Category: On the Road

RED ROSES, SARAJEVO BLUES
Charming Hostess at the Sarajevo Jazz Festival, November 4-8
A montage of vignettes in two parts

Part 2 of 2

Read Part 1 here.

Outside/Inside

Jewlia paraphrases an essay from a book she's been reading on Bosnia -- Sarajevo is a city where opposites come together.  It is a city in a valley, where the houses look in at the city center and the city center looks up and out at the residents in the hills.  The outside/inside, feminine/masculine principles can also be found in Bosnian cuisine.  Cevapi, or grilled meats, are roasted on a phallic stick, to be eaten on outdoor tables at restaurants, representing the masculine.  But inside homes, Bosnians serve the feminine dolmas.  Dolmas refer to all stuffed packages, usually filled with savory meat and rice concoctions but retaining their original flavors.  These represent the feminine.

We find Asdz around the corner from the hotel, where such feminine wares are displayed in glass cases.

I love the stuffed pale green peppers with tender veal and rice filling.  I love the cigar-thick stuffed cabbage leaves in rich red sauce.  Stuffed grape leaves are some of the best I've ever had, though I think everything is stuffed with the same yummy filling.  But the best are the flat golf ball-sized cippolini onions with their tender little meatball cores, melting, sweet and tender.  Short, bullet-shaped stewed okra are less slimy but considerably hairier and throat-sticking than their American cousins.  Everything is spiced with a light hand, but well-seasoned.  We sop all the mingling sauces up from our stainless steel plates with the crumpet-like elastic flatbread.  I think this is representative of Bosnian cuisine.  And if it is, I think I love Bosnian cuisine.

Asdz
Mali Curciluk 3
Sarajevo
++387 33/238-500

A present for you

The four of us head into the old part of town where we can buy our souvenirs and leave our money with the locals.  Jewlia, Anmarie and I try on several soccer zip-ups.  One particularly insistent salesman ropes us into his small kiosk.

VENDOR:  Hello!  Try on, madam.  Beautiful!  [He hands us each little pens made of carved and painted balsa wood.]  Present, for you madam.  One for you, one for you.  Please try, en le magasin.  Universal size, fit perfect.  60 Marks. [He runs over and grabs a handful of acrylic football scarves.]  You like football?  Bosna I Hercegovina.  Football.  [He hands us each little matching balsa wood cigarette holders.]  No, present, please, for you.  Beautiful.

The call to prayer comes over loudspeakers.  He turns towards the kiosk, wipes his hand over his solemn mien, puts his hands together in front of his face, then turns back to me as the prayer song continues overhead. 

VENDOR: Not 60, not 55, 50 marks, very good.  You like white, I have white.  You like Sarajevo?  Zeljo?  Football, I have.  Here, present for you.  [He hands each of us a leather keychain with a picture of the bridge at Mostar.]  Beautiful.  Try on, try en le magasin.

Pierre, the Knight of Malta

Cynthia and I have decided to see Hans Bennink, the crazy Swedish drummer, on the final night of the festival.  I head to the downstairs cafe to wait for Cynthia.  A portly man leans up against the bar, his chest heaving in alarm as he cries, "Voda!  Voda!", blustering and mumbling other indistinguishable words under his irregular breath.  On the other side of the bar, the female hotel manager and two waitresses stare back with half concern, half disdain.  Smoke curls up from the lit cigarette in one waitress's hand as the other waitress fills a glass from the soda pistol.

I take a seat in the empty restaurant and stare at him, wondering if he's drunk, wondering whether or not he's a regular, wondering how long it will be before Cynthia comes downstairs.  He feels my eyes on him and slowly turns his gaze towards me, like a lighthouse bearing its beam down on a little ship.  I don't look away as he stumbles towards me. 

MAN: Where are you from?

GANDA: New York.

MAN: No. [Heave.] Where are you from?

GANDA: My parents are from Thailand.

MAN: Thailand. [Heave.  He leans in.]  You have a beautiful -- [Heave] -- beautiful face.

GANDA:  Thank you.

He stumbles to my left and drops his 300 pounds in the too small space between me and the edge of the banquette.  I slide 8 inches to the right to accomodate his girth.  I can smell the alcohol coursing through his blood. 

MAN:  What is your name?

GANDA: Ganda.

MAN: I am Pierre.  Nice to meet you. 

