Lamentables

Derp: So, you're a cook eh?

Me: Yeah.

Derp: Yo guy, that's wicked!

Me: (thinking: if only he knew) Yeah, it's pretty tight.

Derp: Mmmmmannnn, you must get laid allll the time - cuz yer like, you know, a chef.

Me: Well, not ALL the time.

*Contrary to popular belief, cooks do not get laid like it's nobody's business, mainly because they work long hours and are too tanked after work to actually go out and get laid, unless of course they're raging alcoholics.
Cooks are pirates. Unkempt, and pretty unattractive. So stop watching "Godiva's"; tv's all lies. *

I'm in a terrible mood. The only cook I really liked quit today, which isn't saying a lot, seeing as to how there was only four of us manning the kitchen. He was too good for the place anyway. Had to focus on grad school. In a sense, I wish I could be going through it with him. I like the pursuit of knowledge. Don't we all?
We always had good conversations. Today we talked about Pollinator Decline. I asked him what his favourite insect was. He said his was the damsel fly; I said mine was the bumble bee. Now I'm stuck with some new kid, and another guy who's hair I always find in the ingredients. I told you. Unkempt.

He got this mug for me from the university we both attend after I told him how awesome I thought his was. He's in the same faculty I was in during my graduate stint. I'm a pretty decent environmental buff. Not take you're shoes off and hug trees decent, more, ride your bike and eat organic decent (when I get the chance - and the paycheck). Jinkies, that kitchen's gonna be pretty hard to man for a while, especially with so many kids running around now.

It's so sad, I'll have no one to bring biscottis to anymore; not to anyone who will appreciate them anyway.

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The Other Laughing Buddha

I was really dreading going into work tonight only because I've been ill for the past three days; luckily however, I only had to go into the restaurant at night, rather than all day like I was originally scheduled. At most, the worst of the evening was shucking snow peas, 3 at a time, with a tourne knife - a knife with a blade so short it looks like some bird got reincarnated as cutlery (praise Buddha).
I had arrived as Mommy's husband was coming out of the restaurant, and immediately asked to help him haul in some food supplies for the night - which I more or less enjoy any time really. Anyway, there I was, still in my coat, not yet in my apron, hauling away.
The restaurant had the feeling of some washed out Wong Kar-wai film; a cool breeze coming in from outside, and lights so bright they seemed almost existential, either that or it was the antihistamines I had taken before work in hopes that I'd have to run to the back door to blow my nose as little as possible, leaving behind whatever wok I would have to man. Mommy wasn't in tonight, I never asked where she was - instead it was her husband, Number Five and I along with another cook and a new hire. The night moved well, it wasn't too busy at all, and my constant demands for hot water and honey were taken in stride (the waitresses like me is all I can say).
Later in the evening I was asked to pull noodles, which entailed just that: pulling a thick, almost rubber block of oily noodles apart and portioning them for future dishes. These kinds of noodles are readily available for sale in almost any Asian store. Usually labelled as "fun noodles," raw they have the consistency of the liqourice you buy and pull apart strand by strand; when doused in hot water they immediately go limp and fall apart if not handled with care, especially in a flaming wok. They are fun, as far as I'm concerned. I have usually joked about becoming a master noodle chef someday - traveling to the island of Okinawa and finding some Udon/Karate master to train me in the way of udon during the day and the way of the fist during the night. A man like that exists. It's true - I saw him on tv once. Anyway, while pulling noodles, a waitress came in from outside after having trouble operating the door to the cardboard bin. The city had replaced the old disposal units with new shiny ones recently, so I volunteered to go out with her again and figure it out. As soon as we stepped outside however, I became hesitant, because by the dumpsters I saw who I thought was a man I used to work for throwing out his trash. I was afraid. Or at least, more shy or ashamed at the fact that I now chose to work for another employer literally two doors down from him. Luckily for me however, it was his son; the son of a Serbian man I used to work for on the same strip. A Serbian man who catered to Italian food. And now I catered to Thai. Yeah, if anything, I felt ashamed. I couldn't help but remember a time leaving my relatives' restaurant for work and having them call out to me by the door, "If you ever want to cook Italian, let us know!"

As we approached the kid I explained to the waitress who he was and how I knew him. She laughed, asking how old I was, only because it seemed like I've worked everywhere in this city, and she's partly right. I laughed back explaining that I've been around for so long I'm practically a ghost.
So I said my hellos and the kid was happy to see me; I asked him about school, he said he was unsure, I cheered him up without saying, "you'll figure it out" (because that's the last thing a kid who wants direction needs). "Don't give up" is much more inspiring. So, after multiple bags of garbage, we parted ways - the waitress left a long time ago. It's been two years since I worked that job, and it seemed alot longer. It was a good job; not a clean, but a well lighted place. With lots of forced espresso. The kid certainly grew - and certainly I felt old. But hey homeys, sometimes life punks you that way.

