Kat & Randy Do Elephant Bar

One special Sunday morning, I got a very special phone call. I’m not really into picking up phone calls that aren’t filtered through NKP first, but when the very special name “Randall Wat” flashed on my screen, I had to do it.

An uncharacteristically eloquent “Randall Wat” was thus thrust into my earpiece, live from… wha?... Pleasanton, California! No dubs, plz! He immediately informed me of his intentions to take me out on the town sometime that week. “We DO have a blog to maintain!” he harrumphed.

Oh really, you didn’t know Randy was in town a few weeks ago? Well, that’s because he only told his Mexican friends, mija. No llores, fuckers!

I waited patiently for his call all week. Tuesday night I got up from my Scrabble board (N-Y-E for 32 points? Fuck you, Kat) to another phone call – an invite from the Wat to join him and li’l D in Japantown. Visiting from Japan and heading to Japantown? Isn’t that SO RANDY?!

I declined the invite. I get my shit up early, and besides, why blow my conversational wad (ahem, WAT!!!!!!!!!!!!) all in one night? I only have so much to say.

And thus Wednesday became the clandestine night of choice. Bart drop-off at MacArthur station followed by Randytruck pick-up led me right into the arms of the most beautiful aZn Internet celebrity since Tila Tequila. Those slanty eyes! Those distinguished cheekbones! That fobby hoodie!

We cruised through Emeryville on our way to our dining location of choice, the exotic Elephant Bar. Randy pulled into the parking garage and set up shop in section 2A, close to the exit. “Randy, let’s think of a mnemonic device to help us remember where we parked. What starts with an A and comes in a pair?” I asked. “A pair of A cup boobs?” Randy responded, which was reasonable, considering he works with children. But nope, not good enough. We sat in silence. And then it hit my li’l asian like a surprise attack on American naval bases in 1941. “DOUBLE A BATTERIES!!!!!!!” Done. Memorized. We got out of the car.

We walked up to the old Elephant, reached for the elephant head handles to open its double doors, and were transported to a world of jungle fever. Giant plaster elephants guarded each booth, while Ikeaesque paper fans attached to the ceiling waved back and forth like the flicker of a lazy geisha’s wrist. Oh, and what’s that? A monkey-shaped toothpick-holder!??! Fuck. The luxuries of the Orient were unfolding before me. I’ll trade you one monkey skull and tongue of elk for a sampler plate, dudes.

Oh blah. So we ordered some faggy cocktails at the bar while we waited to get seated. Randy’s eyes inoffensively grazed the direction of the football game being shown. Our seat came a mere 3 minutes later, and we were placed at what I thought to be the most exotic table in the joint. To my right, a Hispanic family with its table split equally down the middle between senors and senoritas. To my left, a somber plaster elephant (African, definitely African). Ahead of me a table of Asians spread farther than the eye could see. Our waitress? Well, read on… ;)

We were promptly serviced by a miniature waitress of unknown origins. Asian, we thought. “Remember how I told you I was only into asian women these days?” asked Randy, “Well, it’s still true… I’ve been eyeing our waitress since we got here!”

Pfft. Now as you might remember from last episode, bloggers, I was initially put off by Randy’s full-on asian fetish. Two years later, I was feeling confident about both my demureness, hairlessness, and study skills, not to mention the fact that slavs have been on the rise in the fetish market (hellooo, have you met my friend Pavla? Her eyes don’t even shut all the way!). And besides, Nicky P used to have yellow fever but now, day in and day out, he’s all “Dating slav? Isssss niice!”

Slav fetish the new asian? I won’t say I haven’t been waiting since Heather called it 2k4.

But enough about me. Randy and I scoured the menu and were surprised by what we saw. Asian fusion followed by Americanized Chinese and a splatter of Soul Food and New Orleans cuisine. One page boasted “A Taste of the Orient” across its header. “I’ve been to the Orient,” Randy huffed, “It’s nothing like this!”

Randy and I discussed the theme of the place and realized it was very poorly thought-out concept. A taste safari through exotic destinations?! More like a brief tour of a food court! I’m totes supportive of multiculturalism or whatever the fuck, but you can’t just throw all the coloreds together and call it a drinking fountain. You know what I’m saying?

Burp. We ended up ordering an appetizer and an entrée each. The Quick-Fried Soy-Ginger Calamari came out immediately with poor presentation. Calamari limbs sticking out every which way like a nappy headed ho (CURRENT EVENTS ALERT!!). The taste? Eh.

For my second course, I ordered the Shrimp and Chicken Jambalaya, mostly because it had not only the advertised shrimp and chicken, but sausage as well. Hat trick! Who knew Katrina relief could be so tasty?

Randy had the pork ribs, which looked quite good. As I sat there watching him gnaw on a row of flesh, I imagined him saying “I am an American cowboy,” the way Nick says fobs do when they’re impersonating American accents, a mouthful of marbles. LOL! What will he do next?

In case you were wondering, we talked about allll sorts of things. Oh, and since you’re all too self-obsessed to ask Randy about Japandy, here’s a summary of what you need to know:

• Randy has pervy male students who have devised an elaborate scheme in order to look up girls’ skirts as they walk up stairs. I guess EVERYONE! is into Japanese schoolgirls. Though I suppose to them, they’re just schoolgirls.
  
