s backpack.
She hated me, deserved the dark
Droplet trickling down the monogrammed leather
Maybe her bag would discolor, orange to purple
Maybe it’d waft a sour smell, everyone thinking
Marian doesn’t shower, Marian has B.O.!
All the mice liked me
If I were the Pied Piper,
They’d prance faithfully after my panpipe
I put a satiny one in my pencil box
It was April Fool’s Day
Mrs. Chanda taught math next period
I waited until the class settled, and winked
My best friend giggled when
The mouse darted under the tables
Blurred toward Marion’s foot
She stood up and screamed
Perched atop her chair like
Dumbo balancing on a tight rope
I snickered and pointed
I hated Mrs. Chanda, too
We called her Fungus Fingers
Her nails were grimy, concrete gray
Like sticks of string cheese
Left to mold in the vegetable drawer
A chalk allergy, she claimed
Of course we knew better, whispers circled
Hooted at her daughter’s photograph
Fat and ugly, it chimed, greasy hair and glasses
Happy, I was having fun
In the grocery store, Kroger’s
My cousin Kevin, we ogled
Rainbow bins of gummi bears, bubble gum
Foil-wrapped hearts and stars
Let’s get some, he insisted,
Grandma will let us buy it
And shoveled a wad of chocolate into his pocket
Of course. nodding, the same I
Plunged my hand into the Hershey Kisses,
Tucked my reward inside my jacket and
Kept walking away, chin high.
Soon after, Grandma found out,
I don’t remember how she knew,
Just that we emptied our pockets out
Sneaky, sliding the sticky wrappers into
A trash can, before anyone could see.
My cheeks flushed red, I knew
Stealing was wrong.
Grandma dropped me home that day,
Mentioned nothing about the shopping trip
My mom hugged me, sent me inside
Maybe she thought I was too young
To tell between right and wrong,
I didn’t know the difference, really
Only knew the churning of a stomach choking vomit.

Living in the Greatest Clusterfuck in the World

Tue, 28 Jun 2011 19:56:05 -0400

Just another rental sign in NYC

Living in New York is like spoonful of Chinese medicine—intense, acerbic, unmasked. At the end of the day, you feel like you’ve gotten better, or at least tell yourself that you’re doing better, because otherwise the rent is too damn high to justify being here.

I’ve been away from Italy for about three months now, and get asked now and then on whether I miss it. The short answer is, no. The long answer is, I can get all the burrata and olives I want at the Food Coop, along with kombu, almond butter and sunflower sprouts. So no, I don’t find that I miss Italy at all.

Real Life Adventures: The Lost Photos in a Blizzard Guy

Mon, 06 Jun 2011 12:58:09 -0400

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dmop7EAY1Zg]

Last Friday, I met Todd Bieber, a dude who found a canister of film while skiing in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park. In a male Amelie sort of twist, he developed the photos and set out to find the photographer by making a Youtube video about the contents. The video was witty, honest, poignant in its recognition that this adventure was much too fantastic to continue. Suddenly, it had racked up a million hits and Bieber was swamped with emails postulating on who the photographer could be. After a few months of fruitless leads, a breakthrough: he received an email from the photographer and immediately booked a ticket to Paris to return the film to the girl who had lost it.

In the City that Never Sleeps: I Think I Have an Overemployment Problem

Sat, 19 Mar 2011 02:33:06 -0400

The sort of sidewalk message I pass on the way to work. I love Brooklyn.

Someone once asked me if I am like a shark—if I stop moving, will I die? Which is to say, I have never been one for being idle. But this time, I may have outdone myself. Right now, I am simultaneously a full-time student and a full-time employee. Score, I have created a monstrosity that will truly screw with BLS unemployment statistics.

Why I’m Never Going to Make It as a Writer

Fri, 04 Mar 2011 06:15:30 -0500

Corby Kummer, august senior editor for the Atlantic and one of my all-time idols, thinks my writing is shit.

Fine, he didn’t say it exactly like that.

