Gulp Fiction

Kublai Khan's return, or, how I learned to stuff my face

Tonight, I will indulge in one of my absolute favorite culinary delights: Mongolian barbecue.
There is something so settling about stuffing my face to the point of nausea with heaping bowl after bowl of grilled meats, veggies, noodles and various sauces.
Needless to say, when I leave the restaurant I usually have no use for a belt for several hours.
According to various online sources (and as I suspected), Mongolian barbecue isn’t Mongolian or a barbecue. It was invented in Taiwan and is inspired by Japanese “teppanyaki.”
Regardless, it is good and there is no better way to drag oneself out of the PBD-derived funk of a Monday than consuming three huge bowls of Mongolian barbecue.
Interestingly, I can actually trace my culinary development through Mongolian barbecue.
When I first started eating it around the age of 8 or 9, I would only put in meat and noodles with very little sauce. The usual bland meat-and-carbs diet that most American children (and uncultured hayseeds alike) finds themselves confined within and reluctant to escape from.
As I grew into my teenage years, I began to add onions and carrots, as well as more flavored sauces such as hot oils and ginger sauces.
By the time I blossomed at the age of about 19 or 20, I was putting just about everything in there – cabbage, celery, pineapple, spinach, garlic and every sauce I could get my hands on.
The thing that is so alluring about Mongolian barbecue (and many Asian dishes in general) is the amazing complexity of flavors. Many Asian dishes have great meat flavor in using very little meat.
Many European-inspired dishes are heavy on meat and animal products, whereas many Asian dishes use a small about of meat, cut in strips, to distribute the flavors throughout the entire dish.
That way, I can stuff my face, and not need to drink a gallon of prune juice later that night, if you catch my drift.

Bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh

In a culinary sense, eating ribs is how the men are separated from the boys; or, in an Old Testament, Book of Genesis sense, where the women are made from the men.
As a child I loved eating ribs with my father and uncle or whatever family member we were with.
It made me feel included with the guys and grown up, and was the only time I was allowed to get more of my food on my face and clothes than in my mouth and still get dessert.
There truly is nothing more animalistic, more “Quest for Fire” than sitting around sucking the last few bits of meat from the pried open ribcage of a cow or pig. Well, actually, there is – cracking open the bone and sucking out the marrow like a dog.
It always makes a man feel more akin to man’s best friend when they can sit around together and suck the marrow from a bone.
It makes one feel like a starving god.
Besides, as many of you already know, “dog” is “god” spelled backward. Or “god” is “dog” spelled backward, if you’re more of a dog person than a God person; that is, if you’re more into a scat-munching quadruped that licks his own genitals than the Creator of the world and universe, and Master of the Heavens. Hey, I’m not a judging; either way is cool with me.
Every time I eat ribs, I am left with a certain something, usually the funk in my teeth, but something more also. Some kind of testosterone overload.
And I love every second of it.

A visit from an old friend

I found myself in quite the hot seat the other day when my girlfriend told me that “Kristen” had called and said she would be on the next train to town.
Izza was upset, understandably, having another woman call the house. I calmly explained to her that “Kristen” was an old friend of mine and there was no need to be jealous.
She was still a little upset but not nearly as upset as when I asked her if I could borrow $1,000.
I said it was no big deal. I just had to see an old friend and I’d be back in an hour . . . or two hours, that is, if I could borrow $2,000 rather than $1,000.
After several minutes of pleading, she gave me the money so, I suppose, the only question then remained, “would ‘Kristen’ prefer to go out for New York Steak or stay in for some German sausage?”
We stayed for the sausage with a side of wiretaps. Delicious.