• These same boy pervs sit on the laps of their close boy friends. Hmm. I guess EVERYONE! thinks all asian people look the same. Though I suppose to them, they’re just people.
  
• Remember how sociology class said white just means the absence of color to a lot of white people? Though I suppose to me, it’s to a lot of regular people.
  
• Randy speaks to his students in very elementary English because it’s all they can understand, so naturally he told them all about me through a series of simple keywords: kat, eat, food. He’s not sure they understand I’m kat the kat and not cat the animal though, but whatevs. GUESS WHO’S BIG IN JAPAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Randy told one of his students he wasn’t married, so she proposed to him then got embarrassed and started giggling. Doi, that so obviously happened.
• Randy bones Japanese secretaries he meets on trains. No joke there.

A country full of pervs, am I right? Coming-of-age peep shows, man-on-man shit, schoolgirls in plaid skirts, gigglers, and secretaries, eh? I’ve got enough material for a decent piece of pornography! Or L.A.M.B’s fall line badumchhhh I’ll be here all week don’t forget to tip your waitress!!!!

So we had some brews and shot the shit for some time, and before we knew it, li’l waitress was back to take our plates. “Can I have a box?” Randy asked. Bitch giggled at the word “box” (perv!). At this moment it occurred to Randy that she was not, in fact asian. “I don’t get it,” Randy furrowed, “I thought she was asian, but now I think she might be Mexican!”

Ahem. If I’ve learned anything, its Asian + Mexican = Filipino. Talk about a poorly thought-out concept. That shit’s like one of those designer dog breeds. Labradoodle, what the fuck?! Shut your goddamned mouth.

We packed up shop and, after a brief stop at Barnes & Noble, we headed back to the parking garage.

BUT FIRST! We ran into our good friend, photo booth, the same photo booth that had photo boothed us 2 years before. WOW!

After waiting our turn and examining the examples on the outside of the booth, Randy and I decided to copy the poses of a particularly good pose(u)r. The end result was another set of Little Devils.

Back at AA batteries, Randy told me of his secret surprise intentions to drive me home, all the way to San Francisco. Schwing! In the car, I expressed my gratitude by serenading Randy with an impromptu spoof of “A Whole New World” from Aladdin. Highlights:

I can show you the world
Show you Mary Kate and Ashley
Tell me Randy, now when did you last let Uncle Jesse decide?

It was called “A Whole Full House,” stupid. And I live right by the Full House houses, okay? Pretty good for impromptu, I think.

Soon enough, we were at my front door. I led Randy upstairs to say hello to Nicky P and check out my totally chill apt. Moments later, I was saying goodbye.

Goodbye, Randy. I still think Applebee’s deserves a visit sometime soon.

Randy-Watching-Sports-Rather-Than-Paying-Attention-To-Me-O-Meter: 0.25
Rating: B

Kat & Randy Do PF Chang's China Bistro

Randy Randy RANDY! Randy returned from Japandy Sundy the 13th and promptly made plans to dine with me that Wednesdy. Wednesday night, at exactly 7pm, I get a call from Randy, informing me he would be 10 minutes late and that he had no car mix. That FUCKER! Luckily, I’m so chill I didn’t even raise hell, and told him we could listen to my Mr. T Experience cassette tape instead. "Yes! We can experience it together," said Randy.

Randy pulled up outside of Cloyne in a luxury automobile and we had a joyous reunion. We popped the tape in and I started pumping my fists because the sunroof was open and I was jazzed as fuck. "Class of 2000!" I shouted out the roof, which was stupid because I graduated in 2001. Randy? Class of 1997.

Things discussed:

1. Randy has an infected ingrown hair or something similarly grody on his neck. I told him I wouldn’t mention it but that was an empty promise, just like the contents of my award-winning 6th grade DARE essay, which I totally roll my joints with whenever I'm tokin' it. Ha ha. That was a joke. Also, Agnes and I set the broken clock in my room to 4:20 and whenever Mommy and Daddy visit, we change the time to 4:15, just in case they know about how 4:20 is the most appropriate time to get blazed.
2. Randy now has a full-on asian fetish. Before it was just a semi, ha ha. "I just don’t find white women attractive anymore," said Randy, "Oh, besides you." Don’t patronize me, Randy. Asian fetish? I was sort of annoyed by this, like when black women are pissed about black men dating white women, but I realized Randy is asian and so he is fetishizing as God intended him to. Besides, its not like anyone has a white-washed asian male fetish. Fuck you, Randy!
3. Randy gets fobby love notes from students that say shit like "Teacher Randy, you have beautiful smile." Cuuute!
4. The Japs loooove hip hop, but they don’t live it, they just wear it.

Okay. So we arrived at PF’s, passing the huge stone horse on the way in, which reminded me of the bullshit Daddy buys in Malaysia to orientalize our house and promote tolerance. Upon entry, I was immediately taken aback by the faux fancy décor: the dim lights, the tablecloths, the interracial couples with nice watches, etc. I felt similarly the first time I went to the Macaroni Grill and expected to chump it over a plate of mac and cheese and jalapeno poppers but was transported into a world of $12 entrees instead. Whaaa? Point: we had expected equal parts bourgie and chainy, but the bourgie almost overpowered the chainy. Bush/Cheney. It was cool though, both of our parents are of the upper-middle class.

