what twits.

Usually I go through life with a pretty sunny outlook. Sure, I coat my warm fuzzy insides with a crackly outer layer of snarkiness and sarcasm (or, as I like to call it, snarkasm), but I generally enjoy my world. I encountered something yesterday, though, that I don't know if I'm okay with. I'm not sure if I should be annoyed, or if I should just sit in the corner and giggle for an hour--it's that level of ridiculous. I'd try to ease you gently into it, but there's just no point, so brace yourself--here it is...TWITTER SHOES.

You heard me. Twitter shoes. Officially known as "rambler" shoes. Some fiendish geekazoid with nothing better to do with their brains and skill decided to make a sneaker that is equipped with Bluetooth for the sole purpose (HA! Shoe joke!) of broadcasting the wearer's every step to Twitter. If I were to wear these shoes, people who followed my (nonexistent) Twitter page would have access to my location every step of the way. That says two things. One of them is "my ego is so big it has its own gravitational pull," and the other is "please please stalk me."

Granted, the shoes are supposed to be some sort of commentary on how stupid Twitter is, and how dependent people have become on the instant gratification of constant status updates and social networking. But putting these shoes out there is like trying to get somebody to stop drinking by showing them a swimming pool full of tequila and saying "See? See how senseless that is?"

On a completely different note, I clicked on my Spam mailbox yesterday and in response, Gmail immediately put up a link in the ads section of the page that read "SAVORY SPAM CRESCENTS--BAKE 12-15 MINUTES OR UNTIL GOLDEN BROWN." No. No on so very many levels, gmail. But thanks for trying.

proof: i can talk for hours about food.

Last night was Date Night. Thanks to the glorious and ever-so-slightly patronizing event that is Philly's Restaurant Week, every so often I get a chance to go to an establishment in the city that, were I to enjoy a meal there on a normal night, would make my poor little bank account wither into dust and float away on the breeze. Last night's choice was Amada, which is run by chef Jose Garces (who also happens to be the Food Network's newest Iron Chef, in case anybody was interested). The restaurant serves traditional Spanish tapas-style meals, and we've been there once before--also for restaurant week. The food was so good the first time that Amanda and I both nearly cried tears of joy with each plate that was put in front of us. It was literally a foodgasm, and was so profoundly delicious that there was no way we wouldn't go back when Restaurant Week came around again.

There was a snafu with the cab company (and by snafu I mean the cab didn't show up), so we drove into the city instead, just missed our reservation, and ended up at a high table near the bar. It was still a lot of fun, but I wish we'd been able to eat in the dining room--then maybe I wouldn't have had to accidentally listen to so many annoying people talk about annoying things. Oh well! Back to the topic at hand.

Now, normally I view the restaurants of celebrity chefs with a wary eye. For one thing, it's not like the chefs themselves are there all the time. Sure, they might develop the menus and decide which ingredients to order, but they have talented chefs working under them to make sure that the restaurant doesn't fail while they're off on their book tours. I'm not saying these other chefs aren't as good--quite the opposite is true. What I'm saying is that it's stupid to go to a high-end restaurant just because some celebrity chef runs it. It's not like you'll see them there.

Amada is a restaurant for which I will make an exception. Sure, it's always full of obnoxious Young Professionals and other people reeking of self-importance. Sure, it's always packed by six o'clock, even on a weeknight--but I am more than willing to deal with the noise and the crowd and the rude people if I get to put Jose Garces' food in my face. Each dish is small, simply cooked and immaculately presented, with a minimum of fuss, and (thankfully) no little microgreen garnishes or artful whorls of frothy emulsions. Anyway, enough snarking and food snobbery. Here's what we ordered:

FIRST COURSE (two dishes each)
Amanda had a traditional Spanish tortilla with saffron aioli and a plate of La Peral cheese with a currant-pistachio preserve. The Spanish tortilla is totally different from the flour or corn wrap common to Latin American cooking. It's a peasant dish in origin, made from potatoes and onion bound together with egg. This version was small and dense, but still creamy on the tongue, and the dab of aioli on top added a gorgeous garlicky tang. La Peral is a creamy cow's milk blue cheese from Spain--it's delicious, but it definitely has a distinctive barnyard funk. You can tell that it came from a cow. Fortunately the bread and the currant preserve that it came with helped to mellow things out.
For my two choices, I had a plate of serrano ham with cornichons, caperberries, and dijon mustard, and a plate of aged manchego cheese with truffled lavender honey. The serrano ham was a repeat from my last visit because I loved the dish so much. The plate arrived draped with delicate slices of ham that had been drizzled with olive oil. Each piece was paper-thin, rich, mild, and salty--I don't care what any bleeding-heart vegetarian might say about the cruelty of ending an animal's life for my food--this was clearly a very happy pig. This pig was pampered and loved, and his meat was treated with reverence and skill. Only a happy pig could taste that good. The manchego was perfect, too, and paired with lavender honey it was like what I'd imagine the Spanish countryside would taste like if I could taste with my eyes.

Are you drooling yet?

SECOND COURSE (also two choices)
Amanda had roasted truffled asparagus with a poached egg, and a plate of perfect grilled scallops. I had grilled calamari and grilled brochettes (skewers) of beef. This was the part of the meal where we shared less, and hunched over our plates emitting quiet little moans of happiness, so I can only tell you that Amanda's asparagus spears were swathed in a buttery garlic sauce of some kind, and the scallops were sweet as candy. The grilled calamari was also perfectly soft, sweet and buttery--and I tip my hat to whichever chef cooked it, because it's very difficult to cook squid, especially on a grill, without turning it into vulcanized rubber. The beef brochettes were tiny skewered cubes of what must have been a gorgeous cut of meat--soft, rich, and full of flavor with a beautiful crunch. Unfortunately, the meat was highly salted, which I tend not to like. Still, though--that's absoutely my only complaint, and I'm really good at complaining.

DESSERT
We both picked the same dessert--a small brown butter cake, served with almond ice cream. It was a rich, sweet and decadent way to end the meal, but I wouldn't ever go to Amada just for dessert. I'm much more interested in the savory offerings.

Anyway, despite the fact that Philly cab companies can never seem to get their act together when I want them to (I should just take the bus), and despite the fact that fancy places are always full of fancy and obnoxious people, date night was wonderful. I loved the food, and loved the company even more.

magpie

she's not always the brightest crayon in the box...

but she's a noble beast.

she doesn't always pay attention... but she's a joyful beast

when she's sleepy, her paws smell exactly like Fritos.

i like her just fine.

reverse snobbery

I applied today to be a freelance "budget meals examiner" for a website called Examiner.com. Basically, that means that if I get the job, I get to write about all the hole-in-the-wall places in Philly that have unexpectedly great food. And I'd get paid for doing it. Granted, I'm guessing that the "pay" will be a fraction of a cent every time the page gets viewed, but it'd still be really neat to get any kind of compensation at all to do exactly what I love to do anyway. The application asked for a sample article (specifically not in the first person, which I thought was interesting and encouraging. I won't be forced to talk about myself!). So, for posterity, I'm going to post what I submitted. Also it means I killed two birds with one article. Or something.

Sniffing Out A Deal--How to Find the Best and Cheapest Restaurants in Any City

How do you know when you're a foodie? Here are some warning signs: You can't speak French, Italian or Mandarin, but know how to read a menu in all three of those languages. You constantly experiment in your tiny galley kitchen, packing odd ingredients into the fridge and trying to find places to hang your fresh pasta (much to the dismay of your roommates). Good food is one of our chiefest pleasures, and yet many people also find themselves in the perilous category of Extreme Cheapskate. It's a tough economy, and no one wants to spend more money than they have to, even on something as delightful as food. In order to balance the yin and yang of appetite and tightfistedness, therefore, cheapskate foodies make a hobby out of scouting out some of the cheapest places to get a great meal wherever they are.

Here's a food-scouting tip--look for the trifecta of size, smell, and clientele. The best-tasting food often comes from the tiny, scruffy hole-in-the-wall place that you might not think to try. Don't let looks deceive you--stroll slowly past the door and take a good long whiff. If something smells delicious, spicy, intriguing...it's worth a shot. Open the door and take a look around to see who's eating there. If the restaurant is full of depressed-looking people looking at their plates like their sandwich just insulted their mother, you might want to reconsider your decision. If, however, people seem to be making sweet, sweet love to their food, you're in the right place. Grab a table. This approach works almost every time, no matter what city you're in--for example, here are a couple of cheapskate-foodie-approved restaurants in Philadelphia, PA.

