these are all good questions

CAL

What is "Ribs Et-cuh?"

MICHELLE

Oh, that says "Ribs Etcetera," it's a sign for a barbecue restaurant.

CAL

Why does it have a pig on the sign?

MICHELLE

Because that's the kind of meat they serve at the restaurant, honey.

CAL

They serve pigs?

MICHELLE

Well, you know, different kinds of meat come from different animals.  Like remember,
how steak comes from cows, and how chicken comes from, uh, chicken?

CAL
Yeah.

MICHELLE
So the meat that comes from pigs is used to make a lot of things,
like bacon, and ham, and ribs, which is one of the things they serve at that restaurant.

CAL

Oh.

(There is some silence.)

CAL

So how come the pig is smiling?

MICHELLE

Uh...

next I suppose you'll want me to explain calzones

So as today was Doctor's Day, NOT ONLY did we have free bacon for breakfast in the doctor's dining room (they love us to the extent that they want to keep us in business, I guess?) we also had a special lunch, which consisted, somewhat eclectically, of some kind of heat-lamp-incubated meat log, tilapia with mango (I know), and a falafel bar. So obviously--the falafel, right?

(Full-disclosure, I also did chip off a piece of the meat log. Come on, I'm not made of stone. MEAT. LOG.)

So I'm assembling my falafel when one of the radiologists I'm friendly with came up and pointed at the chick pea patties sitting in one of the steamer trays. "What's that?"

"Oh, I think that's for the falafal." And then, as some further explanation seemed to be required, I added, "For Doctor's Day."

"What's a falafel?" He replied innocently. And then he said something else, but I couldn't hear him because my head exploded.

"WHAT'S A FALAFEL?!" I repeated, after I had collected all my head pieces and reassembled in roughly the correct configuration with bioglue and an Kling wrap. "It's THAT. THAT is falafel. Fried chick pea patties. Cucumber tomato salad. Tahini. Pita bread. Please tell me you know what a falafel is." And then, like a very bad Pictionary player whose teammate clearly has no idea what is being represented, I just emphatically pointed to the food again. And maybe I screamed the word "FALAFEL!" a couple more times, just in case he hadn't heard me properly.

"I think...I'll get some of this fish," the radiologist finally said, which, I'm sorry to say, was not the correct response.

After this, I informally polled a handful of people in the anesthesia department, all natives of the South. None of them had ever even heard the word falafel before. So tell me, am I crazy? I know I grew up in New York and what's commonplace in New York is not commonplace in most other places, but I had always figured that falafel was just a ubiquitous American-adopted ethnic food, like pizza, or tacos. You know, when you walk down a street in New York, it goes like this: coffee cart, hot dog/pretzel cart, falafel cart, and that vendor that sells three dollar cell phone cases from Hong Kong. I didn't know people didn't eat falafels in the South! Which makes it all the more mystifying that they chose to serve it to us for Doctor's Day. Maybe it was the vegetarian option, and they figured no one would touch it anyway?

Now I also know not to go out clubbing really late and end up with a case of the 3:00am munchies, because where there is no falafel, there is certainly no schawarma, and if there's no schawarma at 3:00am when you're drunk, there is no tomorrow.

Uh...Happy Doctor's Day!

(For the record: I don't think we as doctors need a "Day," but I appreciate the sentiment--I will continue trying to earn it.)

zagat's would call this a "crappy" "restaurant" with "bad" "food"

This week, not one but two patients told me that I (as a relatively new Atlanta resident) needed to get my ass to The Varsity, which is apparently this retro burgers and fries place that boasts the dubious honor of being (and I have not fact-checked this, I'm just quoting off their paper plates) the world's largest drive-though. I had envisioned it being a little something like Junior's in Brooklyn, a huge old-school diner with lots of retro charm and gigantic down-home cooking. This was...not...the case.