We were seated at the bar. The television was showing a tennis match, one of the only sports that does not interest Randy. Sucker! We reached for menus and decided to get faggy mixed drinks. Perusing the faggy mixed drinks section, we went with the asianest of beverages and thus ordered Nutty Uncle Chang’s Favorite and the Oriental Express. Ha ha! I thought about how Nutty Uncle Chang is probably the kind of guy who makes out with eight year olds.

We then hit the food menu and decided upon an appetizer called Shanghai Street Dumplings and went on a joké rampage, in which we spoke of said street dumplings as though they were prostitutes. Pinchin’ em, pokin’ em, fuckin’ em, lickin’ em up, fucking street dumplings, fucking blah blah. We laughed and laughed. Objectifying dumplings? Oy. I’m getting too old for this, bloggers.

For our entrees, we decided to split two things: the wok seared lamb and beef a la sichuan, which boasted a crispy texture unlike anything we were used to. Randy and I were skeptical (do you know how many textures we’ve tried in our day?) and furthermore, did not appreciate PF Chang assuming we were a pair of hillbillies who sat around chumpin' it, licking the same bowl of smooth peanut butter day in and day out. WRONG!

I told Randy some story about Nick and Veljko and others and Randy said "Nick and Veljko, when are you ever gonna pick between those two?"

Nick and Veljko, Randy? That’s my love triangle? The dark-haired bitch who grew up rich versus the blond pushover with too much love to give, fighting over me, the boring ass redhead? That’s what’s going on here? Throw in a lanky asexual best friend with a crown hat and you’ve got yourself a deal, Randy.

As we waited for our food, Randy and I looked at pictures of little asian kids with Frisbees on his cell phone. Then when our drinks came, I made Randy take a picture of me on his phone and then I placed the phone in between the two drinks and took a picture of phone me with the drinks. "Why’d I make you do this?" I asked Randy. He did not know.

Our food arrived, and we ate. Randy eyed the asian waitress. We drank. We ate. Not bad. The crispy texture of the beef was interesting, I guess, but nothing to shit your pants over. Conversation was delightful, obv, Randy is so very charming, I would so totally like to pack him up and ship him off to Sofia Coppola

We split the bill exactly down the middle and took a picture of our matching receipts. Randy insisted on covering his credit card number with his finger because he supposes everyone on the internet will read it and go crazy on Amazon.com or something. This reminded me of how my high school sweetheart Andy was afraid people would find out his social security number and steal his identity, which totally did not worry me because duh, I think I know my own boyfriend.

On our way back to the car, we encountered a photo booth. A photo booth! We went in and found that in order to be photographed, we’d have to get down on our knees on account of the seat being unadjustable and us being taller than the average boba tea drinker. I harumphed just thinking about the terrible joke I would have to make about being on our knees and wished we were being photographed spread eagle instead because that’s so much funnier.

We discussed poses but then decided to freestyle. This is the part where I got way too giddy. I’m telling you, bloggers, I started giggling like a tamagochi, just ask Randy. We took a strip of photos and chose the caption "Little Devils" to go on it on account of how naughty we felt.

We went to Barnes & Noble for a while, where I looked at a box of novelty paint for pregnant ladies to paint their bellies with. "Would you paint my belly if I were pregnant?" I asked Randy. "Only if it was non-toxic," he answered. Sweetie!

Then we drove to meet Lily at the Kerry House, blasting Jay-Z through Emeryville.

At the Kerry House, we sat down in front of that one screen for a game of Erotic Photo Hunt, in which two seemingly identical erotic photos were shown and we had to find five differences between the two. Like there’d be two identical photos of some slutty bitch but one bitch would have a nipple missing or something. A similar game can be found in Highlights magazine, except I don’t recommend that one because it’ll just make you feel shitty for not cleaning your room or something.

We started with "Babes" and then went on to "Hunks." One of the hunks had his hand down his shorts in one picture and on top of the shorts in the other. That was the difference. I had a good laugh over that one.

We recorded high scores as "KAT AND RANDY" but when our numbers were low, we went with "LATIN RANDY" to cover our asses, which explains why Mexicans get such low test scores. Lo siento, dudes!

Lily Moallem showed up later and showed us a note her fobby mother wrote her that said "Love your daughter is my moto!" I argued that my mother is fobbier because she wouldn’t have even had the balls to try to spell a word like "motto."

We played one round of erotic trivia game before heading upstairs to smoke and drink more for a bit before going home. On the ride home, Randy and I listened to more Jay-Z.

I saw Randy later that week at a party, where I punched Nick in the face and no one cared. Randy and I never did dine again that week, bloggers. I can only assume Applebee’s will still be here when he returns.

Randy-Watching-Sports-Rather-Than-Paying-Attention-To-Me-O-Meter: 0.5

Rating: B

GUESS WHO'S COMING TO TOWN!

RANDY!!!

Lord, forgive me for my sins.

Kat & Heather Do Mi Lindo Yucatan

January 18th was a fine day. Not only was it the first day of school and my first day as an apprentice to W.Disney, ‘twas also the first day of Kat and Heather since the first day of 2005. Hooray!

