Story 22: Fantasy Meal

"The night is hot as hell. Everything sticks."

"It's a lousy room in a lousy part of a lousy town."

"The air conditioning's a clanking piece of junk that couldn't keep a drink cold if you sat it right on top of it."

"I'm staring at a goddess. She's telling me she wants me."

"She sounds like she means it."

"I'm not going to waste one more second wondering how it is I've gotten so lucky."

"She smells like angels ought to smell."

I used to bullshit a lot with people. I still do to a certain extend. What I learned about bullshit is that it all boils down to just asking questions. My favorite bullshit questions is: What's your fantasy meal?

No, "fantasy meal" is not your last meal on earth. For one, I'm above such questions, because people usually answer with, "Surf and turf." I usually want to shake them in response. Why would you ever to wait to die to have surf and turf? Go have surf and turf now. "Last meal on earth" is elementary. Besides, we should derive pleasure and celebratory feelings from eating, not associations of finalizing life. A fantasy meal should allow you to get lost in the idea of a meal. A fantasy meal even extends beyond the three-course gum in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the Mad Hatter's tea party or even Ratatouille with a mouse-turned-chef. (Although, this is a much better start, and I wouldn't mind having any of those, particularly figuring out the true tale--forgive me--behind that mouse.)  A fantasy meal should pick you up from the back of your neck and kick you out of whatever run-down, microwaveable takeout garbage, like you just got into a bad fight with the food gods. At your fantasy meal, you can share your bites with anyone from celebrity chefs to the most interesting man in the world. (Err, if I ever had a fantasy meal with a celebrity chef, it would probably be Guy Fieri. Not to actually dine with him, but to punch him in the face. No, Texas barbecue doesn't belong in a sushi roll, you shock-value whore of a chef.)

I digress.

I'd have my fantasy meal with Marv, the maniacal beast from Sin City's The Hard Goodbye. He's a character crush of mine. He's kind of hideous and borderline schizophrenic. And, seriously romantic. He kills his way through the graphic novel to avenge the death of this one-night-stand prostitute named Goldie. (Um, *Swoon*) This scene describes how romantic he actually is: "Ask yourself if that corpse of a slut is worth dying for," a priest demands. [gun shots] "Worth dying for." [More gun shots.] "Worth killing for." [Gun shots.] "Worth going to hell for."

My fantasy meal would start with a pre-dinner shot and brew with Marv, somewhere outside of Basin City of course. All the thugs in Basin City would probably distract him and I'd end up with blood in my beer. (I'm saving all my blood-filled meals for a fantasy meal with Barnabas Collins.) No, we'd enjoy our drinks somewhere dive-y, like a bar that you could only get to from a sketchy, drug-infested back alley. No flinching; Marv would protect me. I would demand he tell me the gruesome details of each murder before I even take a sip.

We'd head over to one of these three next: Per Se, Le Bernardin or Daniel. Marv would try to talk me into a Peter Luger steak, but he'd fit in too much at Luger's. I'm aiming for a reaction and my imagination couldn't even being to conjure the gasps and huh's that would fill the place if Marv walked into Per Se. It's my fantasy, so I would demand the chef make us something beneath them. Maybe mac 'n cheese with velveeta or a cheeseburger with condiments. Lots of condiments. Or, I'd be really cruel and have them cook me a Rachel Ray 30-minute meal. Marv would get a kick out of the irony.

Irony doesn't get you full, though. Marv is a big man, so we'd head over to some farm in France to get the freshest cut of the best beef. Man, we travel a lot in fantasy meals. I'd have the farmer grill the American medium rare (or the French "medium well," which they believe is murdering the flavor. Maybe I'll try their version of medium rare when I share a fantasy meal with a vampire.) I would demand the farmer use nothing but fire to grill the meat, and when it's ready, I'd have it sear it with the freshest butter from his healthiest cow. My side dish: cholesterol medication

When we're ready to end the meal, I imagine Marv would demand something sweet. I'm not much of an pastry gal, so I'd talk him into champagne instead. It's my fantasy meal, so he'd have no choice. I'd even let him pick it out before we headed to Basin City to enjoy it. I always drop off my fantasy dates at the end of the night.

