Review: In this case, I wouldn’t call the owner The King.

27 Sep

When a restaurant receives polarizing Yelp reviews (all 5 Stars or 1 Star), it’s bound to be an experience. At least, that was my rationale when I struck out for dinner last night. I’d consulted my phone for a recommendation, and found myself seated at Trattoria Casa Di Isacco – a dimly lit Italian place in Hells Kitchen.

The Yelp Review that ultimately led me to try it? “Weird, fun, creepy, but pretty good food. Definitely has character in a Spanish Elvis cooks Italian food in a restaurant decorated for Christmas yet in a February kind of way.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I wanted to know.

First off – the owner is Spanish and loves him some Elvis. I say this not only because his hair was clearly modeled after that famous pompadour, but also because every inch of wall space was occupied by photos and paintings of The King (including more than one black velvet model).

Oh, and also? The television showed Mediterranean Elvis impersonators dancing along to the soundtrack of Spanish/Italian songs. Yep, it was an experience.

The owner – whom other Yelp reviewers loved – irritated me. At least, I assume he was the owner, based on the way he strode around the place as if he owned it. When he approached my table and spouted off the specials, I found myself struggling to decipher the day’s specials because his accent was a bit challenging.

He left me to contemplate my choices, and when he returned, I asked him for a recommendation. “I’ve whittled it down to either the Gnocci Pesto, the Lasagna, or the Veal Marsala. Of those, which do you think is best?”

I’m not sure if that question offended him, or if he’s just generally a prick, but his answer – “I can’t make up your mind for you. They are all good but very different. You decide” – wasn’t exactly the tip I was looking for .

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll take the Veal Piccata,” I told him, mentally high-fiving myself for not saying please. And mentally calling him a CornHole.

When the food arrived, it obliterated the owner’s surly behavior. The veal piccata had been pounded to within an inch of its life and was swimming in a lemon caper sauce that was equally good on bread. I may have just been hungry, but it was easy to clean my plate.

Apparently the owner decided he didn’t like me either, because after he took my order, another guy had taken over the dinner service. He returned to clear my plate, crumb the table, and bring me a complimentary glass of sweet dessert wine.

I could see why the place had received such spotty reviews. I suspect the stars match the mood of the owner on any particular night. Unfortunately, I caught him on a one-star night.

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How quickly we forget…

26 Sep

I was in LA all last week for work, turning in 12+ hour days while battling a cold. This week I’m off to NYC for more of the same, so I took it easy over the weekend. By which I mean: I spent all of Sunday rolling around on my couch, reading and napping, which is completely out of character for me.

Before I tell you this next part, I would like to reiterate: I was VERY tired. And I was alternating between a hard copy of Bon Appetit magazine and an iPad version of Vanity Fair, so what happened next is somewhat understandable.

Instead of turning the page of the magazine, I took my finger and slid it on the article, trying to get it to move up the page. Except, it turns out that only works on an iPad. Not on a real magazine.

As soon as I did it, I was a bit sheepish because it called to mind more than one dumb blonde technology joke: Using white out on a computer screen; Asking someone to fax over a blank piece of paper.

I am convinced: technology is making me dumber.

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When applause means more than, “You didn’t kill us!”

20 Sep

It was kind of like this. But in a bigger plane.

I flew to LA yesterday for work, and I’m about to say something that (I’m sure) will jinx me: I. Had. The. Best. Flight. Ever.

Seriously? I hate flying. Really hate it. I’m pretty sure I’d feel that way just on the basis of how often I do it, but it doesn’t help that in a past walk of life, I was spoiled with First Class tickets and lear jets. Once you’ve seen what’s on the other side of the curtain, it’s kind of hard to go back. Especially when going back means being wedged between a screaming baby and an Arm Rest Hog.

When I fly coach, I’m usually just looking for a safe flight. As a control freak, I spend a fair amount of time concerned that the pilot is either tired or drunk, and that the mechanic was either rushed or frustrated with his employer when he gave our ride the once-over. Every bump of turbulence sends me speculating about how we’ll meet our fiery death. (Will I pass out from a lack of oxygen, or still be conscious when each organ bursts?)

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I would consider owning a television, mate.

18 Sep

Even the weather is entertaining because of the town names.

I’ve now been back from Australia for almost a month, so this is a bit, um, untimely. Whatever. I just stumbled across some notes I took while watching television my last night in Sydney. Since I don’t have a television at home, it hadn’t occurred to me to reach for the remote before then, and it’s one of my only regrets. Australian telly is entertaining.

On a cooking show:

Describing herring: “It’s knobbish.”

Instructions for crushing garlic: “Smash it. Just wail on it, mate.”

On an entertainment show, interviewing a celebrity about his stay in rehab:

“I wasn’t downstairs in the drug and alcohol unit. I was upstairs in the mood unit.”

Mood unit? That sounds like a gaping hole in the American health system.

They have a show that is like “The Bachelor” in the US. Except the Australian version is called, “The Farmer Wants a Wife.” Seriously. And it features six farmers who – you guessed it – want wives.

On Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, the contestant passed on this question:

Fill in this song: “I want to wake up in the city that never…”

When given multiple choices, she couldn’t decide between “ceases” and “sleeps.”

Even better, the host mispronounced ceases as CREASES.

And the contestant still got it wrong.

Also on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire:

When trying to select “Capuchin Monkey” as the animal in Hangover II, the contestant instead called it a, “Cappuccino Monkey.” Not sure why this tickled me so much.

Last reference from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire:

The contestant had to determine which charity was the beneficiary of a large fundraiser earlier that year. He ruled out “Save the Children” right out of the gate, but it was his rationale that made me laugh. “Why would they need fundraiser? Everyone already wants to save children.”

