Thursday, June 06, 2013

Working Retail With Cocktail In Hand


"Working Retail With Cocktail In Hand"
(by FLT3 with apologies to Noel Coward)

When ringing the clothes
Or hankies for the nose
Of the lady with the charge plate in hand,
I often reinforce myself
More specifically, re-course myself
Towards the oldest respite in the land...

A slug of gin
Will quite do in
Any of the workaday blues.
And a beer surreptitious
Is always delicious
While dealing with the afternoon to-do's.

From dustman to surgeon
They all must submerge in
The claret from time to time,
And be not perjorative
Re the powers restorative
Of a lightly chilled vodka and lime...

Working Retail With Cocktail In Hand
Is what maintains civility
To the best of ability
Throughout this sceptered land.
'Tis no jest or joke,
That a bourbon and coke
Keeps a smile on the face and a pistol out of hand.

When an elderly matron is shouting with anger
And you wish she were bludgeoned or banned...
Don't bother to ask,
Take a nip from your flask,
Working Retail With Cocktail In Hand...

Eggroll With That...?


Today I visited one of my favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurants for lunch. I would tell you the name of it, but quite honestly, I don't recall. I'm not entirely certain I've ever known it. (I have a tendency to refer to most Chinese places as "Happy Chinese.") Anyway, as I waited for my order, I began to think about the striking similarities among most such establishments...

First, there are rules of classification for Happy Chinese places. With very few exceptions, they can not be Chinese buffets. While the food provided at both is usually quite similar, buffets occupy a different sphere. Most buffets also have several extremely random offerings that have only the most tangential (if any) connection to standard Chinese fare. While I certainly enjoy vanilla pudding, pigs-in-blankets and spaghetti, it always seems a bit unsettling to contemplate how they might have wound up alongside the General Tso's chicken and sesame shrimp. Call me paranoid, but I often wonder if the cooks sometimes bring in things from home that were about to spoil. One buffet of my acquaintance didn't even bother to remove the pizza from the DiGiornio's box before nestling it snugly amongst the french fries, bacon-wrapped chicken livers, and (hand to God) Froot Loops. There was also a salad bar, which offered standard Westernized salad makings...and what must have been pickled squid. Or octopus. (All I know is that if it has tentacles and suckers, include me out.) I am sorry to say that this fine temple of gastronomic delights is no longer amongst the operating. I miss it.

Chinese buffets also distinguish themselves from Happy Chinese places (and I use "distinguish" loosely) in the realm of desserts. The soft-serve ice cream machine is de rigeur, as is the assortment of crappy cookies. Crappy does not mean inedible or even unpleasant, but that's the only way to describe them. There's usually the crumbly, dry teacake-like treat with the almond sliver pressed into the center. This may be meant to suggest almond flavor, but do not be fooled...this item has no almond flavor, or any flavor, for that matter. It's just a sawdusty disc that multiplies in your mouth as you chew, much in the manner of raw carrots. (A thimble-sized nibble will have the approximate dimensions and digestability of a bowling ball with a goiter when swallowed.) There's also the vaguely spice-flavored windmill cookie, which I must confess holds a sentimental spot in my heart. When I was a kid, I would have sworn that my grandparents were the only people in the world who had those cookies. We never had them at home, nor did anyone else I knew. (Come to think of it, my grandparents were the only people I knew ever to have those big marshmallow peanuts that tasted like Pepto-Bismol or the middling-grade caramels with the white used-to-be-creamy centers.) Perhaps there is a secret market where such things are sold...a market known only to the aged. I live in fear of the day when someone says "Come on, Frank...it's time you knew where this place is...oh, and please pick up some ice milk and Cream of Wheat while you're there..."

Anyway, I do digress. Also among the desserts can be found Jello in a wide variety of primary colors, but absolutely no variety in flavor. (Each could be described as "sweet and jello-y", and that's about it.) Of course, the raison d'etre of just about any buffet worth its salt (of which there is plenty, BTW) is The Biscuit Thing. The Biscuit Thing is, quite simply, a canned biscuit which has been pan-warmed and doused in granulated sugar. It's a blobby carb-wad, a mass of semi-cooked dough which carries enough sugar in a single bite to make an entire platoon of third-graders uncontrollably hyper until puberty. It has no real taste other than sugar, and that wears off after a second, yet I have seen reasonable, intelligent adults come to blows over the last Biscuit Thing. There may have even been a stabbing or two.