So I got back to pulling noodles, and wanting liquorice. Then, out of nowhere, riding on the Wong Kar-wai wind came a funny, "youuu whooooo!" from my left. And there it was: a carrot, chiseled into the visage of what looked like a buck-toothed Japanese salary man, tie and all. It was Mommy's husband's doing. And after that, it was all laughter. I yelled out to anyone who had a camera phone to get a shot of this thing because it was good. A monument to carved vegetable art; unfortunately, no one seemed to respond, accept for one employee's,"yup, he's creative, alright." But I wouldn't let it go. I kept pushing (someone had better have taken a picture of that thing, or at least preserved it in vinegar).
I don't talk enough about Mommy's husband, who we all affectionately refer to as Uncle. Actually, Uncle, and then his name, like "Uncle Joe." But, his name's too Thai to pronounce, and most importantly, the integrity of my place of work and the people who work therein, to important to compromise. So for the sake of my stories, I'll leave at Uncle. Very Jackie Chan. Very, "Rumble in the Bronx."
According to the history, Uncle was a very prominent artist and professor back home in Thailand, some of his works being hung up in the restaurant, and personified in the form of random vegetables. I remember the first thing Uncle said to me: "I have Buddha, I have Buddha to protect me." A statement given in fellowship with Mommy's, "Uncle never cuts himself." To be honest, it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard. Whether true or not, the man's conviction was reason enough to be charmed by it. I can only hope that someday I muster up enough courage to ask Uncle to paint me a picture of the Buddha himself, and Mommy to take me to temple.
Uncle's full of stories too, from why a white man in Bangkok will always have to pay more, to why there's a hole in the bottom of his new shoe. He mimics sounds, he laughs when Mommy yells at him, and he even sings on occasion. And I'm sure that if the Buddha did any of those things, Uncle does them just as well. He certainly is a man of contentment and abundance, a reincarnation of the future Buddha himself. Sometimes I wonder if I even need a temple to go to with a workplace like that.

I hope someone took a picture of that carrot.

So, after a good night's work, and a place I was very glad to cook in, me, Uncle, Number Five, and the two other cooks did the obvious: cleaned up, and sat down to a bowl of Uncle's fried rice (which was almost as good as his congee). Now you know he approached that with reckless abandon.

(And dear reader, I brought some home for you♥)

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The Politics of Dress

While waiting for a student I tutor in English, I thought about a particular person I rode by on my bike while passing through the park on my way home from work last night. From there my mind generally began to wander and I decided to draw some pictures instead of actually doing anything productive. I drew one of Mommy, which doesn't do her any justice, one of Number Five, her sister, which does her great justice, and one of the person I rode by last night - only because the way he dressed got me to thinking about why people dress the way they do. And then I immediately understood why, and will tell you - after you look at my kuso zuga.

Mommy

Number Five

A quick note about Number Five, who I'm convinced is the reincarnation (next to Mommy's husband) of some Buddha somewhere in time. Anyway, Number Five always comes to work wearing her hair in a bun, and only once have I seen it let down, and let me tell you, hers is the most beautiful/black/shiny hair I've ever set eyes on; staring at her hair is like looking into the abyss, and we all know what happens when we do that. In fact, I'm pretty sure her hair is made out of the same kind of mythical obsidian the Aztec Jaguar Warriors used to embed in the sides of their wooden swords.

Lost Member of Some Lost/Lame Straight-edge Band ("the Person")

So, something to ponder. Why do people wear seemingly uncomfortable clothes, say, at nine o'clock at night when the temperature is a cool 6 degrees? Granted, it wasn't that cold during the day; but anyway, why dress like a rockstar, if you aren't a rockstar? I bet if you saw a Rolling Stone on a Sunday cutting their hedge they'd be in the cherriest of pairs of jogging pants. Sure, you can't tell from my crude photo, but his clothes were pretty tight, his v-neck t-shirt pretty turquoise and worn through, his indigo jeans, even tighter, his hair very Francis Ng alas any movie Francis Ng has more or less been in.
Well, I know exactly why, and you know exactly why too. It just seems so unnecessary to put yourself through so much bunk when you can wear something equally nice and comfortable, as well as well-fitted, yet tasteful. Oh, who am I to talk? My clothes are so worn in you'd think I was at least some kind of unkempt Ronin in my past life, or at least a kung fu master. But hey, for all I know, Straight-edge Guy could have been the most comfortable he's ever been, feeling safe and secured by the tight jeans that hugged his otherwise tiny . . . ankles?

As for the rest of my day, it was pretty eventful; I went out for some Korean, got schooled in pool, and was lucky enough to urinate in a university bathroom who's stalls told me something about cake and which contained wads of bloody tissue where soap should have been (for pee's sake!). That really was the cherry on a fantastic evening. Anyway, all this and more on the next enthralling installment of CYMB. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a common cold to shake.