I was to meet Heather after work. I got out earlier than expected, and so I huddled on the corner of New Montgomery and Mission with my little Vitamin Water and dialed her number. I’m always a little nervous calling Heather after work because I still have my work voice on, which I use to call random bullshit places to inquire as to whether or not they are interested in receiving tickets to advanced screenings of Coach Carter and other bullshit movies where Navy Seal Vin Diesel takes on the biggest challenge of his life, which is babysitting (He totes never read the Babysitters Club book series! Waah! Remember the bullshit Claudia used to wear? Tights with giant clocks on them and lobster earrings!). Thus, understandably, I talk like the cutest cupcake you ever saw. And so I called Heather and tried to be less personable than I felt.

If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.

We decided to meet at her place ASAP and so I got on the bus as soon as possible. After arriving at Heather’s door and following her up the stairs, we plopped down on those orangey couches with a glass of wine each. We discussed how this was tradition, even though we had only done it one or two times before, and then we discussed how we should look at her stacks of pictures because that’s also tradition, and then it was noted that forcing tradition was tradition and then I totally wanted to use the word (prefix?) meta, but quite frankly, I’m not entirely sure if I even know what that means and who am I? (Note: if you give me some bullshit regarding writing a book about writing books I will seriously fuck your mother) Then I picked up the Yuppie Handbook off the coffee table and found out that yuppies stay monogamous to avoid venereal diseases and felt that was a sweet sentiment. Then Claire came home with an awesome new job and we had a three-way reverie about dating red-haired triplets, which led me to a secret reverie about firecrotches, but I didn’t dare bring it up because what does it really matter? Pussy has no face. Oh, and then we photographed our jowls. Pervs!

After we lolled about for a while, Heather and I decided to hit the road. We arrived at Mi Lindo Yucatan and were immediately seated like display pies right next to the window. Our waitress lady was super nice, but I felt her outfit was a bit Thai obv. What is this, that one day in elementary school where you wear a beret and bring in a baguette because your great grandfather was French or some shit? Mix it up, girl. Side note: Liz is always talking about how she’s like 1/16 Kickapoo Native American or something and I think it would be funny if she showed up at cultural stereotypes day drUNK(!!!).

Okay. As we looked at the lengthy menu, I found that my Slavic eyes couldn’t make sense of the monosyllabic words. Pad? Tak? Dip Dap Tuk Thi? Thuk Thuk Thai? What the fuck? As Heather, woman of the world, decoded each meaning, I read each menu item forwards and backwards hoping to understand. Quite honestly, I felt all fobbed out that day. A regular Agnes and Veljko I was.

Can I stop here to self-ref? Listen, I’m no Nick Palatucci quoting Readyville or anything (fag!), but I do happen to have an awesome body of work I’d like to call attention to. ‘Twas on the twelfth of June that I wrote the following:

The fobbiest thing you will ever experience in your green youth is Agnes and Veljko singing along to Blink 182's "What's My Age Again?" Quelle horreur! They sit side-by-side, surrounded by Ikea furniture, nodding their heads to the beat. Veljko's sweep-across bangs bounce up and down as if he were a little Dutch boy taking his first ride in an all-American pioneer-style Western-expansiony covered wagon. Agnes' mouth ties and unties itself into patriotic stars and stripes as she tries desperately to keep up with the fast-paced English-language lyrics. Both of their sets of eyes are lit up like candles on a menorah, a big, Jewish, fobby, immigrant menorah. I just don't get it. Why do these two Slavs refuse to assimilate like the rest of us?

So what I’m trying to say is, Kat : Thai :: Agnes & Veljko : Blink 182. Dig? I was chumpin’ it. And to add to my status as immigrant obv, I told Heather a story about "borrowing" someone a sweater, but, turns out, what you’re really supposed to say is "lending." Heather was nice about it and made me feel like Amelie holding a pair of kittens sneezing in unison, but nonetheless, I felt a fool. A beautiful fool. There’s no distinction between "borrow" and "lend" in the Polish language, okay? But it’s not because we’re stupid or anything though, okay? Cut me a break, Polska.

Then we ate. We ordered spring rolls and soup and beer and all sorts of noodley. The spring rolls were awesome. The soup had a slight aftertaste of Skittles, and I was reminded of that episode of Full House where Michelle is trying to get her Honeybee merit badge in cooking and so she puts all this bullshit together like mutton and poo and she keeps fucking up and then Uncle Jesse tells her to stop putting stupid shit together and then she ends up finally getting her badge by putting sticks in an ice cube tray of orange juice to make popsicles. What a retard.

Clarification: I’m not trying to suggest that the people of Thailand mix dumb shit together, I’m just saying that I could totally picture Michelle pulling a bullshit stunt like making Skittle soup.

And THEN we ate the noodley stuff (mine had duck!) and, to tell you the honest truth, I felt a bit pervy eating these noodles because, though delicious, they were totally smooth and slimy and I felt sort of sensual. Each strand going down the throat was like a sexy sexy lady slipping out of a slinky, slutty negligee, undressing right in my esophagus. Eww! They were totally good though.

We paid the bill and were on our way. We went back to Heather’s house to decide what to do next. Turns out Tuesday nights are lacking in terms of seeing and being seen, but who gives a shit? Heather and I logged on to myspace, where we people-watched the fuck out of this online networking site. Clickety clack. Oh!

After that, Heather hopped into the kitchen to mix me a mixed drink while I received a call from Nick. We had an awesome conversation about my honors thesis, which has to do with working class hotties and I made this really funny joke about how I was worried my paper would turn out too men act women appear obv, which is a really really funny thing to say and Nick agreed because he is SO SMART! And then Heather came back and we myspaced even more, which we agreed was awesome. Heather rocks my socks. But alas, it was time to go home.

