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rue-madame's Diaryland Diary


Tasty Taste

Dinner at our new friends’ house last night was deeee-licious.

The husband is a wonderful cook, and he and his wife are charming hosts. The food was a delight: sauteed baby artichokes with parmesan shavings (sort of in the jewish/roman style,) a salad with creamy avocadoes and raspberry vinaigrette, and the pièce de résistance: black sesame-encrusted halibut sitting on a bed of softly wilted chard, the whole pile surrounded by a pool of velvety, spicy curry. Oh my god, it was so yummy.

There was red, there was white, there was some actual Cuban rhum, some port, strawberries and cookies. It was lovely. Terence even concluded dinner with a Romeo y Julieta cigar, and he loves nothing more than this civilized after dinner ritual.

The couple are most certainly not swingers! Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I have figured out why our other friend thinks they are, and it mostly has to do with this nutty friend’s own retardified notions on what makes a successful relationship.


We did one of my favorite things which is to have dinner while talking about food. I really am an obese person in a little body.

The husband asked us what we had done that was typically LA since we’d moved down here, and we mentioned our usual little haunts. Then he asked us about the Central Market downtown. Had we been there? No was our answer. He said it was a crime! that we had not yet been to the Central Market! to eat “tacos bigger than your head”!

When we mentioned another Mexican restaurant that we’d had our eye on but hadn’t yet tried, he said we *had* to go there. The food is pretty good, he said, but the best part is the one waiter who works there. If you ask the lone waiter about one of the specialties--some sort of chicken dish--the waiter exclaims, “Ooohhh, the chee-kennnn... it tastes like eet was BORRRNNN in the sauce.” The wife was not so keen on eating something described that way, eventhough she realized that it was the waiter’s way of conveying the fact that the chicken and the sauce were uno. The mole is apparently also good, and the waiter’s description for that is something along the lines of, “Eet’s not hotttttt, but eet’s spiiiiiiiiicyyyyyyyyyyy.”

I love the fancy places, but I have a soft spot for the restaurants with flava.

There’s a Mexican place on the corner of 14th Street and South Van Ness in San Francisco that fits into that category of restaurant. I have no idea what the spot is actually called because I’ve always referred to it as SketchMex.

SketchMex is not especially clean or pretty, the tableclothes are sticky, the jukebox is usually too loud and I don’t think they even have a working phone, but the chicken soup special on Tuesdays is restorative and dirt cheap. You have to get there early to snag a bowl because the workers from the Car Wash place up the street clean the place out. Figuratively. It comes with a basket of hot, thick corn tortillas.

Non-Mexican places can have flava, too. Singapore Malaysia and Ted’s Deli in SF have flava. Au Pied de Fouet in Paris has French flava. I could go on and on, but you know what? All I ever do is talk about food! Well, ok, food and yoga and shoes, not necessarily in that order. I’m so boring.

The most exciting news these days is that Mr Bingo is coming to visit next week! Yay! And he has secured us an invitation to the ReadyMade party in Venice. And he loves to eat! Some other friends will also be in the neighborhood for a scooter rally that’s taking place in Pasadena. Yay for visits!

The month of April just got a whole lot more exciting.

2:44 p.m. - 2003-04-18



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