All posts by ester

Food, glorious food


The best pizza in NYC?
Originally uploaded by shorterstory.

It was an extremely food-happy weekend this weekend. No special occasion: Mr. Ben and I did turn nine years old on the 17th, but we weren’t celebrating that. (I still want to hit up Good Fork in Red Hook, though, which was our original anni-day plan scrapped in favor of sitting on our new couch and watching old episodes of Mad Men.)

FRIDAY: Dinner at Motorino, the best pizzeria in New York, according to Sam Sifton. Like the intern who talks too much in staff meeting, Mr. Sifton, the new NYT restaurant critic, seems to be trying to make a name for himself right away as a kingmaker & all-around fearless guy. Bold choice, Mr. Sifton.

His gambit worked. Certainly I was enticed, with a small circle of friends, to squeeze into the space that once held another fantastic pizzeria, Una Pizza Napoletano. We split three pies, some less kosher than others. (I picked the sizzling bits of pig off of my slices but those who indulged seemed to enjoy it immensely.)

Even at 5:55 PM, there was a line for a table for four. We were seated almost an hour after we arrived. Still, the pizza really was terrific; the tiny pools of oil on the buffalo mozzarella were so good they would send your eyes flying upwards into your head while the sounds of angels filled your ears. Best pizza in New York, though? I can’t say. To me, the best slice of pizza is whichever high-quality one I’m eating at the time. Bonus points if I’m hungry and if I’ve been waiting for a while in the cold.

Dessert at the cozy Italian bakery situated just close enough to Veneiro’s that no one goes in, except skittish-looking loners and family clusters. I did not partake myself, since I can’t do sugar, but I do love the smell of cappuccino.

SATURDAY: Undistinguished except by the excellent bittersweet hot chocolate Mr. Ben and I enjoyed during the Accomplice: the Village show that took us around NYU on an ambulatory, interactive theater experience / scavenger hunt.

SUNDAY: This is when we really got into gear. With a different circle of friends, I embarked on a Lower East Side eating tour. Because it was self-curated, we indulged in foods that were not exactly designed to complement each other: pickles straight from a room full of barrels, freshly baked hamentaschen & whole-wheat bread, crystallized-ginger donuts from the Donut Plant in honor of Chinese New Year, banh mi, and finally bubble tea. Everyone was fit to explode, though no one person tried everything.

Next up: Tour Dumpling! This, people, is why we live in NYC.

It’s all in how you see it

I would think that flying a plane into a building is a pretty black-or-white act, especially in our post-9/11 world. What is terrorism if not an attempt to intimidate people into acting in a certain way because of violence or the threat of it? If I demonstrate that I am willing to kill people for what I believe politically, whether I believe in lower taxes or global jihad, I become a terrorist.

Or — and here where it gets tricky; you might want to sit down — a hero.

The daughter of a man who crashed his small plane into a building housing offices of the Internal Revenue Service called her father a hero for his anti-government views but said his actions, which killed an IRS employee, were “inappropriate.”

Joe Stack’s adult daughter, Samantha Bell, spoke to ABC’s “Good Morning America” from her home in Norway. Asked during a phone interview broadcast Monday if she considered her father a hero, she said: “Yes. Because now maybe people will listen.”

His actions, which included murder, arson, and the destruction of federal property, were “inappropriate.” Because they were successful, however, and “now maybe people will listen,” he’s a hero.

The daughter went on to say, “‘But if nobody comes out and speaks up on behalf of injustice, then nothing will ever be accomplished,’ she told ABC. ‘But I do not agree with his last action with what he did. But I do agree about the government.'”

That government workers deserve to be killed? That our taxes are so high (in Texas, mind you, where there is no state income tax) that we are entitled to resort to extremism and destruction? What exactly does she agree with? Or, in this age of Tea Partying populist anti-government paranoia, does it not even matter? “Injustice,” she says. Injustice towards whom? About what? I am trying to stay calm, trying to understand what on earth she is talking about. I am not having an easy time.

I would like to knock on her door and ask to come in and have a nice quiet polite chat where I ask her whether she now identifies with the hypothetical daughter of a 9/11 hijacker who thinks her father is a hero. Because what’s the difference? Are Muslims terrorists and white men who act out merely “inappropriate”?

