Read My Forehead!

Mommy: M-------, why you put your hair in your face like that, you look like little gerl. You afraid of showing forehead? You hiding something under there!

Me: I don't know why you just don't put your hair under your cap M--; no one cares how you look in the kitchen.

Mommy: Yeah, put it away, c'mon. You afraid of showing your forehead? Show me your forehead, Mommy will read it for you. I tell you who you are.

Me: Mommy! You read foreheads!

Mommy: yyyeEEAAHH!!

Me: Well, I have no hair Mommy -here, read mine.

Mommy: Okay, but don't be angry. Don't be mad at Mommy.

Me: Why would I be mad at my mom?

Mommy: No your mum, at mommy (placing hand on her chest).

Me: Mad at you? It's my forehead's fault, not yours. Go ahead.

Mommy: Okay...

You always worrying. Big worrier. Worry worry worry.

Me: Hit the nail on the head.

Mommy: You a little jealous of others too.

Me: Who is this woman?

Mommy: You have to do things your way. Always your way.

Me: I don't know if that's true Mommy.

Mommy: Yes. People tell you to do things there way and you do, but just to get them away. You do things others' way only to do your way.

Me:?

Mommy: And you don't like sharing your talents. You believe in yourself more than others, but don't like to show others. You need more confidence. Right now, you very unsure, like you on a fence going, "ohhOOhhOOhhh" (*pretending to balance*). But when you are decided, you will be better than the rest.



I have so many creases on my forehead you'd think it was a palimpsest, which would explain why Mommy could read me so well. Was she fishing? No way. Not. Ever!



"GoodLucky"


The Asian restaurant circuit is a funny thing. I'm all for celebrity product placement, and I know that Asia loves a good celebrity pasted on whatever box of crackers they can create, but when I came across the following little gem in the hands of my employer I couldn't help but laugh. Today Mommy was leafing through a yearly Chinese calender given by and advertising the only Thai/Viet grocery supplier in the region and which most likely supplies to every restaurant in the greater tri-city. Personally, it's one of my favourite places to shop: bright lights AND neon signs inside the store giving way to something almost existential, LCD TVs above the registers playing whatever is on Vietnam's favourite TV station; and of course, the loud, undulating, ear massaging sounds of some, probably gorgeous, Vietnamese singer. And don't forget the smell. And the sea cucumber. And the worker that accidentally drops a live fish and hits it with a paddle in order to pick it up again. I'm in love.
And what better way to advertise awesome location than with some totally unrelated Mainland Chinese actress posted on to a huge poster-like calender? If you can think of one, I'd like to hear it.

Mommy had been turning each of its pages reading the names of actresses in her best Chinese voice when she caught my attention. It was all uphill from there. As soon as I saw none other than Liu Yi Fei, I was hooked, I had to have it! Liu Yi Fei was the whole reason I started studying Chinese - at least, I think it was her. Either her or Jackie Chan -I know, I know, Jackie Chan's from Hong Kong. But he was speaking Mandarin in Forbidden Kingdom. Wait, I think the reason I started studying Chinese was because I had the awesome idea of learning Mandarin, travelling to China and eking out old Kung Fu masters just like my teacher did before me; this, a result of being dazzled by Jackie Chan and Jet Li's epic fighting sequences. Now that I think of it, I didn't like Liu Yi Fei in the movie at all, her character being a constant distraction to the story's hero, of whom had to learn kung fu in order to return the staff to the Monkey King. Oh yeah, it's epic. I mean, as much as I like the white man's post-colonial take on whiteness in the kung fu genre, and the ridiculous notion of projecting every none Asian male onto an otherwise Caucasian protagonist, humouring any kind of Asian female fantasy he may have, engaging his love-sick psyche and making him believe once again that anything exotic is his and has always belonged to him even before he knew about its existence so he shouldn't feel wrong, or guilty for just taking it. Well, I just had to object. If it's not kung fu, and it's not cooking, no thank you.
So, I asked Mommy if I could have the poster, and she said yes, exclaiming that she doesn't keep calenders in the house, especially Chinese calenders. We argued about each page's actress (being a stickler for Chinese popular culture), where they were from: Hong Kong or China, how Thai they looked, and if they were even Chinese in the first place. From there, all other kinds of prejudices ensued, and let me tell you, there is nothing in this life like an old Thai woman scolding Chinese popular culture for whatever reason. To each her own. I still got my junkie Asian grocery store poster. And that is some, as the mistranslated Engrish on my new poster says: "goodlucky."