Story 21: Depression

I want GoogaMooga tickets. The general admission ones are sold out, and I'm too young and broke for the mega fancy $249 tickets. 

This makes me feel a lot of feelings. Mostly depressed ones.

Story 20: Bucket List

It seems every Spring, someone leaves New York, and the plumbing of our social calendars clogs with friends or friends-of-friends' New York bucket lists. Boozy brunches. Farewell parties. Oh, and trying that restaurant that we always said we would try but never managed to make time for because our lives revolve around deadlines and chores and all other sorts of planned distractions... where was I? Bucket lists depress me. I hate losing people, like losing my best set of undergarments to Chinese laundromats or ex-boyfriends. There is a faint possibility that you could get them back but in reality, we all know we won't. The very idea of a farewell bucket list reminds me of how the mundane nuisances consume our thoughts and lives and plans. Bucket lists say, "You haven't fully enjoyed yourself here, so stuff your life into a day or a week or a month, like you would stuff your feet into designer shoes on sale." That's depressing. Worst of all, bucket lists never include anything Brooklyn. Why do people discount Brooklyn? Is it the traffic and never-ending construction on the Brooklyn Bridge? Is it that more restaurants offer high chairs than dinner reservations? Or is it something as meaningless as a Sex and the City episode?

It's really NOT like that time when Carrie went to visit Miranda. It's more like the time when we all wished we could be somewhere Latin for Cinco de Mayo, but instead of spending $1700 on a plane ticket, we spent $17 on the food trucks in Red Hook. Oh, the food trucks in Red Hook.

In a stretch stuffed between housing projects and the Red Hook Park with Ikea as the back drop, starting at Bay street and court street will be approximately 20 food trucks representing all things fried and spicy and cheesy and Latin. If you're anything like me and can't stand the thought of leaving without sampling every single truck and chatting with every single vendor, you'll want to start with the chille relenos at Court and Bay street. You'll spend $5 for one pepper stuffed with potatoes and rice and beef and jalapenos and cheese. Tip: I learned the hard way that you have to ask for hot sauce and the crumbly queso, but old lady serving me this delicious snack made up for everything by saying, "incomprensible spanish, incomprensible spanish, incomprensible spanish, mi amor." How could I stay mad?

You'll be tempted to keep ordering. Don't. Move down the block and onto a tamale. Skip the sour cream, too. Just share the fluffy corn bites and a Jarritos mandarin soda with someone and enjoy the scenery, even if the scenery is a hispanic man who ironically resembles a burrito and also happens to be eating the exact same thing as the hipster sitting next to him. How Brooklyn is that?

By the time you reach El Olomega, or the self-titled "original Red Hook Salvadoran pupusas" truck, you'll have plenty of time to digest. That was my first pupusas experience. To be completely honest, I'm glad I'm writing about this experience and not telling you, because I'm not even sure how to pronouce the word, "pupusas." I just know it is the "most authentic and traditional food from El Salvador. Pupusas are grilled corn masa patties, hand shaped and stuffed with cheese and various fillings." Or so a sign tells me. My taste buds, however, tell me it's like everything you love about latin food bundled and bow tied into one dish.

Living up to every foreign and brown stereotype, the workers at El Olomega take customer orders in no particular order. You have to be prepared for this and accept it for what it is. Don't huff and complain. Don't even try to figure out when your food will be ready. It magnificent chaos is part of the experience. You can complain when you're in Manhattan and DBGB lost your dinner reservations. After all, you're paying $6 for a two jalapeno and cheese pupusas, pickled cabbage salad and fried plantain chips. Tip: Somehow make room for the cashew juice, because I couldn't.

Pace yourself now. you're almost to the corner of Court Street and Bay Street. It's time for grilled corn--extra spicy rolled in cheese and unidentifiable goodness. Tip: Squeeze some lime on it. End the journey with fresh fruit.

(Briana, my eating buddy. You should get one--a Briana and an eating buddy)

(Erect corn, quite phallic.)

(Fruit stands, we opted for pineapple.)

You'll want to walk to Manhattan after that--only to burn the calories from the corn alone.