I shake his hand.  It's large, meaty, and soft.  He heaves a few more times, staring at the table as he catches his breath, mumbling a few things I can't quite understand.  His face is flushed, and he looks uncomfortable and on edge, as though he expects the rug to be pulled out from under his brown oxfords.

PIERRE:  Why are you staring at me?

GANDA:  I want to make sure you're okay.  Are you okay?

PIERRE:  No, I am not okay!  [Heave.  He gulps from his glass of water and clutches his chest with a meaty hand.] I saw a vision!  Upstairs. [Heave.] I came downstairs.  I tell them -- [Heave.  He gestures to the hotel employees.]  They know me.  I need -- [Heave.  He wipes his hand across his face.]  Where are you from?

GANDA:  My parents are from Thailand.

PIERRE: Oui, Thailand.  [Heave.]  Thailand, [heave] ugly country.  I...the prostitution.  See, I have been to Thailand --

Pierre's face crumples up like a piece of foil and starts to turn red as he begins to cry.  He looks at me as the tears well up.  He begins to sob in earnest.  He removes his glasses to wipe away his tears.

PIERRE:  [Sobbing] I am a Knight of Malta, you see, I am a royalist.  I am a French aristocrat, the real Knight of Malta. 

His shoulders roll downward as he sobs.  Part of me wants to reach out and comfort him, but I know that it will probably be a slippery slope.  I gaze with concern instead.

PIERRE: [Still sobbing]  Because when I kiss the little girls...leprosy...I went to the leprosy camps...You see, I am a Knight of Malta...

He sobs a little while longer.  I see Cynthia has come down.  She chats with the hotel ladies at the bar.  I wait for her to make eye contact with me and give me an out.  After a minute or two, Pierre's sobs subside.

PIERRE:  I am sorry.  I am sorry.  Thailand.  What are you doing in this place?

GANDA:  I'm just visiting.  It's a beautiful country.

PIERRE:  [Exhaling hard through his lips] This place?  This is horrible place.  You see, that is why I am here.  I do philanthropic work.  With the Knights of Malta.  I am a true French aristocrat. 

I catch Cynthia's eye.

GANDA:  Shall we go?

CYNTHIA: Sure, we don't have to go right away.

GANDA:  No, we should go.  It was nice to meet you Pierre.

PIERRE: Thank you, I am very sorry.

GANDA:  It's okay, I think there are ghosts here too.

PIERRE:  I am very sorry for les larmes --

GANDA:  No, it's beautiful.  It's beautiful.

PIERRE:  Ah!  [Heaves.] You are very kind.  Vous etes magnifique. 

GANDA: Have a good night. 

PIERRE: Merci.  Good night.

Burlington

Over dinner at Jez, Anmarie mentions a gig in Burlington, VT.  All of a sudden, I have a visual flash of the Burlington Coat Factory on the corner of 23rd St. and 6th Ave., with all the people moving swiftly in parallel and perpendicular lines.  And in that moment, I know that I don't want to be on that corner of New York City.  Sometimes traveling brings you a deeper appreciation of the place you will eventually return to.  But sometimes, travel can remind you what a stranger you are in the place you call home.

Eldin the firecracker

We meet Eldin, a political and music writer for Dani Magazine, at the Karabit Cafe for multiple espressos.  He swears that he has to be on his way in order to meet his editor's deadline, but he stays for much longer than he should.  He is full of righteous rage and passion, and he waxes eloquently on war crimes, American independent hard rock, and communist humor.  He wears his long hair in a ponytail and sports a short but unruly dark beard.  In the hour and a half we spend over coffee, he chain smokes probably 10 Marlboro Reds.  He is only 25 years old. 

He brings us copies of the Dani Magazine that features his article on Sarajevo Blues, in which he writes that every self-respecting Bosnian should own a copy of this record.  Prior to our trip, he was the owner of the sole copy of Charming Hostess's Sarajevo Blues in all of Sarajevo.  Sem's book of poetry Sarajevo Blues has gone out of print in Bosnia.

Sarajevo Blues

Grbavica, from Sem Mehmedinovic's Sarajevo Blues, sung by Charming Hostess:

The snipers, at least those aiming at Sniper Alley,
Shoot from the Jewish cemetery
Covered by gravestones, they're safe.
Dear Lord, punish those who desecrate the graves
And punish me if it was a sin that I picked violets there as a child.