Happy Chinese is also not the same as Mall Chinese. Manchu Wok is a taste unlike any other, always reminding me of baked ham. No matter what I order, it tastes like baked ham. The entree, the rice, the soft drink, the fortune cookie...they all taste like Christmas dinner meets school lunchroom food. The staff at Manchu Wok is seldom Chinese or even Asian. The one in Birmingham's Brookwood Village Mall, for example, frequently had a large afro-sporting black man working alongside a petite hispanic woman. While I applaud the cultural harmony this bespeaks, I would be lying if I said it gave me much confidence in the authenticity of the cuisine (as if the corporate homogeneity hadn't already taken care of that.) Mall Chinese is usually tasty, but not really even in the same world as regular Chinese food. It is sui generis. It has no relatives.

Nor is Happy Chinese the same as Nice Chinese. Nice Chinese usually involves tablecloths, matching cutlery, unchipped plates and chopsticks offered without waiting for them to be requested. Nice Chinese usually has some of the decorative trappings of Happy Chinese, but without the intensity and passion. Nice Chinese places are usually streamlined, hip, and perhaps even a bit glossy. There may be a gold dragon at the hostess' station, but most likely the rest of the decor will be vaguely IKEA-ish or extremely sleek and minimalist, as will most of the patrons.

Moving on, now that we have established what a Happy Chinese place is not, let us proceed to the discussion of what it is...

A Happy Chinese place is usually, but not exclusively, in a sketchy-to-downright- bad neighborhood. This is not snobbery, but simply fact. One doesn't have to be terribly haughty to realize that the badly-scrawled "No Loitering Or Begging" signs and quintuple-lock doors so often adorning such places are not to be found at Maxim's or Lutece. Neither is one likely to encounter a bold CASH ONLY written on a lined notecard and affixed with yellowing tape to the front door of The Savoy Grill. If you're wondering if a certain bistro is, indeed, of the Happy Chinese variety, look around the parking lot. Can you see an auto parts store, check-cashing/payday loan place, coin laundry and/or down-at-heel liquor store? Pardner, you're in Happy Chinese country.

Once inside, one will quickly discern whether this is a takeaway or sit-down Happy Chinese. If sit-down, expect a garish assortment of Chinese kitsch that looks as if it came from a touring production of THE KING AND I produced by Swedes or Australians who had only the most passing of familiarity with Chinese culture. (Yes, I know THE KING AND I took place in Siam. That's my point.) Twangy sitar music will fill the air, usually a notch or two louder than would be ideal. The booths will be well-worn, but for the most part, the whole dining area will be quite clean. The hostess will either be ridiculously sexy in a bored/out of it/stoned sort of way or she will be approximately 375 years old. Either way, she will mumble in an unintelligible accent, presumably asking a question or offering some pleasant comment. (I have found that a smile and a cheerful "a-ha!" will generally suffice as a response.)

At your table will be one of those molded metal contraptions which hold two small tureens, one containing a pinkish duck sauce, the other a flat yellow mustard which will open your sinuses and relieve you of your breath for a few moments. The same Chinese Zodiac placemat that we have all seen in countless other Happy Chinese places will await you, as will the obligatory chuckle/comment should someone in your party happen to have been born in the year of the cock. Do not be this person, please. The service will be friendly and efficient, and it will be obvious that there are several "regulars" at nearby tables. These regulars always include an overweight businessman in a shirt and tie that are a bit too snug, a couple of pretty women from the bank/office/department store down the street, a policeman or two and an elderly couple. The wait staff will make much more of a fuss over these people than they will over you. Don't take it personally.