A modern American take on a traditional Irish holiday

I’ve always liked St. Patrick’s Day.
In America, all of the religion and history is stripped from St. Patrick’s Day, and is replaced with a series of misconceptions, stereotypes, symbols and mayhem the likes of which would make your average Dubliner smile or cry, depending on his/her disposition and/or religious conviction.
Even when I was a child, the simple concept of pinching other kids for their lack of conformity to social expectation was somehow amusing, in a cute neo-fascist sort of way.
I admit it was partly because it gave me an excuse to pinch whichever girl I had a crush on that particular week (whether she was wearing green or not, it made no difference).
Still, times changed, and as I grew older and my taste for corned beef, sausages, cabbage, the Pogues, whiskey, beer, random violence, Catholicism, tipsy women, red hair, the IRA, public urination citations, sick days, cleaning deposits, back alley stabbings, fiddles, contusions, James Joyce, post-bender depression, bail hearings, drink specials, green food coloring, and the general ignorance that most Americans possess of the historical background of the holiday increased, the day became even more amusing and fool-hardy.
The thing I find the most amusing is that most of the people who I have talked to have no idea that St. Patrick’s Day is not officially on March 17 this year. Really, I’m not making this up. It’s March 15.
According to the Catholic Church, St. Patrick’s Day cannot fall during Holy Week (that’s the week between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday for all you heathen scoundrels).
Apparently, the Catholic Church doesn’t believe that the best way to celebrate Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ’s arrival into Jerusalem, Last Supper, crucifixion, death, resurrection and subsequent ascension to Heaven to be by His Father’s side, is with millions of shamrock-laden frat boy yahoos covered in Mardi Gras beads, green beer, shame, narcissism and their own vomit, screaming at the top of their lungs on crowded street corners at 11 a.m.
Well, I can’t say I blame them. Jesus was a hip cat but he wasn’t that hip.
“1 And Jesus said, ‘go forth to thy apartment, and gather all the Flogging Molly CDs thy own, and bringeth them. 2 And go forth and gather all thine ales, and thine bottles of Jameson, and bringeth them. 3 And go forth and gather all thine drunken sorority girls dressed in green, and bringeth them. 4 And when all thine CDs, ales, whiskeys and girls are broughteth, we’re gonna f***ing party!’ 5 And when all was gathered, Jesus did a keg stand, ate a sausage, took a shot and proceeded to a bedroom with a fair lady named Mary and was not seen for some time.”
Now, I’ve read the Bible and I don’t remember anything like that. There is the possibility that I somehow skimmed over it, but I am pretty sure that it’s not in there.
Some people think it is silly that the church would move St. Patrick’s Day. I disagree.
Even if St. Patrick’s Day was still celebrated in the traditional Irish way – church, family, etc. rather than the American drunken free-for-all that has even invaded Ireland – the church would have probably still moved it for the simple reason that Holy Week is about honoring Jesus, not the man who brought Christianity to Ireland. I’m not 100 percent sure of that, but it sounds logical.
Though I am not a religious man, I respect the sanctity of religion in other’s lives. A religious person should not be forced by the calendar manufactures of America to stand by and watch a sacred week (in their eyes) be tarnished by the likes of deviants such as myself.
The path to respect and acceptance is a two-way street, as my mother always said.
In return, I can only hope that they respect and accept (without condoning or approving of) my lack of faith and inherent predilection toward late nights, clothing-optional dance parties, fast women, 80-proof breakfasts and using the Good Lord’s tolerance and infinite patience (with me especially) as a means of deriving humor from otherwise humorless situations.
If the calling of faith will come, it will come when the Lord feels the time is right.
Of course, all bets are off if a Jehovah’s Witness comes knocking on my door at 8 a.m. the day after St. Patrick’s Day. Then it’s on. Oh, it’s so on.

Hot peppers down under

Someone once told me to always wash my hands after going to the bathroom.
I say, from experience, that after chopping hot peppers it’s wiser to wash your hands before going to the bathroom rather than after.
A wet handshake never hurt anyone. Peppers, however, are a different matter all together.