Moctezuma Restaurant (1108 South 9th St., Bella Vista neighborhood)--This is hands-down one of the best Mexican restaurants in all of Philly. For around five dollars you can get a plate of food that could easily feel a family of four. Everything is prepared fresh, the flavors are bright, spicy, rich, earthy and deeply satisfying.

Vietnam Cafe (47th and Baltimore, West Philly)-- This is a former hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurant (what, you couldn't tell from the name?) that has expanded in the last few months to become a genuinely classy restaurant with a full bar, lacquered wood decor and lots more seating. Thankfully, the prices and the quality of the food have stayed exactly the same. Classic dishes like salt-and-pepper squid and spicy noodle soups are consistently delicious, and the portions are quite large.

Good food has the capacity to make people happy like very few other things in this world--the good news is, you don't have to be a food snob with wads of money to enjoy the great flavors that any city has to offer.

That's an article that's worth at least three cents, right? Right?

...yeah this machine works your...flactoid muscle.

Today is one of those days where my body is full of mystery kinks and cramps from who-knows-what. I probably slept in all sorts of funky positions last night--not that I remember. Anyway, today is one of those days where I dreamily entertain myself with a fantasy world in which, after my workout at the gym (during which I am sleek, coordinated, and admired by all), I can retire to my own personal sauna and be enveloped by pine-scented steam until every single muscle in my body becomes a wet noodle. Then I saunter on over to the massage room where a robust and businesslike Swedish woman with sculpted cheekbones and powerful forearms (or is it vice versa) covers me with delicious-smelling massage oil, pummels the bejesus out of my cramped muscles, and makes every one of my backbones go ka-chunk back into its proper place.

Sadly, none of that will be happening today. I will be going to the gym (because I am a MOTIVATED and FIT INDIVIDUAL!), but I will be neither sleek nor coordinated, and I certainly won't be admired. Instead, I will look like a sweaty stack of elbows all headed in different directions, and there is the distinct chance that I will misread the directions on at least one piece of equipment and end up climbing in backwards or otherwise embarrassing myself. I will most certainly see students there who live in the building where I work, and that's awkward. Afterwards, I will head home for a hot shower and a pleasant, if Swede-less evening. So it's not all bad. But I sure do love me some fantasy land.

breakfast, backwards.

even reading makes me lazy

I remembered this after I finished posting the last entry but was too lazy to attempt a segue. I got an email at work today about something that I didn't pay attention to, but what DID catch my eye was that whoever sent the email ended it with "have a wonderful and a purposeful day." Um...wow. Way to make me feel like Underachiever McSlackerson. Thank you, fellow gainfully employed person, but I have a desk to sit at and internet TV to watch. You may want to rethink your choice of sign-off...you're coming on a little strong with the optimistic ambition. I think I will have a mediocre and a listless day, if it's all the same to you.

stories

It's kind of a weird thing for me to be writing about myself and my life, because I'm not actually that good of a storyteller. I have friends who can take any minor episode from their life and turn it into an absolutely hilarious story--I could be hearing about how so-and-so went to buy juice at the corner store, where NOTHING HAPPENED, and I'm still laughing so hard I pee a little. If I were to recount a similar moment in MY life, it would go something like..."well, we were out of juice, so I had to head over to the corner store and get some, so now there's juice in the fridge." Wonk. It totally runs in the family, though. My mom has the ability to take a perfectly good story and talk circles around the point until I want to punch myself in the eyeballs, and right as I'm clenching my fists to do it, she ALWAYS goes "well anyway, to make a long story short..." and I die a little on the inside. I love her, I really do--she's just bad at stories.

You know what's even worse than bad stories? DREAM STORIES. It's like the worst possible category of you-had-to-be-there story. Not only were you not there, IT NEVER HAPPENED. There are a few exceptions, these being the truly bizarre or the truly great. Example: "Last night I dreamed I was making out with Ron Weasley, but then it turned out that he was a jar of alfredo sauce." True story, copyright Amanda.

I'm not sure what point I'm trying to make, except that my life isn't very exciting, but I'd like to learn to write about it as if it were. Hence the blog. At the very least, I'll try not to make anyone punch themselves in the face. And that's all I can hope for.