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"Muy" Thai Mother

Mommy came back from Thailand Monday; unfortunately for me I was pigeonholed into running the kitchen alone with some other poor schmuck in hopes that she couldn't resist coming in and, at the least, trying to work immediately, or bringing me back some souvenir in good faith. I don't think she knows me well enough for anything like that though - then again, how do I know? Like the Buddha said, "a generous heart is good for the right sort of people."
With that said, I think a proper introduction is in order. Mommy (pronounced "mumeeeeee") is the woman I work for, and who, for the most part, claims to be a kind of surrogate to me and the rest of the staff; and dear listeners, I must admit, to me, that is beautiful. Nothing brings me more joy than sneaking in a meal or two with her during a shift alongside her husband and sister, "Number Five," the three of them almost always being in the restaurant. Except for the past two months, in which Mommy and her husband have been gone to Thailand for whatever reason. There were nights when I just wanted to storm out of the place, saddened by the fact that neither were there, and unable to deal with some otherwise immature power struggles among staff and foremen. But, being the overtly chivalrous sucker that I am, I promised I'd stick around, at least until she got back. And I did. And I'm glad.
I can only imagine what I might say when I see her. Heck, I already know. I'll just shout, "Mummeeeeeee!" But I can only think of two responses that might come from her: "Weezee!" or, "Oi Na! Skinny boii! You still here?" Maybe she'll throw in an affectionate "bullshit bbeeeeeeehhhhhhhbee." She's done it before. She's a firecracker, that's for sure.
Mummy's the one who started calling me Weezee in the first place, a nickname given to me by sheer mistake and mispronunciation through an otherwise West Indies sounding English accent. When she did find out that she had been mispronouncing my name for a solid 2 months, she started calling me by my proper name - but only for a day. No one seems to mind though, not even the waitress she calls "E-mail" simply because it's easier to say than the actual name that precedes it.
It's 2:30 am now and I'm pretty excited. I was caught up in the anxious imaginary conversation I was dreading having with a Japanese professor in attempts to beg my way back into class, while looking at "Paderno" brand vacuum flasks (thermoses) at some kitchen hardware store, when I realized I would see Mummy, and "Daddy," tomorrow (later today/this morning, hopefully). Does that sound lame? Of course it does. But when you're me, these days you don't have much time for peace of mind except when working with the happiest old Thai couple in the world, and begging even them for some kind of frugal recipe. Speaking of frugal, I've made Mummy, and her husband, and "Number Five," and whatever other staff she happens to give them to, some poor excuses for rice cakes. Not as much as I would have liked to, but enough to do the job. She never really finishes all the things I bring her anyway. Still, if there's one way to show her (or anyone) that she's been missed, food's certainly the right way. The only thing left to do is hide them from her son, or prey to Buddha she's even there to eat them. Oh man, the kitchen's a mess.

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A couple of years ago, a good friend of mind had likened eating a bowl of congee to something as comforting as coming home.
Now, for those of you who don't know, congee (pronounced "con-jee") is a porridge dish consisting of mainly rice (usually a mixed ratio of glutinous and long grain) and whatever kind of stock the cooker wishes to boil it in. And depending on how it's boiled, the porridge itself can be either gelatinous or runny; I myself prefer the latter.
To this day, I still bare in mind what my friend said with the same amount of conviction as I did the day I first heard him say it - that same day I made the spiciest congee we had ever eaten, and that same day my friend was demanding glass after glass of milk, of all things, to drink.
I'm still trying to make a good bowl of congee. It has a strange duality. On one hand, it can be extremely comforting, and on the other, it can be bland and taste old, riddled with some strange ingredient like thousand year old eggs, making its flavour almost metallic (if that means anything to anyone but me). The same friend who introduced me to congee sometimes says it's something for old people, like dumplings and tofu. Other times, he's ecstatic at being able to have it; I suppose when it gives him (and all of us) the comfort he (and we) sometimes seek.
I often find myself looking for something these days, more often than not, in a bowl of congee, whenever I'm by some hole-in-the-wall, or even at my own place of work. Yup, if you ask me, congee definitely shares some of that strange duality with life: good one minute - not so good the next. Luckily, there're things that help us muck through it all, one way or the other, whether it's a bowl of gluey congee, or a generally good disposition.
I'm 24 years old, a recent grad school dropout and someone, like everyone, who's looking for something else, if they haven't already found it. More importantly though, I'm someone who genuinely loves food, and knows how wonderful it can be to cook for someone who really needs it.
Food's not my whole life, but it certainly is a big part of it, and if there's something that helps me through the day, food is certainly it, as I'm sure it is for many of you as well.
I don't know where I'm going, but I'm sure I'm on my way. And no matter what the world is like, at least there's always a good bowl of congee - or a bad one. What's important is that it's there.

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