I really like In-N-Out and I actually regret not dining there more often. L. insists on forcing nutritious meals down my gullet, though I think it's slightly hypocritical of him as he would drink liquefied bacon fat by the gallon without the slightest provocation.
After working late one day, he felt guilty enough to obey my orders for an In-N-Out dinner. Besides, didn't I promise my three readers photographic evidence of In-N-Out's religiousity?
On the packet containing my cheeseburger, Revelation 3:20: "Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me."
On the bottom of the cup containing my medium Diet Coke, John 3:16: "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish, but have everlasting life."
Hmm, isn't John 3:16 as cliched as bible sayings go? I even know it by heart. I suppose it's comforting to know that one will live on, even after dying of a massive heart attack.
I am a dirt cheap drunk. Whenever I drink, the effects of alcohol are felt by the end of the first sip, and the final sip completes my transformation into a flushed, bloodshot and eerily affable human being. A few months ago, at the ripe old age of 27, I did my first shot at a dinner party. It was soju, a Korean potato liquor with a relatively low alcohol percentage, which caused the cook to dismiss my latest breakthrough in alcohol consumption.
My second shot was no less memorable. It was downed last weekend ago at a local cafe. At breakfast. Before I'd even placed my order. AND it was tequila. Witness our waiter and his vat of Jose Cuervo:
Cafes in San Jose aren't in the habit of pouring their customers a stiff drink with their coffee, and certainly not every diner that bustling Saturday morning got one. Bill's Cafe in Willow Glen is a very friendly place, however, and I think the cook's picture-taking of the staff endeared our table to them. The manager was also in high spirits, having partied hard the previous night at the opening of their second joint.
After we cleaned our plates, they hit us with a second round:
The glass with a little
bit of tequila left over is mine. Give me a break, I'm new to this!
I'm just proud that I managed to walk out of the restaurant with my dignity intact. I sat facing the mirror during breakfast and monitored my complexion every two seconds. I didn't get too blotchy or gross, but maybe that was because I had my tequila goggles on. Shall we drink to that?
You know what I'm going to do while I'm here in Northern California? Eat ice cream. A LOT of ice cream. Family-owned or independent ice cream shops hawking delicious cold desserts in a gajillion flavours like fig, orange flower and roasted sparrow (just kidding!) abound in the region. There are so many choices I can't even get excited about the Ben & Jerry's/Haagen Dazs 2-for-$5 deals in supermarkets here.
Last Wednesday, I had a Gianduia gelato (nutella-ish in taste, behind the lighter-hued hazelnut in the picture) at Michael's when we stopped by Palo Alto:
I got a small but densely packed cup dished out by whom I suspect to be the store's Croatian owner. His gentle smileyness discomfited me slightly -- I am still not used to friendly, attentive service. When we were I was finishing our ice creams at one of the store's brightly coloured mosaic tables, we were joined by an adorable 13-month old human with a mango gelato moustache, who seemed to prefer our company to that of his tribal elders. He's no golden retriever puppy, but I can settle for a cute toddler with good taste in dessert.
This past Sunday, we battled a barbarian horde at Yogurt Park in Berkeley for what is supposed to be the city's best frozen yoghurt. Okay, we actually waited for the crowd to thin before getting in line. And fine, we didn't really know what the fuss was all about until we got past the door and saw a wall full of certificates and press accolades. I wasn't keen on getting into a long queue initially, but the cook favoured Yogurt Park because it seemed the most popular. I'm glad we chose Yogurt Park in the end because it turned out to be a Bay Area institution.
My question now is, is it too gluttonous to hit more than one ice cream store in a day? If not, we're looking at 4 trips and about 8 hours of driving in total as I simply must check out Ici and Sketch in Berkeley, Mitchell's (Avocado! Nangka! Thai tea!) and Joe's Ice Cream in SF before I return home.
At certain museums, you can't go anywhere without running smack into art. At the SFMOMA (San Francisco Museum of Modern Art), the art smacks into you.
It reminded me of the time Artsy Sister covered our father's study with red string and called it 'art'. Then again, I can be a bit of a philistine about these things. L, who has better academic credentials (he uses words like 'phenomenological' and talks about 'genderized epistemological styles'), has this to say:
"Our response to the approach of the fan is a physical manifestation of our collective fears of a mechanized future. Simultaneously, the impersonal third party observer participates in this fear as a need for homogeneous group identity, despite having observed many times before the improbability of an accident. The view from afar is also at once a simplified viewing, obfuscating the spatial clarity of a more immediate observer (physically, the one under the fan) and the planar ambiguity of an almost two dimensional view of the observer from afar. This expresses the narratological clarity of those with a clear, diachronic view and those who have a flatter, synchronic view. The temporal distinctions of those two words notwithstanding, the artist is clearly trying to portray the inherent negative dialectic that exists between a view of the present (and arguably inclusively the past) and a view of the future. These Foucauldian reflections create a frame around which we become at once the signifiers and the signified. The unpredictable motions of the pendulum only further underscores this timeless binary opposition."
When he goes on like this, I become afraid of him.