The Varsity was large, that much was true, and it was packed to the rafters with diners, but I can't for the life of me understand why. The food...people, the food was terrible. Look, I'm no food snob. I like Taco Bell, for chrissake. TACO BELL. King of the rehydrated foodstuffs. But this here at The Varsity was very extremely bad food. I ordered the chili dogs, and I swear to you, the "chili" on this thing was just this reconstituted brown paste, like something you would squeeze out of a tube. That tube being YOUR COLON. Unbelievably foul.

And I could have forgiven bad food had the atmosphere been at least somewhat charming, but between the fast food order-at-the-counter atmosphere, the crowd, the fluorescent lighting, and the general formica-and-tile dinginess of the place, it felt almost exactly like the cafeteria of an inner city hospital. Nor was it so cheap that you could at least point to the sheer volume of foodstuffs as being at least some sort of recession value deal. I would classify it as 15% more expensive than McDonald's, with food that was 40% worse. And yet the place was packed. Apparently, everyone loves The Varsity. Am I missing something? Like that secret room in the back of the restaurant with all the free toys and booze?

(We did get this orange ice cream-type drink for Cal that was kind of good and tasted like melted orange Starbursts, so that saved the dinner from being a total fail. But last I checked they sell Orange Juliuses at the mall too, and at least at the mall there's usually a food court with a damn Sbarros or Wok 'n' Roll or something vaguely edible.)

So that recommendation wasn't so hot. But in general, the recommendations I get from patients are pretty spot on. Like a few weeks ago, I had a Chinese patient that I basically accosted for information on good Chinese restaurants in the area. (The patient was so excited that I knew the secret Chinese person handshake that she spent her entire time pre-op talking as fast as she could, giving me all the info she could think of regarding Asian restaurants and markets before I had to whip out my giant rubber mallet of anesthesia to knock her out for surgery. "Canton House has good dim sum. A little too salty. Not as good as New York or San Francisco. But pretty authentic.") Patients recommend movies, they recommend places to take the kids, I even had a patient recommend the best way to find free WiFi, which was amusing only because the patient was 74 years old and sitting on a stretcher playing around with his iPod Touch. (So that's what the kids are calling it these days. Incidentally, his advice was to find a Dunkin' Donuts and sit in their parking lot. And now you know what I know.)

I'm glad that my patients are so friendly and so forthcoming with their information, because frankly, I don't get out much. We've been here eight months now and aside from at work and the occasional school function, we haven't really made any new friends, or socialized with many new people. If it wasn't for my patients, I'd never meet anyone. Unfortunately, I also never see them again, and if I do, it usually means something unfortunate for them, not that they just wanted to see my smiling face and have some more sparkling cocktail party conversation over a bag of LR and a few milligrams of Versed.

korean food mission aborted

Dim sum Sunday!

double happiness

Hey all, happy new year. Thanks for all the e-mails regarding restaurant recommendations--I guess the Atlanta restaurant scene is not quite the New York restaurant scene, but I keep thinking SOMEONE must know how to make a good tandoori chicken nearby and be willing to sell it to me, right? I know the Buford Highway is where I'm going to have to go to get any good ethnic food, but it's just such a production to get there. It involves PLANNING and DRIVING and GETTING LOST and U-TURNS IN FRONT OF EARL'S CLASSIC GUITAR EMPORIUM. So maybe I should learn how to cook.

Chinese New Year was fun. Cal was super excited to have my parents here, and Mack pooped himself with glee at meeting his grandparents. (Well, he pooped, anyway.)




Oh, and a tangentially related story, I went to Krispie Kreme the other day, because--well, it's a really boring story, but basically, I went to the bank, and then I was trying to find things to do to keep me out of the house for longer to practice being away from the baby for at least an hour and a half, because, dude, cut the cord already, and there was a Krispie Kreme, and I knew my parents were coming, and Cal had mentioned wanting to eat some donuts, and--yeah, see, I told you it was boring. Anyway, I got six donuts, which seemed like more than enough at the time, and the person at the register told me that the total was six-something, but was I sure I didn't want to just get a full dozen for just seven-something?