Like a picky vegan who is allergic to everything

W.C. Fields once said, “A man who loves whiskey and hates kids can’t be all bad.” Ah, what red-nosed brilliance he spoke.
The few children who I am unfortunate enough to know are worse than a collection of realtors, lawyers, telemarketers and meter maids, mixed together in a gumbo pot of complaints and pickiness, seasoned with selfishness, dried and shrunk to the size of miniature hornless devils with identical bowl haircuts, and unleashed on the world to do nothing but torment and annoy.
Kids are the sorts of beings that make me glad I never was one. It must be hell to be a child.
However, I must admit that if Bill Hicks has taught us anything it’s that children are smarter than adults – how many children do you know with a full-time job and children?
Still, cooking for children is like cooking for a picky vegan who is allergic to everything: They can’t eat this. They won’t eat that. They refuse to try anything.
It is enough to drive even the most patient host to the bottle . . . and to the bottle hard.
Despite the overwhelming frustration of trying to prepare something everyone will like (or at least eat), at the same time, what do I care?
What does it really matter if they won’t try the steamed mussels? Who cares if the sight of the blood oozing from the medium rare steak au poi makes them queasy? What giant consequence to my life does more sautéed asparagus in butter and garlic on my plate possess?
Let them have the salad or the chicken nuggets, I’ll take seconds on Like a the bacon-wrapped tenderloin, thank you very much.
I guess I should just go with the flow; let children continue on with their lives, not knowing what they are missing, and let vegans continue on with their lives, knowing what they are missing yet refusing it anyway.
They aren’t my kids and they aren’t my immediates, so I find not real duty to enlighten them or change their convictions in any way.
It’s not my job and if it was my job, I’d go back to school.
Their ignorance and/or beliefs have no profound effect on my culinary desires. If they want to eat macaroni and cheese or raw chard for every meal, let ‘em.
Besides, the fewer people who eat mussels and crabs, the lower the demand, which, if my high school econ class that I never attended taught me anything, means the prices will drop.
That means more mussels and crabs for me and I have no complaints about that.
Now, if we could just get fewer adults to like single-malt scotch and lap dances, things would be just perfect in my world.

(Author’s note: I don’t intend to insult anyone who is a vegan. Vegans possess a stronger will, conviction and dedication to humanity than I do, and I’ll be the first to admit that. I’m just saying that I hate cooking for them or having them cook for me, because when a person has dinner with a vegan, for all purposes, said person, by association, is basically forced to become a vegan as well for the duration of the meal. That’s all. Just because you don’t eat animal products doesn’t mean that I magically lost my desire to eat something that once had a face.)

O, Doug Christie, Where art thou?

The other night, I went to the Lakers-Kings game with my mother. I’m not much of a basketball fan these days, but my mother likes it so I went.
As with any sporting event, I was obligated to get my usual: a hot dog (no ketchup, of course), nachos and about $40 worth of beer (that means one beer). I would have gotten a red rope but with how the Kings played and subsequently lost, I probably would have just used it to hang myself in the toilet. Besides, the limit on my credit card doesn’t go that high.
Had I known better, I would have gotten a sno-cone to numb the nature of my overwhelming discontentment.
Stadium food is like a diamonds commercial: “A hot dog, nachos and a beer – how else can three months salary give you diarrhea?”
The reason really is the same – you have to.
We as a culture have been infected with the idea that it is good, normal, reasonable and somehow symbolic of something, whatever it is.
If you want to be with the woman you love for the rest of your life then you have to buy a meaningless, crappy piece of shiny coal that some three-fingered Zimbabwean boy mined at gunpoint; and if you want to enjoy a ball game, you have to buy a $23 bag of popcorn, a $78 hot dog and a $447 beer.
That’s life.
Every time I go to a professional sporting event I remember why I never go (at least weddings have free hooch). With parking, ticket prices, gas prices, uncomfortable and crowded seating, the outrageous cost of food, the drunk guy yelling in my mother’s ear (actually, that might have been me), I feel like a stooge when I finally leave.
The whole ordeal is precisely that – an ordeal.
Hopefully, President Bush’s economic stimulus package will give me enough money to at least afford a bag of peanuts when I go to a Giants game; that is, if I don’t mind spending the whole thing.