dudes line up on my right for high fives
... and ladies line up on my left for make-outs. Or, Biblically: IT IS FINISHED. Verily, today thou shalt be with me in some place that isn't a kitchen.
I am done with classes. All that remains is Xmas break and then my externship. My financial aid check came in and was cashed and deposited without a fuss; I get to balance my checkbook, pay my bills and do my Xmas shopping this weekend. I can buy badly needed chef's clogs and a sweater for myself. I have a good excuse to drive to the Beaverton Uwajimaya and load up on more Pocky (I ate all the Pocky I bought for everyone's Christmas stockings). It felt odd, but not bad, to empty out my locker and tote all my tools home.
walked to Chinatown and ate at the fabulously named House of Louie off of 4th. Magnificently tricked out in the traditional red and gold, complete with intact marqueed neon sign (retro neon and old school plastic-cased electric signs, in Portland, are adored, cleaned, and lovingly maintained, as opposed to being stoned, neglected, and eventually torn down like in every other town I've lived in), House of Louie is a perfectly preserved dinosaur from the mid-sixties. While the food is traditional Americanized Chinese, it was wonderful, easily the best I've ever had. I knew exactly what I wanted the second I sat down - 2 Tsing Taos, hot tea, hot and sour soup, and sweet and sour chicken. It's that kind of a place, sort of the archetype of Chinese restaurants, pulling childhood memories of your first contact with Chinese food out of the drawers of your brain. I wish I had a digital cam so I could show the decor: vinyl booths padded in sections of red and gold, moddish light fixtures of rectangles of beveled glass, faux-mahogany carved dragons on the whitewashed walls, only flavored gelatins on the dessert menu, including - yes! - almond jello, the palate-clearing staple of the favorite strip-mall Chinese restaurant of my memories, but to-go containers of almond cookies sit in the built-in plexiglass case at the register next to Kit-Kats and Hershey bars. Just the atmosphere alone was worth the money I spent, and both atmosphere and beer ("Proust in a can") breed nostalgia. I spent a great deal of time comfortably neglecting my book, running my thumb over the embossed chops on my second bottle of Tsing Tao, thinking about the kitschy oriental imports stall at yet another strip mall from my early childhood for the first time in years, remembering the chrome-plated throwing stars and Bruce Lee posters I'd coveted, wondering idly what Bruce's life would've been like if he'd survived, and his son with him, and what would they be doing now ....
While the sweet and sour sauce was the predictable flourescent red you normally associate with congealing white rice and the food court at the mall, it was surprisingly bright and snappy, due to a good dose of fresh ginger, welcome large bits of which I found in the sauce, but never enough to burn my tongue. There was no sign of the vague, disgusting tin undertaste that sings you songs of #10 cans of pineapple, and the chicken was good, surprisingly so. The batter was crisp, there was no soggy pith of unfried dough, and the chicken was fresh and broke apart into tender fibers in my mouth the way it should. I can't remember when, or if, I've ever had the experience of a satisfying Chinese meal without having to continually clear my throat afterwards. Was the chicken fried in peanut oil, maybe? It was definitely free from the usual nasty scum of grease. I have a takeout box (the little white Chinese food takeout box is one of the greatest practical designs of the 20th century) of it in my bag now, and just thinking about waking up in the morning knowing that I have a duplicate of tonight's meal waiting for me later in the day makes me feel as if I've just bought myself a toy I get to unwrap all over again tomorrow. The whole theme of the color red, along with my fortune cookie fortune of "You are gifted in many things", I'm taking as an extreme good omen on the occasion of my formal patisserie schooling being all over but the shouting.
Even better, I've made my way across the street to Backspace, which was my original target until I got sidetracked by flashing, shiny Louie's. If it's overrun by kids with poorly colored hair in Hot Topic clothing, that's fine, it's Friday, after all. At the counter, I got another toot of nostalgia when I saw a display of a graphic novel by the Pander Brothers, who illustrated Matt Wagner's GRENDEL miniseries in the eighties for Comico. Although they deserve more props, they're not well-known, which makes me think that they're probably local along with the majority of the American comic industry. That particular series was a huge part of my teen years, and I marked probably a good year of my life off in its installments. Their style has gotten a little more rounded, losing those Memphis design elements of squiggles, triangles and superflous dots, but it's definitely still soup. I'm having a round of Joust before I leave - why do I not have nerd friends in town I can take advantage of Backspace's pool tables with? - and I'm thinking about splurging and buying myself one of the clever little collages on the wall. I've been wanting to start collecting local artists for some time, and there's plenty of legit talent in Portland.