As I waited for my bus, I sat on a bench playing Air Glide on my cell phone (High score: 2,030), surrounded by the fobbiest of all UCB exchange student fobs who made Agnes and Veljko look like Uncle Sam on a skateboard. I silently listened to them repeat the popular American tongue-twister Fuzzy Wuzzy Was a Bear over and over as I cried softly into my lapel.

Good night, San Francisco.

Kat and heather do citizen cake: a tragicomic coming of age saga by heather warm

episode one: In which heather uses a fun evening to reflect on her pathetic and meaningless existence.
Kat said “lets do dinner: pf changs?” and I was like, dinner with Kat, yes. Pf changs, no. I did briefly consider it, and even looked on the website and was somewhat tempted by the promise of “balancing the Chinese principles of fan and t'sai” in their cuisine, but then I was like, well I’d have to kill myself if the one time I spent some real money on dinner it was at a chain restaurant in emeryville, when I live in San Francisco and there are allegedly “enough good restaurants to eat at one every night of the year and not eat the same place twice” blah blah blah. Also, fan and t’sai seem to just mean “starch” and “not-starch.” Duh. Anyways, I mean, I like Kat and Randy’s chain restaurant shtick as much as the next guy, but its not for me. Let’s move this thing in a different direction, I thought.

So some consideration led us to Citizen Cake, a pastry shop-cum-califrench (haha cum) restaurant in sf’s trendy (read: well-decorated and overpriced) hayes valley. For me it was that fine pun of a name, and the fact that I had gone in and gazed longingly at their devilishly stylish cakes, but never eaten there. The food website I looked on placed it in the $15-$30 range and I was like, shit, it can’t be much more than we’d spend at pf changs.

I was temping that week, and I spent the whole time looking forward to our date. From my temp desk office, Kat and I exchanged myspace messages about pre-dinner plans, after-dinner plans, stylish outfits to accommodate dinner and after-dinner plans, and drinking what Kat called “faggy cocktails.”

Our big night finally rolled around, and I rushed home from work and tried to ignore the pain of the almost crippling irritable bowel syndrome that constantly rips at my abdomen, and I put on my knee high boots (tis the season, after all), a short skirt, and a tasteful turtleneck sweater vest, all under my leopard coat. Kat showed up in jeans and a hoodie, and flat shoes. You bitch! You totally set me up to be the overdressed one. Joke’s on me. I hate being the overdressed one. Whatever, Kat, tonight you will the butch friend, and I, the femme. I guess I can deal with that.

We walked to the restaurant in the pouring rain and biting wind, and indeed, both our umbrellas folded inside-out at the same time. In the shivery wetness, I entertained visions of warm, dry, rich-people restaurants and the attractive, wealthy patrons that would wonder what these two young bohemians were doing in one of their establishments. Maybe a handsome young man would see that my leopard jacket has a hopelessly torn lining, and the faux-fur cuffs are glue-gunned on, and he would be so charmed by our brazen shabby-chic that he would pay for our dinner, but being truly sophisticated, would leave before we found out, so as not to oblige us further.

We got to the restaurant at just 7:30 and none of this was to be. The décor was not as plushy and soft and cozy as I would have liked. Its kind of this minimalist blonde wood, very bare, metal trims, calderesque monochrome ceiling non-mobile-mobile thing, etc. when I tried to name the style, “Scandinavian modern” came to mind, although I actually know next to nothing of the schools of furniture and design style. I guess it was just my mind tricking me into saying “IKEA” without really saying it.

Dude. Crap. I just reread Kat’s entry and realized she already made the joke about one being dykier than the other. Sorry Kat. I see that I’m saying a lot of what already has been said here.

Anyways we were seated in the tight little dining room, squeezed into a corner where I had my back to the window and Kat, her side. The L-shaped seating was nice, but I didn’t like having my back to the window and I felt a little cramped. And alas, no sophisticated rich patrons or anything. Just the fat guy with the half-hawk and various other san Francisco types in their 30’s. gag, this is where I start coming of age.

We started off with the “shagadelic,” a coconut passion fruit drink modeled on one of their cakes, and the pomegranate Cosmo. This is where a little voice starts going heather, you’re drinking a Cosmo, who are you? And I go, its ok, it’s a fresh pomegranate Cosmo, but yeah, its still a Cosmo. Who drinks cosmos? Cosmos are so uncool. The drinks were good though, but too alcohol tasting for me. I mean, its nice to know its in there, but my idea of a good $8 cocktail is one that tastes like fruit and candy and not alcohol, but gets you wasted nonetheless.

For our second drink I had the Capri: campari and grapefruit juice, a nice spin on my usual gin and grapefruit juice. I don’t remember the grapefruit juice being especially fantastic though. Sometimes when you go to a nice place, the grapefruit juice is out of this world. Kat had the mojito, I think.

The dinner conversation was quite pleasant. Kat mirrored my excitement to be eating someplace fancy. Kat’s company was worth the week of eager anticipation. We had one of those conversations where it flows so well, that before you can finish one topic, you’re onto another, and another. But like, I’m not a stoner anymore. I made us slow down so we could finish topics, more or less. Kat in person is not as iconoclastastically LOL hilarious as she is on the internet, but her subdued face-to-face style is also quite funny and likeable, without inducing that shameful, sycophantic worship from me that her written word does. Speaking of which I cant even believe I’m presumptuous enough to share her webpage to write about a shared experience. I am bound to look the fool here.