Story 19: I Even Like My Candy Butter-Flavored

We pick extremes. We're athletes or couch potatoes; dreamers or pragmatics; democrats or republicans; extroverts or introverts; savory or sweet. I lean towards savory, until of course I get a birthday present that rattles (literally in this case) how I define my self: 270ish popcorn-flavored jelly beans for my 27th birthday. I can see the little specks of butter on the jelly bean. I can even taste my gluttonous trip to Titanic in 3D a few weeks ago. (Yes, I said Titanic in 3D, judge me.)




(Uhh, I am already half-way through the bag)




(See the little specks of butter flavoring?)




My mid-20s have been fantastically awkward, and as I bravely face a new box under age-related questions, I can't myself from writing an Esquire-like 27 things I've learned in 27 years.

1. With no diet or exercise, I, too, can be a size two... if I purchase the size-two stretchy pants from Anne Taylor Loft.

2. I met Elizabeth Hurley on a Monday night; she commented on my outfit, "I see you didn't make much effort tonight." (It was a "Hot Pink Party." I, naturally, wore beige.) I met Diane Keaton the very next day; she commented on my outfit, "You look lovely tonight." I now know why Diane Keaton is so effing rad.

3. Diane Keaton told me her best on-screen kiss was Jack Nicholson. This explains why I once watched Something's Gotta Give three times in a row and, then, contemplated a fourth showing.

4. Free People owns Urban Outfitters. Those two make up about 95 percent of my wardrobe. I am now mid-negotiations to give them a percentage of my paycheck for a monthly shipment of all things flowy and doomed-to-be unstylish in a year.

5. I hate pants. People usually remember you when you hate pants.

6. I want a tattoo. I said, "When I get published, I'll get a sentence of that article tattooed on me." I'm now published with no tattoo, so I revised my inked ambitions: When I get a book deal, I'll get a sentence tattooed on me.

7. I love Bill Cunningham. I wish he wanted to be my friend.

8. I went on a Facebook hiatus for 18 months, during which I preached the joys of the Facebook-free life. I'm back now but when I leave again, I'll have one more thing to preach about: Longer battery life on your phone.

9. Another joy of a Facebook-free life: You won't remember how skinny you used to be. I peaked at 24.

10. I'm still trying to understand why Frankie Sputino's would take the eggplant parm off their menu.

11. Dr. Seuss was turned down by 27 publishers before selling his first book. I take this as a good sign to return to writing in my 27th year.

12. The Finnish word "Pilkunnussija" literally translates to "comma fucker," or a person who believes it is their destiny to stamp out all spelling and punctuation mistakes at the cost of popularity, self-esteem and mental well-being. Another possible translation: "Angelina Fanous."

13. I got lots of Facebook wall posts and tags, 160-character text messages and 140-character tweets, instagrams and pins, birthday shots and birthday kisses. But, I'm still waiting on a stamped, handwritten card in my mailbox.

14. NPR reported that spandex made us all fat. Crazy, here I thought it was the over-consumption of bacon-wrapped everything served with a side of cheese-stuffed everything followed by chocolate-drowned everything.

15. Brunch is the best portmanteau.

16. Unemployment let me catch up on the really important things in life: shampooing my makeup brushes and contemplating my self-worth.

17. My favorite restaurants in New York City all received a "B" for their health inspection grade. I'm not sure what this says about me.

18. I used to eat guavas for a man selling them out of a sack on a donkey in Egypt. No, I will not "properly" wash my supermarket-bought vegetables.

19. I don't know how I feel about the Egyptian revolution. There, I said it. If my family stayed in Egypt, I probably wouldn't have been a revolutionary.

20. There is something really sexy about the falafel delivery guy and I think it's that he brings me falafel.

21. The only thing I ever have planned is my next meal.

22. I lead a lush life, and the only thing I would change about that is the alliteration.

23. The only good thing that comes from pouring your dinner and tears into the toilet bowl is material for an ironically titled twitter account, "Classy Girl Moves." Of course, if you're pouring your dinner and tears into a toilet bowl, you're too hungover for such brilliant projects.

24. If he's just not that into you, there are always more ogres in the cave (via Kelle).

25. Is "awkward and quirky" really the new it-girl? When did this become the trend? This couldn't have happened with I was getting teased in 8th grade English class?

26. I love me. If I don't love me, who will?

27. I even like my candy butter-flavored.