Oh no, I demurred, we couldn't possible eat A DOZEN DONUTS. And then I took the donuts home and ate three. And then Joe ate two. So by the time my parents got here, there was only one donut left, and it wasn't even the kind that my dad liked. (Original Glazed, for you dad-stalkers out there. Now you can entice him into your trap, consisting of a basket held up by a branch tied to a rope, under which is stacked a pile of donuts. You're welcome.)

After my dad grudgingly ate the last donut (he doesn't like custard filled, because he's CRAZY and hates deliciousness) I relayed the story of, "but for only a dollar more, you could super-size your donut order" etcetera etcetera, with the moral of the story being, and that's how they get you, and that's why America has a 95% left main occlusion, The End. Which is true. I waited for him to start telling me how right I was, and how cunning I was for not getting sucked into their commercial enticements.

But instead, my dad looked at me like I had just confirmed what he knew all along, namely that I was NOT VERY SMART, and said, "Yeah, you'll never make that mistake again. NEVER just get six donuts at Krispie Kreme. Either get four, or get the full dozen. Six is not a good deal. Usually I get a dozen, and if your sister is home, she'll eat two, and I'll eat ten."

HE EATS TEN DONUTS? And before you start thinking that my dad is some gigantic fatty fatty fat fat, let me just show you a picture from this weekend:




Clearly, he is Kobayashi. Anyway, Joe went out the next morning and bought a box of a dozen donuts. And then we ate them. And lo, they were good. Happy New Year.

(Fin.)

(What? I didn't say it was a good story.)

(Full picture set here.)

(Parentheses! Who doesn't love 'em?)

moo

So my parents are coming to visit us this weekend! For Chinese New Year, don't you know. Year of the cow. (Ox. Whatever. I don't think that in Chinese there is a difference between "cow" and "ox" but people just call Year of the Ox because it sounds better. Can't say as much for Year of the COCK. I call it year of the Chicken myself. But anyway, that is neither here nor there.)

Joe was inquiring at work about good Chinese restaurants in the area (he said he asked a Chinese optometrist at work, but the name on the e-mail he forwarded me was, like, Trang Vu Pham [not her real name] so I'm thinking Vietnamese) and we got some recommendations that are, of course, outside the city, where the ethnic food corridor is. However, it occurs to me that we don't have any way to transport all of us any distance by car--now that we have two carseats in the back, we are one seat down in the car, and really, even the seat between the two carseats has been whittled down to near nothing. I'm pretty skinny, but even I have to sit sort of cockeyed with one hip jutted out just to wedge myself between all that unforgiving plastic and strapping. So it looks like we'll spend Chinese New Year's Eve eating either very bad local "Chinese food" (which I'd really rather not--I mean, why bother?) or white people food. Or we could cook. So...white people food it is!

Oh, speaking of ethnic foods, is there a place to get good Indian food in Atlanta? Preferably in city limits? I don't mean fancy Indian food or fusion or any of that stuff, I'm talking about good, cheap Indian food, in a restaurant like the types that taxi drivers used to stop by at 3am in New York to get a gigantic styrofoam partitioned tray of steaming whatnot. I don't think I've seen a single Indian restaurant since we moved here, and though (admittedly) I haven't really looked around that much, we do live in a neighborhood with a lot of restaurants, some for the more daring palate, and not one of them has been Indian. Any good suggestions, shoot me an e-mail, I would love to know.

already planning

Trying to convince Joe to run out to the one good sushi place that we've found in Atlanta and see if they'll make a take-out lunch for me for tomorrow. Come on, I haven't eaten since 7am! Don't make me eat hospital lunch!

k-town




We found a good Korean restaurant! Full of actual Korean people! Added bonus: free soft-serve frozen yogurt when you're finished!




