One-A Restaurant Review

Fusion Without the Confusion.
Momofuku Ssäm Bar

How lucky can you get? The East Village “lucky peach” restaurant makes one thrive like a ripened fruit, closing those body boundaries as you sit next to your comrades on stools meant to lean-into. David Chang’s fusion food is fashionable in every aspect. Wine lists are served in Moleskin journals, bringing the literature back into dining (at least before the second glass). Don’t worry about being overheard, because you won’t. The intimacy of the wall-aligned benches and soothing taste of sake will cure all paranoia’s.

With an open kitchen and waiters who walk with a swagger, each exuding their own styles, you start to warm up to the small yet descriptive menu. You’ll find your corn may be from Jersey, but we are graced with goat butter from the UK. Everyone is on the same level, literally. Momofuku Ssäm Bar has come up with a whole new style for cafeteria-type seating.

Don’t let one passing plate fool you—the Steam Buns may be a local favorite, and considered a dessert by many, but just as the tiny white plate contrasts this dark paneled bar, a whopping bowl of pork wavers to your nostrils.

Just in for a drink? Stop at the tiny yet intimate L-Bar in the back, where you can watch the energetic chefs create sushi and mouth-watering bo saam…just part of the experience.

You’re in New York City; go invigorate your taste buds.

same feeling, every time.

Go collect your Urban pillows.
Light a candle and throw up a peace sign.
Strawberry incense and a rooftop.
Bodies collaborating and get-to-know-you smells.
Zebra zodiacs and ankle charms.
Intoxication.
"With You, Without You" [Instrumental] The Beatles, Anthology 2 [Disc 1]

Wish I had a Dobby...

This post welcomes Harry Potter fans.
Tonight I had an experience that was a first of many sorts.

Humiliation. I'm used to that after dropping a box of tampons only to have it absently kicked by my friend across the mall area of my high school before I even realized the box wasn't underneath my arm anymore. Whoops, that was mine...? A story which was denied for three years on my part. But that is truly irrelevant.

I was going to a lounge, assigned by a company to review. Twas a test, and I will eventually get in...Tomorrow. I finally felt a speckle of what it must have been like during prohibition. There was an address in the East Village, an unlocked gate, but totally blacked out blinds. No light at all, surrounded by a bustling street of restaurants and bars galore. I was confused (as I normally am) as to if the joint was even open. I stood outside for ten minutes. Waiting. Crazy, because clearly the place was just making me wait for a password or some shit hidden on a lamp post across the street. Duh. Creeping down steps, not sure what the hell I was doing, I hesitantly knocked on the glass door to a place that looked as abandoned as the house in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. I'm sure there was a camera watching me from inside as I tapped awkwardly and desperately trying to get an assignment done. The name, which I am choosing not to reveal, yet, says a lot about this place.

A speakeasy. It’s as hidden as the Ministry of Magic. Now, one must enter through a telephone booth, connected to another joint, which happened to be a dingy hot dog eatery. As people dressed to the nines entered the smelly doorway to the right of where I stood, I was looking severely lost and figured, "What the hell there has to be something THROUGH there. Please?"

Do you know in Order of the Phoenix, when the director changed J.K. Rowling’s entrance to the Ministry to a classic London telephone booth? Harry and Mr. Weasley sink into the streets of London on a deserted street into what would be a muggle government building. Bustling with business wizards and extremely intelligent owls, there entry was custom. And mine would be too, if I was reaching my prime eighty years ago.

An older woman, who knew what was going on, accompanied me on my food venture, but I refused to believe there was something beyond what appeared to be an old souvenir telephone booth. I get it. You have to go IN the smelly place, but why? My thoughts were flying in a matter of seconds as people behind me pressured by dignity. Where am I? Do I pick up the phone? Is this wall REALLY going to open? (Cause that would be super cool if it did!) What do I say? What if it doesn’t and I’m standing in a telephone booth in a hot dog place? I was so flustered I didn’t read any of the signage in the booth. Instead, my body halfway in the booth, clearly divided, I barely picked up the phone, hung it right back up, and rolled my eyes to my companion. As the eyes were curving over to the left and my torso was out the “door”, something behind me opened! I diverted my attention back to the now opened wall. I could barely see anything what with the black walls, black couches, dim yellow lights, and the hostess’ black dress.