The Tunnel

800 meters underneath the old Sarajevo airport, 1 meter wide, 1.6 meters tall, traffic moving in only one direction at a time, with electrical wiring endangering the thousands of people who used the passage every day, this tunnel saved a population held hostage and laid bare as sitting ducks in their own city.  As Jewlia has said of Sem's poetry, the tunnel is about love, resistance, and freedom under extreme constraint.

Jewlia asks the man who runs the museum what it's like to have people come in and out of his family home every day and see this piece of Sarajevo history.  He half-smiles and replies, "It's a job."

Sarajevo roses

During the walk up to the main stage, we walk along the edge of the park, where we come across a Sarajevo rose -- a place where a mortar shell tore a crater in the sidewalk and killed innocent people.  They have since been filled symbolically with red cement and are called roses.  It is a morbid yet beautiful, effective tribute to the bloodshed and the hope that still grows out of Sarajevo hearts.

We run into Alma up at the Magic Malik show.  Alma works for the Sarajevo Jazz Festival.  She has high Slavic cheekbones and a willowy long-limbed frame.  Her almond-shaped, kind brown eyes have long, dark lashes that point straight down like a fringe visor.  She speaks four languages, and her English is impressively colloquial.  She is the kind of wholesome, gorgeous young woman men must want to marry.  We tell her what a wonderful experience we've had with all of the festival folks, how well-organized everything was, and how warm and welcoming Sarajevskos have been.

JEWLIA: Do people come from out of town for the festival?

ALMA: Eh...it is mostly Bosnians.  I think that people are still scared to come to Sarajevo.  But I hope that you tell them to come.

Alma sends us to one of her favorite hangouts, Ribica, just around the corner from the Eternal Flame.  With its twinkling lights and curlicued mirrors, this gorgeous little sliver of a cafe looks like a Mucha drawing trapped in amber.  We order miniature bottles of wine and choose our tea from a great selection along the wall.  We eat dry Danish-style butter cookies and marvel at the knick-knacks strewn along the shelves and on our table.  We laugh about how lucky we are to get to enjoy this beautiful town, where cathedral bells and Muslim prayer wake the city every morning, where fog settles with the haze of hearth fires over a fishbowl city, where crimson roses are still in bloom in frosty November.

For the pictorial version, visit my flickr set.

RED ROSES, SARAJEVO BLUES
Charming Hostess at the Sarajevo Jazz Festival, November 4-8
A montage of vignettes in two parts

Part 1 of 2

THE PLAYAS:

JEWLIA, Charming Hostess leader, born and raised in East New York to communist parents, now resides in San Francisco, CA.
ANMARIE, Charming Hostess sign language interpreter, born and raised in the corn fields of Iowa, climbs to the top of the grain silo to use her cell phone when visiting mom, now resides in San Francisco, CA.  JEWLIA's partner.
CYNTHIA, Charming Hostess member, born and raised granola-style in the Santa Cruz mountains, now resides in the Bay Area.
GANDA, Charming Hostess substitute/East Coast rep, born and raised in east L.A. county, now resides in Brooklyn, NY.  Flown in to keep ChoHo MARIKA's seat warm while MARIKA tours with Vienna Teng.

Vedran, the medical student

We arrive in the afternoon on the 4th, after three planes and numerous metal detectors.  As soon as we get off the plane, I realize with dismay that I am wearing my most American jacket, the SUV of outerwear -- a bright blue Gore-Tex ski jacket.  (I have never skied.)  Sarajevo customs official stamps our passports without questions or second glances.  He nods at me with heavy eyelids when I say thank you. 

Our driver is holding up a sign that says SARAJEVO JAZZ FESTIVAL.  His name is Vedran.  He's blond, young, masculine and handsome.  He leads us out to the van in the small airport parking lot.  We are surrounded on all sides by perfectly geometric mountains.  The autumn afternoon sunshine shines beyond low, wispy clouds, and the air smells faintly sweet and charred, like burning firewood and plastic. 

Jewlia riffles through Vedran's CD collection.  His CDs are labeled Nervous System, Respiratory System, etc.  Vedran gets in the driver's seat after stowing the luggage in the back of the van. 

JEWLIA: Are you a medical student?

VEDRAN: How did you know?

JEWLIA: I can just tell by looking at you.

VEDRAN:  Okay. 

JEWLIA: I looked at your CDs.  Why do you have them in English?

VEDRAN:  They don't have any CDs like that in Bosnian.  They have anatomy, but not systems.  So what do you want to do?   We can drive through the town center or we can have a panoramic drive.

ALL: Panoramic.