On the news:

A woman’s death (which had previously been ruled a suicide) was re-examined in light of new evidence. The evidence? A spear-throwing reinactment showing that the woman could not have jumped to her death, but could only have arrived in that position if thrown by a master spear-thrower. Because that’s a common skill.

Other Observations

This is where my notes get a bit fuzzy because I’d had a sleeping pill so I’d be well rested for my flight home. I won’t even TRY to make sense of them. Here’s the stream of consciousness: 

All the websites mentioned on commercials in with .com.au. How much would that suck to have to clarify your country after .com?

Apple commercials use American voiceover talent, not Aussies. I wonder if that makes Apple products seem more modern, or if people find it insulting to get technology lectures from Americans.

Even their channels have cool names: 7 Mate.

Awesome Australian words: Brekkie. Nibbles.

Carbon Tax in Australia. Why didn’t we think of that? Oh, because we are too busy trying to pretend we aren’t causing Global Warming. No wonder other countries can’t stand us.

I could become addicted to “Bondi Rescue” – it’s like “Cops” but about the lifeguards at Bondi Beach. And they’re constantly pulling people out who are caught in rips or have their heads split open by surf boards.

Finally, eyes heavy under the weight of pharmaceuticals, I managed to click the “off” button. I slumbered and awoke to a city that never creases.

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My heart grew three sizes that day.

16 Sep

My parents just got back from their first visit to The Big Apple. They went as part of an organized tour, not realizing that their dates would place them there for the tenth anniversary of September 11. I asked if it had impacted the trip in any way.

“Not really,” my dad said. “Just that we were greeted by the National Guard when we entered the city through the Lincoln Tunnel.”

As someone who has regularly traveled to NYC for work, I could easily imagine what impression that might make to a sweet midwestern group arriving via bus. It also reminded me of my own random experience with the Midtown Tunnel when I was relatively new to the city.

When I was 23, the company I worked for sacked everyone in our NYC office. I was asked to pinch hit for a month, flying up every Monday morning and returning home every Friday night to keep the doors open. (This was before 9/11, so flying wasn’t the chore that it is today; even so, I kick myself for not discovering the Acela earlier.)

As a 23 year-old, getting to explore the city on an expense account was hardly a bad thing, but there was one part I dreaded: having to find a taxi to the airport each Friday during rush hour. There were cabs everywhere, but – apparently due to the shift change – very few would accept passengers. Especially for a one-way fare to LaGuardia.

So imagine me, one Friday at 5:00, grateful to be sitting in the back of a cab, staring out the window as MidTown blurred past. (This was pre-cell phone, so of course I was looking out the window. No phone calls or Facebook to entertain me back then.)

Just outside the MidTown tunnel (our route out of Manhattan to LaGuardia), stood a policeman, redirecting traffic. Cars were temporarily being sent around the block while they did something in the tunnel. My driver followed the other cars.

When we approached the tunnel for the second time, I could see that the cop was generally sending cars around the block again, but was letting an occasional vehicle through the tunnel. My driver must’ve noticed this too, because when we pulled up to the cop this time, he rolled down his window, gestured at me, and said, “Airport fare…”

No dice. The cop just shook his head, blew his whistle, and gestured for us to make another lap. His mistake was in letting the car directly behind us go through the tunnel. That set my driver off, and I spent the entire block hearing him plot out his revenge.

And sure enough. When we approached the third time, my driver pretended he couldn’t see or hear the cop and just kept moving straight toward the tunnel. It wasn’t until the cop pounded on the hood of the car that my driver acknowledged him. And man, I wish he hadn’t.

Things quickly escalated, with the cop and driver yelling at each other. I tried to slouch down in the back seat and be invisible, but couldn’t help but snap to attention when my driver yelled, “Fuck you!” And the next thing I knew, he was sprawled against his own hood, getting fitted with cuffs.

If hailing a cab during rush hour on Friday was difficult, trying to find a new cab outside the MidTown tunnel – where everyone is already en route to their destination – would be impossible. I stepped from the back seat.

“Excuse me,” I timidly said to the cop. “How am I supposed to get to the airport?”

“Not my problem,” he responded. “This cab is impounded. Guy’s a real asshole.”

“That makes two of you,” I thought. But I kept my mouth shut and considered myself lucky to get my suitcase out of the trunk. I settled for mentally flipping off the cop as I walked away, heading back “inland,” away from the tunnel, wondering how I’d manage to score a second cab.

Fortunately, not all New Yorkers are like this cop. About a block away, standing in front of a small Italian grocery, I limply raised my hand, trying to grab any taxi that passed my way. Behind me, looking like a grandfather, the grocer tidied outdoor displays of fresh oranges.

He looked kind of like this.

“What are you doing?” he called with a thick Italian accent.

“Trying to get a cab to LaGuardia,” I told him. “My flight is in less than an hour and my other cab was just impounded.”

He nodded as if that were normal. Then he said, “Hang on. You’ll never have luck like that. Let me get my sons on the job for you — if we can’t get you a cab, we’ll give you a ride.”

Seriously? I heard him whistle, and two guys about my own age materialized suddenly, then – after getting the story from their dad – took off running to opposite corners of the block. They worked the street like high school cheerleaders promoting a car wash, running in traffic, whipping towels above their heads.

I stood awkwardly by, watching. Within ten minutes, they were helping stuff my suitcase into the trunk of a new cab. I held out a twenty-dollar bill to one of the brothers as a thank you tip. “Nah,” he shrugged. The other one, in perfect New York speak, piled on with, “Fuggitaboutit.”

Minutes later, as we pulled past the same cop who had impounded my last ride, instead of flipping him off, I just waved and smiled. He might have been an power-tripping asshole that day, but the real New Yorkers? They were something special.

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