Tweet

Looking for the Itis

Spending eight hours in a theatre space on a Saturday with the more or less jeneuse can do strange things to a man- like slowly chip away at his esteem as the odd teenager riddles him with insult after insult about age and hair loss, making him question Antoine de St. Exupery's child praising novella The Little Prince. Why, oh why Antoine, are adults so bad? Last time I checked an adult had no real qualm about getting strung out on cheeseburgers, unlike the vegetarian advocated, healthy eating kids I seem to frequently come in contact with. Oh goodness, what happened to the days of shakes and malts, and melts and shaky malt melts? I'd love to take Sally to the sock hop and local burger joint after, but now she's talkin' about yoga after class and that new vegan cafe that opened uptown. Too bad, because I was really looking forward to make-out point.
Looks like it'll be me alone tonight, and some open-faced paddy melt displaying its edibles (give it whatever meaning you will.)
Luckily, that wasn't the case; luckily, me and the other overworked, underpaid adults/grad/PHD students were itchin' for some "ITIS" inducing re-fried, deep fried anythings - and shaky malt melts too!

Now, every time I drive home from my weekly Chinese class (conveniently placed above a quaint little noodle shop), I pass along multiple strips with myriads of food spots; more than usual, not as many as the literal strip malls of restaurants in Markham, Ontario. Anyway, one place always catches my eye. I don't know if its because of the name, or the strange giant mystery stain that resembles Our Lady of Fatima on its sign.


It's the name. Definitely the name. Wimpy's. Wimpy's Diner. 50's & 60's. Unique Style. Good food. Only good? Ah well, I'm easy. We'll deconstruct this some more later. Quite frankly, I can't believe the place exists. Not with a name like Wimpy's anyway. Why name it Wimpy's? Well, that's a very good question. Historically, the owner wanted to a create a name that would lead people with low esteem into a place where they could blow all their money in attempts to feel not only empowered, but powerful, strolling through Wimpy's like Clint Eastwood strolls through saloons. Really. But, not really. But really, that's the only logical fantasy I could think up. It was clever marketing, what can I say?

Now, I'm not big on diners. They're all pretty predictable as far as I'm concerned; overly priced food, "kinda" diner music (sure, Abba existed in the fifties. Totally. Or at least, diners existed in the seventies. So then, technically speaking, Jay-Z is diner music too.), and an atmosphere ripe with the greasy mist of not only fried food, but the sweaty men who cook it. Strangely enough, those stereotypes we see on television are alive and well in the diner space. All of this in combination with the rather run down, stained looking walls, and old photos and records of celebrities riddled across the room. And we musn't forget the proverbial red booths. It ain't no diner if there ain't no red booths. The same goes for those ridiculously luminescent red and blue neon lights. Which, quite frankly, I enjoy, whether in a diner, or the window of any local adult video store. I swear, sometimes I think that kind of decor is not there for the sake of having a themed eatery, but just as an excuse for looking half-assed.


But I digress. I digress because although most diners may appear that way, Wimpy's is far from the norm. Sure, it has a jukebox, and records all over the walls, and pictures of "the King," whom of which I was so lovingly sat beside. But what really caught me by surprise was that it was clean. So clean in fact that its atmosphere almost feels cold. A little too clean for a diner? Maybe. But I wasn't complaining. It was refreshing. I could breathe. And from there, I could eat!