I was engrossed in multiple opinions of why I was here, and it completely showed on my face, as I turned in aghast to this girl. Completely shocked. And if you know me, face #327 came to life tonight. I really wish I had a Dobby to take a candid of my face, realizing I had just found the key to the underground. The secret service, FBI headquarters, the Chamber of Secrets! I secretly wished the reservationist had a wizards robe on, because that just would’ve been amazing. This may sound ridiculous, but for about two minutes I couldn’t believe I just encountered what my beloved childhood fiction star was accustomed to in his daily routine. Cara, are you reading this? This was my alloted ten minutes.

If anything, it was a fabulous laugh. I’ll be dining and reporting shortly.

Sad-Eyed Lady, Bob? Gentlemen here.

August 2ND, 2008. Houston, Texas.
I keep writing 2007 in my book instead of 2008.
Is that a summer signal, tied to the memories of last year's exploration or my own lapse of judgment?

Gabe and I explored her new town. Paid a visit to the Contemporary Arts Museum-Houston. Was pleasantly surprised when I walked into the exhibition space and saw portraits of dancers hanging on the white walls. Different from the Fine Arts Museum, with space for collectibles, genres, and exhibitions, this space was purely for exhibitions--giving the artists free reign to design and manipulate walls, crevices, and corners however desired. I always enjoy the free access to these architectural utopias, providing the community with art. Simple. Yet why so debatable and astonishing? Foreign/insightful/eclectic concepts from distant lands, with ideals which may not cross our minds on a lazy, hot Houstonian afternoon.

Featured artist: Sam Taylor-Wood.
Making out way throughout the circular space, we encountered video loops in mini theaters, still life's projected and warped onto a flat-screen. Apples sped up to watch their decay, Downey Jr. behind held by a women-resurrecting Madonna and Child. My favorite collection was "Crying Men". Taylor-Wood used movie stars for all her shots, and all gave a different, moving intimate feeling of what it's like to cry. The portraits led from one to the other in a semi-circle: Hayden Christensen, Tim Roth, Ed Harris, Lawrence Fishburne, Benicio Del Toro, Daniel Craig, Forest Whitaker, and ending with a seven minute video of David Beckham sleeping. Charismatic. Masculine. Innocence.

I questioned the various levels/reasons/triggers/emotions/reactions of her positioned men. Why the stance, body language, mouth anguish, space between the teary eyelids? Did she just say, show me how YOU cry? Or did she give them a certain situation, in which they had to act accordingly? The varying degrees of wetness discarded on their scarred faces echoed wardrobe and lighting effects. Del Toro appeared to be crying out of prayer, which made me think of his extremist portrayal of a religious drunk in 21 grams. Fishbourne was the darkest character of all, looking straight at the camera, very matrix-esque. His emotion and position felt impure, and a fake ploy to trick someone only to do a back flip over their head as he steals the most valuable computer chip of our century from their inner suit pocket. Contrasting his cold demeanor, Christensen appeared boyishly sad with a pink collared shirt, as if he just realized Star Wars was fiction.

I appreciate how the series was a consistent, classified group of men. Women-the undertone of being too emotional from critics all alike- is turned onto the men. Maybe Taylor-Wood wanted them to explore the varying degrees of women's emotional psyches. We can't be too sure. Ed Harris is barely recognizable, but looks out of a window into what I imagined a garden, somehow told he has just become a widower. I noticed the males were all shot from the torsos upwards; The viewer never sees where their support is. No grounding or direction can be determined. The balance, equality and locale of three-legged stools or a leather couch or a pair of kneecaps embracing the floor is purposely hidden; leaving wonder and a disturbing sense of wanting to give sympathy to a complete stranger. There is NO sense of sturdiness. And isn't that all part of being torn, shaken, and upset? Not knowing where to turn or how to balance ones state of mind. We defy gravity when wailing because our center is torn between reality, memory, mortality and angst.

This young British female has gone places. We are lucky enough to witness the person and not the actor. Taylor-Wood has molded the actor, instead of the actor stealing the scene-we know it's her vision, and they are just there to emulate something personal to Taylor-Wood.

[Photo Credit: The artist, Sam Taylor-Wood]

first time

Off to Houston. See ya'll when I get back.

Groovin' to Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Touble's "Texas Flood" Texas Flood
Cause everyone needs some of those blues and moves.