Oh the food. The food was good. Not worth the week of eager antipation. I always expect too much and then cant believe how expensive it was. But I think I’ve kinda been ruined on food. My constant stomach problems, my research into the sustainable food movement, my long unaccomplished vegetarian aspirations, and my work in a restaurant have all kind of made me enjoy food less. Oh yeah and also my brokeness. I’m not used to paying for restaurant food. Most of my fine-dining experience in the last year has been illicitly scabbed off of Eli lilly and Pfizer, as a guest of my dad while the drug companies try to woo him into overdiagnosing people as bipolar or explain to him how to lower peoples blood pressure while feeding him filet mignon. So what I’m trying to say here is I’m too cheap to truly enjoy paying for what I ate.

But oh how I am dazzled by the prosaic descriptions on menus. We started with the goatcheese flan with mache and tomato, and the tomato bread soup. Both were good. The goat cheese flan was kinda small though. I was picturing crusty, melty goatcheese cakes on a bed of greens with tomatoes. It was more like a tiny bowl of goatcheese custard with a tiny sprig of mache and some fresh cheese and some diced tomatoes. It was good, but I would have preferred it more warm and delicious.

The tomato-bread soup was good. I ordered the soup cause I was in the mood, given the rain and the stomach-ache. But I’m always wary of tomato soup, cause a lot of the time it just tastes like chefboyardee spagettios sauce. This, thankfully, did not fall into that category. It was thick and warm and had a nice aromatic-multi layered flavor that chefboyardee does not.

Then for our main course, we had the braeburn apple, blue cheese, and candied walnuts on baby mixed green salad, and the duck breast with lentils, pears, and almonds. Why was I excited for this salad? I made a similar salad for a barbecue at 38^th street, and I dare say it was better. The apples in this salad were julienned (1/8 x 1/8 x 2 inches, well maybe they were pont-neuf, only 1 inch long) very finely, and while this is standard fine dining style, and shows a knife-skills finesse on the part of the salad maker, bigger chunks of apple, like a batonnet (1/4 x 1/4) or even a large dice, are better: one, for texture, because they stay crunchy, where a thinner slice goes flaccid, and two, because you can taste the apple more. And the vinaigrette coulda been more tangy and less oily. But that’s more just personal preference. All in all, it was ok, but not a main-course quality salad, and not quite worth the $10 or so it cost. For $10 I could make that kind of salad for 5 people and it would be main-course worthy.

The duck breast was good. I decided I could go non-vegetarian once a week or on special occasions, and special this was. Duck, if you’ve never had it, can be the finest of meats. It’s very flavorful, and has that layer of fat over the breast, blah blah blah. But if you fuck up duck, it’s not so good. I’ve had some bad duck. This was among the better ducks I’ve had, but was not optimum duckage. Duck should be cooked to medium rare. This was a little overcooked; medium, maybe? and a little chewy as a result. But it was nice and fatty and well seasoned, and went nicely with the lentils and the almonds and the pears. But still, it was a 24.00 entrée, for that much money the duck should be cooked right, for the love of god.

So as you can see, we were big spenders. 2 courses and 2 cocktails? You’d thing our waiter would be slobbering at our feet with service, in anticipation of a hefty tip. But he appeared to not care a fig about us! Who do I have to show my tits to to get a cocktail and dessert menu? When he did finally take our cocktail order, (eggnog and irish/italian coffee), I tried to give a subtle, classy hint to hurry it up. Rather than saying “on the double, garcon!” I giggled “make it quick, I’m losing my buzz.” This was, after all, like a half hour after our entrees had been finished, and we hadnt even gotten the dessert menu yet, so naturally we needed a drink to fill the time in. But he lagged nonetheless, can you imagine? The nerve.

Dessert was something with an unfunny pun name, but I think it was a chocolate “chiboust” with espresso foam and chicory sorbet, or something like that. As an industry insider, I have to say I was unimpressed by their plate presentation. It was a brown blob in a sea of foam with a thin, asymmetrical cookie stick thing thrown haphazardly across the plate. After viewing the amazing array of cakes and pastries, and then the schlock on the menu reading ”We feel that plated dessert is the ultimate expression of dessert and the obvious next step in your dining experience at Citizen Cake. Please feel free however, to choose something delicious from the Patisserie.” I must say I was nonplussed. It wasn’t bad, but it didn’t knock my socks off. The brown blob was a rich chocolate custard, topped with sugar and then caramelized with a blowtorch a la crème brulee. The self proclaimed chickory sorbet was kind of delightfully nothing tasting. And the foam was foamy.

And then I went to the bathroom, and heres the tragedy: while kat was composing the following satire of the plump 30something cosmo drinkers at the table beside us,

Consumed: 3 lbs. Cadbury Cream Eggs, 6 cigarettes. Alcohol units; 5. Ugh. Dinner with singleton friends at Citizen Cake to avoid spending night ingesting remaining 2 lbs cream eggs alone in flat. Yar. Emotional fuckwittage of boyfriend never ceases to expand waistline. Have spot on chin. Am not looking forward to mini-break with Shazzer and new pervert boyfriend. Appearance of smug marrieds inevitable.