And then I will put down my cup and look her in the eye. Very quietly, I will say, I have been to three funerals and four shiva calls in six months. I have traveled to Connecticut for death and to North Carolina and to DC and to Westchester. I am tired, and I am angry, so angry that I am probably clutching the table right now. Because how dare anyone think that he is entitled to kill people, to fly a plane into a federal building just because he believes something? My mother works in a federal building and my father used to. I don’t care what you believe; you can die for your beliefs, if you feel that strongly about them. But how dare you take other people with you to prove a point?

GodHatesFigs.com

My favorite spam-fax from the Westboro Baptist Church is all about Figs. It’s also a clear rip off of Jeff Foxworthy.

“You might be a good fig if you:

  • confess that Jews killed Jesus, and repent and mourn that grievous sin;
  • put away your lie that God will bless you for pretending to eat kosher;
  • recognize that Israel is doomed because of the Jews’ proud sin.”

More likely you are an evil fig.

“You might be an evil fig if you:

  • would rather starve than eat the Bread of Life, whom you proudly crucified;
  • Loudly proclaim that you’re entitled to land you stole in your disobedience;
  • Are proud of the bloody butcher’s apron known as the Israeli flag.”

Until we got this sheet, I didn’t know why the sensitive and intelligent folks at the WBC chose to send the company I work for faxes everyday. (One we get frequently mentions Matthew Shepard, who it says “has been in hell these eleven years.”) Now I realize: it’s because we’re evil figs! Although I’m not sure we loudly proclaim we’re entitled to anything, or that we would turn down any free food, even the Bread of Life. Still, we meet the general requirements.

Guess what, Westboro Baptist Church? I may be an evil fig but I’ve got one up on you. Hear that whooshing sound? That’s me turning the other cheek.

Oh yes. That’s right. I FORGIVE YOU. I have out-Christianed you, and on Ash Wednesday no less. So stuff that in your fax machine. And have a nice day.

True story!

My tiny little college roommate gave birth to a giant baby! Well, both my roommates were tiny, and Catholic, and had short straight hair and small breasts and adorable faces, now that I think on it. But here I’m referring to the second roommate of the two, the one who got married, oh, just about NINE MONTHS AGO.

Kaboom!, as the scientists say. Two math-majors meet, mingle, and as a result new life walks the earth. Their union has already produced something more substantive than the US Senate has managed to produce in years. (Using the life of One of God’s Children to score political points? Is that below me? Should it be, *Sarah Palin*?)

I am in shock. She squeezed 9 lbs and 4 oz of something live and kicking out of her canoodle today. While I was doing what, browsing Facebook? Thinking about the worst possible first/early date movies? (My picks, aside from Slate’s winner “Closer”: “Quills,” “The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover,” “the Dreamers,” and “Belle du Jour.” All movies that seem like they should either be sexy or fun or both and end up being horrifying.)

Oof. Well, regardless, happy life, little newborn baby! And congratulations all around.

100%?

I am baffled by the idea that there can be a 100% chance of anything. “Taxes,” suggested a friend this morning. Okay, fine: death and taxes. But anything else? Even the fact of the sun rising, the earth continuing to spin, the sky being up and the ground being down, gravity, entropy, cereal …

Surely the scientists at weather.com are rounding up? I would be much more comfortable with a percentage that allowed for the element of sheer randomness and chaos in our lives — 99.8% even. Am I alone in this?

I Hate the Future

While browsing through old journals for the mem-wa, I came across this curt poem I wrote four years ago, when I had just been laid off from Job #2:

I Hate the Future

I hate the future

dark car
on a dark street
moving

Something bright may sit
behind the tinted windows

All i see
is the barreling forward
the peaceful air it displaces

Four years later, employed again (Job #5!), housed again (Apartment #4!) and married, I am elated to discover, some things never change.

Laughing like the guy from ‘Mary Poppins’

Mr. Ben and I watched In the Loop (2009) Saturday night, and it was the most gleefully foul-mouthed thing I’ve come across since the Aristocrats. Also the most hilarious.

Simon Foster: Tobes, I don’t want to have to read you the riot act but I am going to have to read you some extracts from the riot act, like section one, paragraph one: don’t leave your boss twisting in the wind and then burst in late, smelling like a pissed seaside donkey.

Toby Wright: Look, alright, I was late for the meeting, Simon, I am sorry, but it’s not like I threw up in there, is it?

Simon Foster: No, you’re right, I’m being unfair. I should be thanking you for not throwing up. Well done, you’re a star. You didn’t wet yourself, did you? You’re in the right city. You didn’t say anything overtly racist. You didn’t pull your cock out and start plucking it and shouting “Willy Banjo”. No, I’m being really unfair. You’d got so much right, without actually being there in the beginning of one of the most important moments of my career. Thanks, you’re a legend.