Wimpy's has a typical dineresque menu: breakfast, lunch, dinner; burgers, fries, shakes; Italian food- wait, what? That's right, amongst the cluttered menu of onions rings and cheese steaks, there is, snuggly tucked away in the deep recesses of its laminated pages, a substantial array of pasta options. Imagine: pasta and coleslaw, together at last. My Louisianen cousin would be in heaven. Was this a joke, I thought? Or a clever ploy to lead people to ordering other things. Perhaps it was a bet, for shits and giggles, and whatever other reason someone decided to put pasta on the menu. To take weekly bets and tally up how many people ordered pasta from a diner called Wimpy's, the winner raking in more winnings than the place sees in profit from the pasta items. Hey, I know, and now you do, that restaurants often place certain items on the menu to lure customers to their more popular/doable dishes. I was willing to bet that if I ordered the pasta, they would have said they ran out, or red lights and sirens would have gone off, and those tacky secret service agents from the 50's would have come out of somewhere and taken me to a holding cell somewhere- or a spaceship. Maybe the same one Elvis flies. But the pasta wasn't the only anomaly on the menu. Things as strange as McCain French Fries were put down (for 2.99 mind you). Why any place would sell a brand name food item? Sure, soft drinks I could understand- you can't make a soft drink from scratch. But french fries? Luckily, my friend opted for the regular fries. Touché Wimpy's- your clever menu strategizing wins again. She did indeed get the regular fries.
But before that, being the nostalgic suckers that we were, we opted for those symbols of all American diners everywhere: the malt (3.49) and milkshake (3.99) with option of egg (.79). (Do raw eggs still give you food poisoning? I've got 20 hours left of the 48 hour food poisoning limit, so I'll keep you posted.) We didn't share straws. Flavours are vast; if you have a malt, you mix it with whatever soft drink they sell. If you have a milkshake, you choose whatever artificial flavour they can dish out- banana, strawberry, chocolate, baby, whatever. I opted for banana. And let me tell you, it did justice. I had no trouble sucking this thing through a straw, and the flecks of yellow were a testament to the egg I demanded they mix into my merangue quality milkshake.

After shooing the waitress away three times we finally decided what to order. It was a toss up for me, my friend was bent on getting a pound of chicken wings. I, like the girl I am, didn't know what dress to wear, nor what item to order: veggie burger combo, or delicious philly cheese steak (in theory)? Now, seeing as to how I would probably never visit Philedelphia, I decided I'd follow through on one of my personal promises to order a philly cheesesteak in either Philedelphia or a quaint little diner.

So, after ordering, and after 20 minutes of waiting, ironically (some karmic consequence, I'm sure, after consistently telling the waitress I wasn't ready to order), the food arrived. Delicious french fries, and- delicious french fries, and . . . moderatly good chicken wings, which should have tasted like barbeque, but were overpowered by the sauce's acidic, vinegar like flavour. And speaking of vinegar, the coleslaw that so lovingly came tucked under a nice slice of pickle, must have went to school with the chicken wings, not getting as good grades in vinegar-ology, tasting rather bland and absent of that rich mayonnaise twang you come to expect. Nothing of the sort there. Not at all. Subpar at best. But it was, in all fairness, only a side dish that came with the main meal: my philly cheese steak . . . homey.


Now I either built up the deliciousness of the philly cheese steak in my head from years of listening to Redman CD skits about philly cheese steaks or Wimpy's philly cheese steak is, like the diner's name, wimpy (how many food reviewers use THAT in their Wimpy reviews? Huh? How many!). A combination of roast beef, sauteed onions and chopped (somewhat bitter) green peppers topped with what was probably mozarella cheese on an awesomely generic hot dog bun, the cheese steak was nothing out of the ordinary. I did finish it though - for 8.49, who wouldn't finish it? And what was I thinking while finishing it? How I wished I had ordered the veggie burger combo, because after eye-balling all the other customers around me who ordered things like french toast, huge hamburgers, melts, and what have you, I was jonesin' for something far more satisfying. To the point, I was still hungry. And that strung out hamburger fix I had attempted to quash - still there. Still inside me right now as I write this very entry, and I'm willing to bet it will still be here when I go back to the theatre tomorrow, unless I'm quick enough to stop off at a McDonalds before hand.
So, will I go back? I'm thinking maybe. I'm thinking of giving Wimpy's a second chance, only because the hamburgers on the menu look so delicious. Then again, my friend summed up the place in one epiphonic moment that only an English graduate student could wax so poetically: "If the food was better, this place would be cool." Truer words, truer words.
One thing's for sure, Wimpy's certainly did live up to its name. The question is, can it redeem itself the second time?