Kummer was teaching a weeklong writing workshop, and everyone had submitted second drafts of essays on food. One by one, he whisked us into the hallway for individual conferences, then periodically returned to give comments to the entire group. All day, I had a nagging feeling that something was wrong. Why wasn’t my piece being read out loud to the class? Why was it at the bottom of the pile?

Back Roads of the Italian Countryside, or My Daily Commute

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 17:04:22 -0400

Note: This post is mostly geared towards UNISG students, so it will be fairly useless to you unless you need to get from Bra to Pollenzo.

Living in Italy, you start to realize that there are always two ways of doing everything, the official system and the back door in-the-know route. Take the process of acquiring a permesso di soggiorno residency permit, required for all non-EU citizens staying in Italy for over 90 days. In Bra, you can either go to the Post Office, pick up an application kit and struggle to figure out what to put down so as to not have your application rejected, or you can go to the Al Elka-L’incontro center for foreign citizens, which provides consulting services and staff who fill out the application for you. Granted, the center is only open for 7 hours a week, on Tuesday afternoons and Friday mornings, but that is different gripe. Ah, Europe.

L’Appartamento

Tue, 25 May 2010 11:00:10 -0400

Home is where the heart is, so your real home’s in your chest! -Captain Hammer

Unlike Cornell, which barrages you with information every other day about freshman orientation, the University of Gastronomic Sciences is a bit more laidback. To get information, you really have to be proactive and seek it out, which is fine because the administration staff is very responsive. In an email I exchanged before arriving in Italy, I was told that the flat would come furnished with desks, beds, blankets, a TV and a kitchen with pots and pans. Oh boy, a cable TV? I don’t even have one of those at home!

Odyssey to Italy: Results

Mon, 24 May 2010 17:59:03 -0400

My first Italian sunset, right before I realized I was hilariously lost.

It was going perfectly, until it wasn’t. I managed to navigate through London, catch my connecting flight in another airport, and got through Turin before making a mistake. At the Turin Porta Nuova train station, I asked for a ticket to Bra, and it was printed with the destination as “Bra.” Thus, I assumed that the train led directly to Bra, especially since the clerk didn’t mention any sort of transfer. An hour too late, and after some fitful dozing on the train, I panicked when I realized that this line didn’t directly go to Bra, and I should have transferred trains at Carmagnola. Luckily, the first person I asked for help was ludicrously well-prepared and whipped out a complete book of train timetables, and helped me figure out a new itinerary to get “home.” With palpable relief, I stepped off the bus at 22.37, about two hours later than planned. My flatmates came to pick me up in a car, and were overjoyed that I hadn’t inadvertently ended up in France or something. All in all, I have taken 10 planes/trains/buses to trek from New York to Bra, Italy in the last 24 hours, while lugging about 3/4 of my weight in luggage, up and down stairs, through traffic, across bumpy cobblestones. Heathrow might be my new favorite airport now because they offer the free usage of luggage carts. This has been one of the most draining days of my life.

Lunch

Tue, 11 May 2010 19:55:15 -0400

Excerpt from the consistently excellent webcomic Pictures for Sad Children

One of the best parts about my job is that the people I work with tend to be smart, funny and generally likable (when they’re not purposely being assholes). In particular, it’s nice that there is a large contingent of other AEs, who each have a broad array of quirky interests and backgrounds. This translates into fairly entertaining lunchtime discussions, which leap from Hegel to how to escape from a locked trunk in a matter of seconds. I’m not sure what everyone else talks about at lunch, but we jokingly call ourselves the “Witty Banter Table,” and I’m pretty sure we’re the most hilarious lunch table EVER.

Lunch

Tue, 11 May 2010 19:55:15 -0400

Excerpt from the consistently excellent webcomic Pictures for Sad Children

Introduzione

Sun, 09 May 2010 19:46:21 -0400

Many of you reading this blog are already familiar with my plans for the next year, but for the newcomers, here is the spiel on why I’m packing my bags and moving to Europe:

I’ve been accepted to the master’s program in Food Culture and Communications at the University of Gastronomic Sciences (UNISG). This entails moving to Pollenzo, about 60 km south of Turin in northern Italy. The program lasts for one year, and the language of instruction is English. (Phew!)