I was thinking Consumed: 3 lbs. Leftover chocolate cake, 6 cigarettes. Alcohol units; 5. Ugh. Dinner with singleton friend at Citizen Cake to avoid spending night ingesting remaining 2 lbs leftover chocolate cake alone in flat. Yar. Being single and lactose intolerant never ceases to expand waistline. Have spot on chin, irritable bowels. Am not looking forward to mini-break with Shazzer and new pervert boyfriend. Appearance of smug marrieds inevitable.

See that’s the tragic joke. Just wait till you graduate college, kat, then you’ll see. You’ll have your post college crisis and look back in shock at how little separates us from them. Granted we did talk about face types, and victorian faces, and breaking social norms, and why foucault is the strokes while chomsky is belle and sebastian and searle is the gris gris, and other things that the bridget jones set would never get, but we spent way too much money on our food and drinks. I thought it would be fun to step up and eat beyond my means, see how the classy people live, but as I am now single and unemployed and nearing the late end of my early 20’s, the buffer of mockery wrapped in the smug elitist security of being a berkeley student were gone and it was a terrifying glimpse of whats to come. I never want to eat califrench again.

Rating: A

Kat & Heather Do Citizen Cake

I arrived at Heather's front door clad in jeans, a black hoodie, and hobo gloves. Admittedly, I was slummin' it. Sure, Heather and I had had many a message exchange re: dinner attire; we discussed dress at length, rolling the possibilities of seasonal boots and scarfs around like mossless stones. But I just couldn't do it. Wednesday, December 8th just wasn't agreeing with me, bloggers. I had foregone class that day in favor of scouring myspace for crazy bitches, an endeavor which proved to be so fruitful I could barely think clearly enough to wipe the fucking bricks of shit off my scour space, not to mention adorn myself in fancy.

Heather met me at the door, a beautiful blond female Adonis draped in leopard print (Note: I was tempted to namedrop female Greek hottie Aphrodite instead, but decided it was inappropriate, seeing as how she was a total slut, and mad sensual at that) . She scolded my selection of attire. "A hoodie?!" Heather exclaimed. Sorry dude.

Faux pas, Kat, faux pas.

I followed her upstairs and briefly interacted with her home's inhabitants. Tag informed me that my hair made me look ethnic. I did some quick math and came to the conclusion that having the body of a half-breed and hair of a miscellaneous breed probably meant that I was at least as cute as those half-asian girls everyone is always jizzing their pants over.

But whatever. Heather and I were soon on our way to Citizen Cake via foot. We discussed reasons x for hating person y. Or maybe it was reasons x for loving person y. I don't know. Who can tell the difference anymore?

Noting the beautiful symmetry of our tandem umbrella-wielding, I realized we belonged in a television show from the 1970s about best friends who are also strong independent single women. Oh, and one of the best friends is slightly dykey-er than the other. That was me. I was the dykey one.

A hoodie, Kat? Are you kidding?

We soon arrived at Citizen Cake, where I was immediately taken aback by the diverse pastiche of ethnicities and body types intermingling. Blacks with whites, fats with skinnies, cleft palates with reg palates, the works! Surely, this was nothing like the separate-but-equal dining facilities Randy and I frequented.

Notable diners #1: To my left, a fat man with a tuft of 'hawk, arguably neither mo nor faux, and his forgettable female companion. White trash or computer science? Who can tell the difference anymore?

As they got up and left, forgettable female pushed her unremarkable ass in my face, and I pressed my perfectly-sloped nose up to her posterior to read the label on her ill-faded black jeans. Express. I reported back to Heather. "I'm not above Express, " remarked Heather, and I nodded my head in agreement.

Notable diners #2: tableful of Bridget Jones' Diaryers, or as Heather and I affectionately dubbed them, Bridgies. Three slightly overweight women dining with one obviously gay man, self-proclaimed girls'-night-outers, TGIFridayers (the colloquialism, not the restaurant, Randy). I had a brief reverie during Heather's bathroom break, imagining possible journal entries...

Consumed: 3 lbs. Cadbury Cream Eggs, 6 cigarettes. Alcohol units; 5. Ugh. Dinner with singleton friends at Citizen Cake to avoid spending night ingesting remaining 2 lbs cream eggs alone in flat. Yar. Emotional fuckwittage of boyfriend never ceases to expand waistline. Have spot on chin. Am not looking forward to mini-break with Shazzer and new pervert boyfriend. Appearance of smug marrieds inevitable.

God, thats some fucking funny shit I wrote just now. Did you read that? Jesus.

Okay. So Heather and I ordered our first of three rounds of cocktails (a shagadelic and some pomegranate bullshit, I believe) and focused on the menu. Heather knocked my fucking socks off with her knowledge of both cuisinerie and parts of speech. We discussed possible consumption strategies in order to maximize taste and soon decided to split the entire dining experience right down the middle.

First course: tomato soup, goat cheese thingy with tomatoes. Second: a salad with some stuff, a plate o' duck with lentils and pears. Dessert: a geometrically-imperfect square of chocolate shit with a scoop of ice creamy type stuff and other shit surrounding it. Oh, and lots of bread with butter softer than I Can't Believe It's Not Butter spread. All with excellent aesthetic presentation.