I need to plot out tomorrow's shopping trajectory before the Proust in my system makes me sleepy. I wonder if Uwajimaya will have a Bruce Lee poster tucked away somewhere.
I am done with classes. All that remains is Xmas break and then my externship. My financial aid check came in and was cashed and deposited without a fuss; I get to balance my checkbook, pay my bills and do my Xmas shopping this weekend. I can buy badly needed chef's clogs and a sweater for myself. I have a good excuse to drive to the Beaverton Uwajimaya and load up on more Pocky (I ate all the Pocky I bought for everyone's Christmas stockings). It felt odd, but not bad, to empty out my locker and tote all my tools home.
walked to Chinatown and ate at the fabulously named House of Louie off of 4th. Magnificently tricked out in the traditional red and gold, complete with intact marqueed neon sign (retro neon and old school plastic-cased electric signs, in Portland, are adored, cleaned, and lovingly maintained, as opposed to being stoned, neglected, and eventually torn down like in every other town I've lived in), House of Louie is a perfectly preserved dinosaur from the mid-sixties. While the food is traditional Americanized Chinese, it was wonderful, easily the best I've ever had. I knew exactly what I wanted the second I sat down - 2 Tsing Taos, hot tea, hot and sour soup, and sweet and sour chicken. It's that kind of a place, sort of the archetype of Chinese restaurants, pulling childhood memories of your first contact with Chinese food out of the drawers of your brain. I wish I had a digital cam so I could show the decor: vinyl booths padded in sections of red and gold, moddish light fixtures of rectangles of beveled glass, faux-mahogany carved dragons on the whitewashed walls, only flavored gelatins on the dessert menu, including - yes! - almond jello, the palate-clearing staple of the favorite strip-mall Chinese restaurant of my memories, but to-go containers of almond cookies sit in the built-in plexiglass case at the register next to Kit-Kats and Hershey bars. Just the atmosphere alone was worth the money I spent, and both atmosphere and beer ("Proust in a can") breed nostalgia. I spent a great deal of time comfortably neglecting my book, running my thumb over the embossed chops on my second bottle of Tsing Tao, thinking about the kitschy oriental imports stall at yet another strip mall from my early childhood for the first time in years, remembering the chrome-plated throwing stars and Bruce Lee posters I'd coveted, wondering idly what Bruce's life would've been like if he'd survived, and his son with him, and what would they be doing now ....
While the sweet and sour sauce was the predictable flourescent red you normally associate with congealing white rice and the food court at the mall, it was surprisingly bright and snappy, due to a good dose of fresh ginger, welcome large bits of which I found in the sauce, but never enough to burn my tongue. There was no sign of the vague, disgusting tin undertaste that sings you songs of #10 cans of pineapple, and the chicken was good, surprisingly so. The batter was crisp, there was no soggy pith of unfried dough, and the chicken was fresh and broke apart into tender fibers in my mouth the way it should. I can't remember when, or if, I've ever had the experience of a satisfying Chinese meal without having to continually clear my throat afterwards. Was the chicken fried in peanut oil, maybe? It was definitely free from the usual nasty scum of grease. I have a takeout box (the little white Chinese food takeout box is one of the greatest practical designs of the 20th century) of it in my bag now, and just thinking about waking up in the morning knowing that I have a duplicate of tonight's meal waiting for me later in the day makes me feel as if I've just bought myself a toy I get to unwrap all over again tomorrow. The whole theme of the color red, along with my fortune cookie fortune of "You are gifted in many things", I'm taking as an extreme good omen on the occasion of my formal patisserie schooling being all over but the shouting.
Even better, I've made my way across the street to Backspace, which was my original target until I got sidetracked by flashing, shiny Louie's. If it's overrun by kids with poorly colored hair in Hot Topic clothing, that's fine, it's Friday, after all. At the counter, I got another toot of nostalgia when I saw a display of a graphic novel by the Pander Brothers, who illustrated Matt Wagner's GRENDEL miniseries in the eighties for Comico. Although they deserve more props, they're not well-known, which makes me think that they're probably local along with the majority of the American comic industry. That particular series was a huge part of my teen years, and I marked probably a good year of my life off in its installments. Their style has gotten a little more rounded, losing those Memphis design elements of squiggles, triangles and superflous dots, but it's definitely still soup. I'm having a round of Joust before I leave - why do I not have nerd friends in town I can take advantage of Backspace's pool tables with? - and I'm thinking about splurging and buying myself one of the clever little collages on the wall. I've been wanting to start collecting local artists for some time, and there's plenty of legit talent in Portland.
I need to plot out tomorrow's shopping trajectory before the Proust in my system makes me sleepy. I wonder if Uwajimaya will have a Bruce Lee poster tucked away somewhere.