The takeaway Happy Chinese will consist of a single room, the kitchen being sectioned off by a flimsy pressboard wall which was clearly slapped up without much attention to detail or true lines. Pictures which bear no real resemblance to the dishes they supposedly represent will line the wall. Judging by the film quality and overall look, there was a large Chinese meal cooked somewhere around 1975. It was photographed, the results were offered to lazy  restauranteurs for a pittance, and the same plate of shrimp in lobster sauce is seen adorning Happy Chinese Takeaways from Maine to Miami. The menu itself will be printed in microscopic font on a single sheet of paper, about the size of a placemat. Anticipate lots of choices, but please be advised that a vast majority of the patrons will only order the 5 or 6 most popular items, so don't take this as an opportunity to explore strange and exotic new tastes. Stick with Mongolian beef and chicken wings unless you want to befuddle the staff.

Value is given high priority at Happy Chinese takeaways. Today, for example, I paid about seven dollars for enough food for three meals. I ate until I was stuffed and made only a medium-sized dent in the pile of food crammed into my lidded styrofoam box. What makes it so surprising is that the food is almost of Nice Chinese quality. (Take out the bulletproof glass separating the counter clerk from the patrons and insist that the kitchen staff all wear shirts, and you would have a hard time telling them apart.)

Another distinguishing characteristic of takeaway Happy Chinese is to be found in what I will generously (damn near philanthropically) call "customer relations." Unlike the borderline-obsequiousness found at sit-down places, the service at takeaway Happy Chinese is usually of the shouted "WHAT YOU WANT???" variety. The language barrier will be most pronounced here, and if you even indicate that you might not understand what the person taking your order is trying to say, he or she will simply say it louder. And faster. And with a palpable sense of hatred. Again, don't be offended...it's part of the experience.

Across the board, the fortune cookies will be the same. Vaguely lemony, hard as rocks and impossible to resist. Bon appetit!

FLT3

In Case Anyone Was Wondering...

A bottle of ketchup with a thin but definite layer at the bottom. A knife can touch it, but can't move laterally because of the shape of the bottle. Smacking the bottom dislodges nothing, and a tiny drip of ketchup juice only reminds you of what lies teasingly close.

Attempting to access a website via phone, running into multiple "this app doesn't support that activity" roadblocks, forgetting an old password and/or login name and then running out of battery just when you think you have it figured out. Then having a fairly good idea on how to fix it, but being too frustrated/bored/tired to start over.

When the game of Monopoly has gone on much too long, and you're beyond done, yet one person insists that the game be played to the bitter end. You're sitting on Ventnor Avenue (mortgaged), one Railroad, and Marvin Gardens, you have just enough money to not go bankrupt for at least thirty minutes, and you're having dinner/drinks after the game. You can hear the ice tinkling and smell the food.

Getting in line behind the older lady at the grocery store. You know the one I mean...110 if she's a day, smells like White Shoulders and vanilla, moves at about the pace of a drugged snail. And has coupons. And checks the receipt before she moves. And finds that she was overcharged three cents on Circus Peanuts or tinned pears. And requires the services of three managers and a priest before the three pennies can be refunded. And the countergirl is out of pennies. And there are five people behind you.

Trying to explain the internet to an older person.

Having a younger person explain the internet.

Any airport experience post 9-11.

Walking across a muddy field in rubber boots about half a size too large. One foot rests on an insubstantial pile of muck, sinking slowly into the mire, only to be pulled out with effort. The result is just sludge, and any forward momentum requires pushing through even more glop. After a while it all seems like too much trouble, but now you're too committed to the walk. So you shlorp and gurlunk and floosh your way through, stopping every foot or two to retrieve a lost boot.

Trying to get back to the hotel after New Year's Eve in a large city. Take one step, stand still for three minutes. Take two more steps, stand still for five. Sometimes inspiration strikes, yet to no avail. The taxi you saw turned out to be off-duty, the cozy bar where you thought you could rest for a minute just locked the door, and the subway station that has been a beacon for half an hour has been closed for repairs since yesterday. And you have to pee. Urgently.

Contemplating an event, holiday, or experience that's about six weeks away, knowing that you have to do something difficult and frustrating between now and then. Extra points if the unpleasant task will somehow facilitate the reward.

Trying to repair or replace something involving a spring, more than one latch, and a specific order of events that must be followed in order to make the object work. Without instructions or a diagram. Outside during the summer. With sweat getting in your eyes and something itchy on your back that you can't scratch until you finish.

...that's what writer's block feels like.