(Thanks Minjae, for pointing us in the right direction.)

because this is a food blog now

Inarguably, and despite the reputation that being a Spam eater is undoubtedly garnering, one of the things I worried most about in moving to Atlanta was the food. I like Southern home-cooking as much as the next person, and yes, I know that I should venture out to the Buford Highway or to Doraville (not confirmed, I'm just repeating what EVERYONE HAS BEEN TELLING ME) to find some good ethnic eats or marts, but...it's different, you know? In New York, it was so easy, there were so many restaurants so close to each other and all so very convenient to access at all hours. Now pickings are a little slimmer and farther between, though I'm sure they are out there. A good Chinese restaurant? A good Japanese restaurant? A good Korean joint? Still looking.





We did, however, find (of all things) a good Singapore-type restaurant just a few blocks away from us, and that was such a revelation that it made our whole evening. It is a trendy place, fusion of course, as many trendy Asian-eque restaurants are, and while I would prefer of course a tiny back-alley noodle shop with six tables and two old Japanese guys in the back, shrouded in steam, this is OK too. Cal enjoyed it so much he even decided to give it a go with the chopsticks. True, he used them on his pomme frites, but hey, he's kind of fusion too.

dinner at chinatown




Figure we might as well get it while we can.

for the love of bulk goldfish

After a trip to our local wholesale club earlier this week. I am pretty convinced that all you really need to know about people can be divined from their shopping carts. In our case:

1. We have a young child
2. We have a dog
3. We apparently really love onions

tea for one

I have discovered something during my latest trip to Atlanta that has changed my life forever. Well, perhaps to say that I "discovered" it is something of a stretch. That's like saying Columbus "discovered" the Americas, a land that indigenous peoples had been living on and enjoying for years. But let's leave the semantics to the semioticians and just sit back to enjoy a nice, tall, icy glass of sweet tea.




"But Michelle," you say, brow furrowed just so, "that's just iced tea. Don't tell me you haven't ever had iced tea before." Well, in a sense, yes, it is just cooled tea on ice, with sugar in it. But BETTER. First of all, you can't even compare it to the terrible Snapples and Nesteas of the world. Those beverages are more like SWEET!!! (tea), that is to say, far too much sugar and not enough tea taste. Nor is it the same as iced tea that you would order in a restaurant here up North. Here, if you order an iced tea, they will bring you a cup of tea, on ice, unsweetened. All self-inflicted efforts at sweetening leave you is with a grainy pile of sugar at the bottom of the glass, defying all efforts at dissolution in the icy bath, because of, you know, chemistry and whatnot. Sweet tea in the South is different. Sweet tea in the South is better. And best of all, sweet tea in the south is everywhere. At every restaurant, at every sandwich place, at every hole in the wall, there it is, a gigantic cauldron of freshly brewed sweet tea, each purporting to be derived from some special unique family recipe but all of them tasting similarly good.

I've read accounts (most recently "Beautiful Boy," though I was too embarrassed to buy it at Starbucks, for the same reason I rip all those little Oprah Book Club stickers off the books that happen to be on Oprah's Book Club) of drug users, who, after finally trying what would eventually become their drug of choice--crack cocaine, methamphetamines, what have you--say that though they didn't know it until that moment, this was what they had been missing their entire lives. This is how I feel about sweet tea. Such a light flavor! So delicately sweet! So good! So mildly caffeinated! I NEVER KNEW IT COULD BE THIS WAY. And I'm not going as far as to say that sweet tea = methamphetamines, but realizing that we are relocating to Atlanta, where I will basically be able to access sweet tea 24/7, well, it certainly takes the sting out of the move.

guess how many slices of pizza this kid ate for dinner?




(Four.)

I tried to stop him, telling him that he would get a stomachache, but Cal insisted that he "wants a stomachache," and they were small slices anyway, so I let him. Joe, by the way, insists that this predilection for prodigious pizza consumption is more convincing than any serum-based paternity test he could take.

(Four!)

the very hungry caterpillar




Ordered Cal the chicken teriyaki at this Japanese cafeteria place near Union Square today. Didn't expect it was going to be quite that big, obviously.