We wind around the city's edge.  Vedran points out the 1984 Olympic Village, torn apart by gunshots.  Clotheslines hang over bullet-ridden balconies and pockmarked edifices, the glass shattered in cobweb shapes.  Jewlia asks if we're going to pass Grbavica; Vedran wants to know why we want to know about Grbavica, the neighborhood he lives in.  We drive around the lip of the bowl of Sarajevo, dense with houses like lichen, before swirling down into the town center.

VEDRAN:  Excuse me, over there is the Children's Village.  That's where the children who lost their parents in the war live.

JEWLIA:  Who takes care of them?

VEDRAN:  The mothers without children.

Restaurant Jez (pronounced Yezh)

Restaurant Jez is the kind of place I would normally take one glance at and turn right back out of.  There's nobody in the place.  Its fancily folded cloth napkins and leather bound menus in English signal tourist pandering, but since the festival is paying for us to eat here, we eat here.  The restaurant is filled with grandmother and grandfather clocks that chime out of time.  The walls also are mounted with hand grenades, rifles and other strange old war relics.  A blue gas fire burns behind faux wood logs in a little grate. 

We order a vegetable plate with buttery, well-salted slivers of summer squash and eggplant, a sad caprese that must include those sad ethylene gassed Holland tomatoes, and little ice cream scoops of al dente (read: undercooked) rice.  For my entree, I choose the Jez Plate, a mystery mix of grilled meats which is perfectly sufficient, if not terribly exciting.  The other diners' steaks come with intensely heavy, cheesy sauces.  I'm not entirely sure if it is representative of Bosnian cuisine.  If it is, I'm not sure I'm going to enjoy Bosnian cuisine.

Restaurant Jez
Zelenih beretki 14
Sarajevo
++387 33 650 312

Asian Persuasion

I wake up in time for continental breakfast.  I still can't do the whole Euro fleisch mit kase for breakfast thing.  Since I have to sing in the evening, I opt out of the yogurt and muesli.  I also shy away from the chicken paste and fish paste, which look like miniature tins of Fancy Sheba cat food. 

I take a brisk morning walk through the old town center, which seems remarkably well preserved.  I pass the set up giant chess game, where the old men will congregate later, wearing berets and newscaps, pondering the game en masse. 

People look at me with curiosity, but without hostility.  I know I look different, but I don't look that different.  They have dark hair and fair skin, I have dark hair and fair skin.  But I'm different.  A woman I'm walking next to looks at me and smiles.

WOMAN: Japan?  Korea?

GANDA: [I lie.]  Thailand.

WOMAN:  Very nice, very nice.

I assume she's going to try and swindle me out of something and walk in a different direction.  I don't know what's worse -- that tourists get swindled everywhere, or that I immediately assume that someone who strikes up a friendly conversation is going to try and rob me.

Make sure you get some burek

Lonesome Hero says I should get some burek.  We choose a storefront at random and order up the burek.  A hose of filo dough is wrapped around a filling of meat, spinach and cheese, or potato, then swirled like a snail shell onto a pizza pan.  The lady cuts us each a large wedge and weighs it on her scale before sliding the wedge onto stainless steel plates.

BUREK LADY:  Yogurt?

ALL:  Da.

The pastry is thin and well browned, the meat filling is divine, savory and oniony like a good Swedish meatball.  The spinach and (goat?) cheese filling is light and delish.  We pour our yogurt over the pie, which adds the right touch of moisture and tart creaminess to cut the richness of the meat.  We later realize that the yogurt was probably meant for drinking, not as a condiment.

I have got a crush, my baby, on you

I request a mug of hot water from the hotel restaurant so I can have a cup of PG Tips from my personal stash in my room.  Once I get up to the fourth floor, though, I realize that I have left my room key at the reception desk.  I get back in the elevator and stare down at the floor, where earlier that morning, someone had hocked a lugey and someone else had cleaned it up.  The doors open and I start to step out only to realize that we are not yet on the ground floor.  Instead, I stare like a deer in headlights at a handsome man.  He smiles at me.

MAN:  [Scrumptious English accent] Going down? 

GANDA:  [Pause.  Pause.  It's your turn, you idiot.]  Yes. 

He drags his large black duffel and smaller black bag into the telephone booth-sized elevator. 

MAN:  What are you here for?

GANDA:  The Sarajevo Jazz Festival?  [Not a question but a valley girl inflection.]

MAN:  Ah.  You're a jazz musician?