Okay, I'm not actually this stupid when it comes to describing foodstuffs. But the thing is, as a graduate of the UC Berkeley Linguistics department AND the San Diego Culinary Institute, I fear Heather's rich pabulum prose will eclipse my holiday-newsletter writing style, and so I'm putting on this affectation of obtuseness or whatevs to cover my ass.

Holiday-newsletter writing style? Are you kidding? Here is an excerpt from my creative writing teacher's last critique:

"The excess of profanity makes you seem more hostile than you intend."

I'm edgy, dude. I'm like the Andrew Dice Clay of non-fiction prose. Don't get this shock jock to draft your holiday greetings. Unless, like, you want to get knifed or something.

No, I'm just kidding. Point: I couldn't do food writing justice in the company of food guru Heather Warm.

Oh, and did I mention this was the first date of Kat and Heather? I had heard good things, of course.

"I highly recommend her," endorsed Veljko Skarich.

"Yeah, you two could be friends," assented Brent Hagen.

Sure, we had interacted before, but always in the company of Nick and/or Jeff, and those guys are total goss-blocks. And mutual blog reverence, why, that's barely making contact with the bat and the ball. I intended on hitting it out of the park.

(Eww! That was my first foray into sports metaphor, unless you count talking about boning dudes, in which case, I do indeed make use of the highly subjective base system)

Yeah, so me and Heather, I'm tempted to say there was chemistry. Never a dull moment, to my recollection, no awkward lulls. In fact, our Lazy Susan of conversation topics spun so out of control that we were forced to make an agenda of discussion topics with a blue and gold I Got Used at... Ned's pen on the paper tablecloth. Half-jews and the perfect Victorian face topped the list, as did international makeout culture ("It's okay to draw the line at snogging, Kat," Heather counseled).

Eh, but what was with our waiter? A petit bearded man, not small enough to be considered elfin, not large enough to be sexualized, he gave barely a shit about us. We asked if we could get our drinks tout suite, and even though he was all "totes," we seriously waited like 15 minutes. 15 minutes is not tout suite, dude. "Lets stiff him on the tip," schemed Heather, "Lets give him 13%!" Good luck sending your kids to college, asshole!

The medium is the message, dude. (Did that fit just now? I have no clue)

After basically dining and ditching (13%!), Heather and I trekked onward to the Edinburgh Castle and met up with peeps. But who really cares about that part? Yeah, Nicky met us there, and Tag showed up later, but seriously, those guys get way too much airtime on the internet already. And thus I'll end it here, bloggers, though might I nominate Heather as the new Randy while the Wat's busy chinking it in Nippon?

Chumpin' it, I meant chumpin' it.

Randy-Watching-Sports-Rather-Than-Paying-Attention-To-Me-O-Meter: 0

Rating: A

Kat Writes Randy

Randy, I miss you so much sometimes it hurts.

Randy, I'm sorry I missed your phone calls. I don't pick up phone numbers I don't know because they're usually numbers that belong to people whose phones my crazy ex-boyfriend stole in order to call me and trick me into talking to his emotionally-manipulative ass. Every time I get those remnants of sweet music to the tune of "Kat! This is Randy!" in my voicemail, I punch a wall. Punch a wall, yes, or kick over a trashcan. A trashcan full of broken spirits. I'm pretty sure that was a metaphor, Randy, though you know I can never tell.

Randy, I check my mailbox every day in hopes of news from you from abroad. Every day, my mailbox is empty, with the exception of a few bank statements or coupons for Camel Lights. How I got on that mailing list, I'll never know. I smoke Parliaments, Randy.

And don't tell me you don't know the address, Randy. It just wouldn't be fair.

Randy, Samantha Gilweit gave me some Japanese stationery as a gift. I look at the grammatically-incorrect words printed on each leaf and realize I could never write to you on those pages, though this is the only paper I own resplendent enough to be worthy of your reception. College-ruled notebook paper won't do. But Japanese stationery, Randy! I can't fucking write to you on Japanese stationery. If this is irony, Randy, you'll have to let me know, because I'm not quite sure.

Tonight, Randy, I'm going out to dinner with Heather Warm. We're going to Citizen Cake, an establishment much more upscale than the ones you could afford to take me to. We're going to get faggy mixed drinks, Randy; we won't be drowing our insecurities in the bottles of blue-collar Budweiser you and I had grown so accustomed to. And I'm going to write about it, Randy, on Kat and Randy Eat Food Dot Blogspot Dot Com, and Heather will write about it too. Kat and Heather Do Citizen Cake, we'll call it. This isn't to say Heather is the new Randy, Randy. Heather is Heather, Randy, and, I promise you, she's the best Heather she can be. I hope you understand this.

Randy, my body is on the verge cheating, though, I assure you, my heart will remain faithful. If that sounds pervy, then perhaps it is. I hope this doesn't upset you.

Randy, take me to P.F. Chang's China Bistro when you return. I wouldn't dare do it alone and I can't do it without you.

Love,
Kat

Randy Does Japanese McDonalds

I went a scant half hour ago to the East Shinjuku area and ate at your favorite vendor of fatty food and scary clowns. It was a lot better than your Pleasanton McDonalds. And the Pleasanton McDonalds is really good. I pointed at the double cheeseburger (which I thought was the Quarter Pounder) and said "kudosai". Which is "please". After that, things quickly unraveled. Anyway, the point is I got my damn burger, fries, and Big Soda. And it was delicious.

I love you too, Kat.