Jamie MacDonald: Hi, Toby, Toby. Very pleased to meet you. Please sit down. Now, right, that’s enough of all the fucking Oxbridge pleasantries.

Toby Wright: What’s Oxbridge about saying hello?

Jamie MacDonald: Shut it, Love Actually! Do you want me to hole punch your face?

Even the deleted scenes were funnier than anything else I’ve seen this year, with the possible exception of Up in the Air.

Mr. Ben and I had a rather Brit-themed weekend, what with the “Full English” brunch at Chip Shop and reading Harry Potter aloud as we cooked. It reminded me that I really, really want to go to Britain. The lake country! Stonehenge! Oxford! Cranford! (Is that a real place?) I want to go every damn village I’ve ever read about and, while Mr. Ben is distracted by the Tower of London or something, make out with every cute, tall, deadpan, angular, well-dressed bloke I can find. And I wouldn’t say no to Kate Winslet, either.

Ta-Nehisi Coates doesn’t need my love

But he has it anyway:

I think it’s most worth noting that “I forgot Obama was black”–in all its iterations–is something that white people should stop saying, if only because it’s really dishonest. One way to think about this is to flip the frame. Around these parts, we’ve been known, from time to time, to chat about the NFL. We’ve also been known to chat about the intricacies of beer. If you hang around you’ll notice that there are no shortage of women in these discussions. Having read a particularly smart take on Brett Favre, or having received a good recommendations on a particular IPA, it would not be a compliment for me to say, “Wow, I forgot you were a woman.” Indeed, it would be pretty offensive.

The problems is three-fold. First, it takes my necessarily limited, and necessarily blinkered, experience with the fairer sex and builds it into a shibboleth of invented truth. Then it takes that invented truth as a fair standard by which I can measure one’s “woman-ness.” So if football and beer don’t fit into my standard, I stop seeing the person as a woman. Finally instead of admitting that my invented truth is the problem, I put the onus on the woman. Hence the claim “I forgot you were a woman,” as opposed to “I just realized my invented truth was wrong.”

Ditto for Chris Matthews. The “I forgot Obama was black” sentiment allows the speaker the comfort of accepting, even lauding, a black person without interrogating their invented truth. It allows the speaker a luxurious ignorance–you get to name people (this is what black is) even when you don’t know people. In fact, Chris Matthews didn’t forget Barack Obama was black. Chris Matthews forgot that Chris Matthews was white.

(Emphasis mine. The wisdom, however, is all his.)

freakish and disproportional

I INQUIRED about the price of a ladies’ tuxedo jacket, since I couldn’t find the tag, and learned that the jacket was not sold separately from its matching black satin teddy ($1,700).

“Would you still like to try it on?” one of the tattooed ladies asked.

“I’d rather see it on you, actually,” I replied.

She very sweetly and immediately obliged.

I inspected the peplum and the Balmain-esque shoulder pads. “It’s a very small size, isn’t it?”

“Well, I’m a 32D, so it fits great,” my helper said in response.

It was refreshing to hear a demi-couture jacket’s merits discussed in terms of cup size. I was surprised that a 32D didn’t look at all freakish or disproportional, like a Japanese robot or Pam Anderson during her Kid Rock phase.

Is it my imagination or does this seem like the opening of a mediocre piece of erotica? Maybe handling all those ben-wa balls made this author feisty. Regardless, I’d appreciate it if, in the future, she kept her surprise that ordinary-sized people are not, in fact, hideous monsters to herself.

Pamela Anderson is 36DD, which would translate to a 32G. Not that that makes her freakish, either, but the author may as well get her insulting facts right. Seriously, Meghan McCain is on the right track here, and you, Cintra Wilson, are feeding guppies to the piranhas of women’s insecurity and body-hate.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: WTF, NYT.

Body Image

My friends have seen me naked. NO I’M NOT OVER IT. I wish I could go through their memories with steel wool.

On the plus side, I have now been to Spa Castle.

Over the five or so hours I was under-clothed, I was treated with complete respect; over the next twenty-four hours of my regular life, ironically, I was sexually harassed once and hit on twice. Which is to blame: the lingering glow of relaxation, or the patriarchy?

EDITED TO ADD:

Attack!Shots of the coupliest New Years Eve ever are now up on Flickr. Although here it looks like I am being attacked, rest assured that those hands belong to people I love.