Wimpy's Diner

1470 Weber St E
Kitchener, ON ,
N2A2Y5
(519) 893-1458
 

Tweet

So the Buddha Said

Uncle: You don't drink "beeah," yeah?

Me: No uncle, I don't.

Uncle: Oh.

J-----: Who doesn't like to drink?

Me: Psshhh.

Uncle: You know - alcohol is good for you; it's not bad. You know, you can drink it, but not all da time. Chinese drink it at dinnah, that's it. Like uhhh, German, they drink one glass of wine at da table. You know? Alcohol can be good. You drink it not all the time, if you do that, once in while, it is like a medicine. But, if you drink all the time, and too much, it is like a poison.

Me: Hmph.

Uncle: I see Canadians; they buy 24 pack of beeah, they go home and drink- sometime someone get payed Thursday, spend all the money on beeah, too sick for work on Friday. Don't let it last.

Me: I know that much.

Uncle: Me, I buy alcohol, I only drink when I have guest ovah. Never when I'm alone. It's good that way.

I felt almost ashamed of my dedication to not drinking, like I should have thrown my pride to the dogs, especially when Uncle offerred me something to drink. The Buddha says that if we're vegetarian and offerred meat, we shouldn't refuse it; though it's good not to eat another living thing, it will have died in vain if we at least don't eat it. The one giving too is also undermined for their otherwise altruistic action, and open heart. How can I deny a person who is otherwise trying to find the right path, have the right thought and create the right action? Maybe next time, if and when I'm offerred anything like beer, I'll try and meet Uncle on the threefold path, and we'll make the trek to Nirvana together.

So the Buddha said.

Tweet

Mommy: Weezee, come here - I teach you and M-------- Thai language. Repeat after me: pom - like "pohm"-

Me: like pomme?

Mommy: Yes. Now say rrrack (rolling her R's). hee heeee. Rrrack. Pom rack koung. Like coon. Now you too say with me: pom rack koung.

Us: "Pommeraccoon."

M--------: What's it mean?

Mommy: It mean "I love you" in Thai. Pom how boy says "I." Rack mean love. Koung mean "you" to girl. So M-------- you say to girlfriend, "M--------- rack A----------."

Me: Pom sounds like apple Mommy.

Mommy: What!?

Me: Like the French word for apple.

Mommy: Mommy speak French Skinny Boy; it not apple.

Me: I know. And rack koung sounds like raccoon. You know, a raccoon.

Mommy: Tsk! Aaaaaaa. Oi na!

Me: Hahaha.

. . .

Me: Hey, Mommy . . . APPLE RACCOON!!!

Mommy: Oi na! SILLY BOI!!

. . .

Mommy: Mommy love you too!



If that's not magical, I don't know what is. It's like, when an old Thai woman makes ragu for a young Italian guy. Which is exactly what Mommy did for me today. And let me tell you reader, ragu's never tasted so delicious - A. because it was made by an old Thai woman, and B. because it was made with apple and raccoon.
Strangely, this is the second time in my life an Asian has made ragu for me. Never once by an Italian. Strange? Not really. I once stir-fried eggplant for a girl who claimed it was better than her Chinese mother's. A cook is a cook is a cook is a cook, after all. Mommy just calls us international chefs. Aw mommy- there must be some kind of god-like kitchen character in Chinese lore somewhere that resembles her in one way or another. I say resembles, because the universe probably had it all planned out before even bringing her or said character into existence. She's the kind of woman you'd want to take to heaven and eat peaches with all day.



And don't worry dear reader, apple raccoon you, too.

Tweet