GANDA: [Smiling.] Of sorts.

MAN:  Of sorts?

                                    GANDA:  I'm a singer.
[Simultaneously]
                                      MAN:  A singer?

MAN:  Where are you from?

GANDA:   New York.

MAN:  Whereabout?

GANDA:  Brooklyn.

MAN:  Whereabout?

GANDA: Park Slope.  [Liar.]

MAN:  Whereabout?

GANDA:  [Laughing.]  Actually, it's south of Park Slope in Sunset Park.

The doors open into the lobby.

GANDA:  Are you here for the jazz festival?  [A total possibility as all of the participating artists are in one of two hotels.]

MAN: No, I'm a writer for the New York Times. 

GANDA: [That is so hot.] Ah, do you live in New York then?

MAN: No, I live in Slovenia, but I'm in New York from time to time.

GANDA:  Ah.  [To the receptionist.]  I forgot my key. 

[She hands me my key.  Say something.  Ask the dreamy New York Times writer who lives in Slovenia what his name is.  Ask him what he's covering.  Ask him why he has to be checking out of the hotel right at this moment.  Invite him to the gig.  Say something!  Your tea is getting cold!]

GANDA: See ya. 

[I can't believe I just said "See ya!"  Who am I?  Fucking Frances McDormand in Fargo?  I just closed the fucking door on the super crushable New York Times writer who lives in Slovenia.]

MAN: [After a pause in which I feel like I'm being mocked.]  See ya.

I go up to my room alone and drink my tea alone.  Later I try to google him without much success given my limited amount of information ("new york times" + "slovenia").  Even later I leave him a Sarajevo Jazz Fest postcard with his luggage, which he's left in the receptionist area.  I circle our performance info and write, "Please come if you're free.  Brooklyn girl in the elevator, Ganda Suthivarakom."  But he was checking out of the hotel, and he's probably going home to Slovenia.  To a hot Balkan wife.  Or a hot Balkan boyfriend. 

No Guns, No Photography

The Round Midnight shows happen at the Coloseum Club, which is half casino, half music venue.  Signs posted by the revolving glass doors have pictures of a crossed out gun and a crossed out camera -- no guns, no photography.  We have to go through metal detectors to get into the club.  The performance area is quite chic, with tiered seating, plenty of red velvet, and a grand piano which ChoHo does not need.  The chiming and ringing of the slot machines is far enough from the stage that it doesn't interfere with the music.  The cigarette smoke is overwhelming, but the audience is attentive and listening.  More and more folks wander away from the slot machines to listen to three American ladies sing a cappella in Bosnian, Ladino and English.  It's a good show, especially considering my eleventh hour involvement.

Anmarie tries to take a picture of the three singers after soundcheck, pretending to play the slot machines.  A burly bouncer in a gray, shoulder-padded, double-breasted suit strides over.

BOUNCER: NO PICTURES.  Let me see camera.

ANMARIE:  Here, we didn't even get the picture, we got the carpet, see.

The bouncer scrolls through the pictures distrustfully, then hands the camera back to Anmarie.  I take a picture later outside the club instead.  I don't plan on making trouble with big Bosnian bouncers.

Motor City Roots, Jazz Jamaica (UK)

After our gig, we head over to a much larger venue to see the late night headliners, Jazz Jamaica (from the UK).  Their poster says, "Jazz Jamaica Motor City Roots."  The Hammerstein Ballroom sized venue is packed with a swaying, sing-along crowd.  The air is thick and white with cigarette smoke.  We follow Jewlia down to the pit, where I listen to four bars of, "I'm eeeeeeeaaaaaasyyyyy, I'm easy like Sunday moooooooorninnnn."  I see Anmarie. 

GANDA: This is not for me.

I turn around and walk back to the hotel.  It's about 2:30 a.m., and it's just me, the nippy fog and the click of a woman's heels on cobblestones.

to be continued...

Read part 2 here.

I'm on the road with the Charming Hos tomorrow.  If you recall, the last time I went out with the ladies, we got in a car accident and got pulled over by cops twice in two different states.  Be back real soon with pics and picks from my short trip.  I've done absolutely zero research on Sarajevo eateries and sights; should be an adventure.  Know anyone in Sarajevo who wants to play host?  I have a hotel room, I just want a tour guide.

Right now I'm totally stressed out trying to learn my music parts.  The stress has manifested itself in the form of an angry boil deep below the surface of my forehead.  Getting a boil always makes me think of the Cook's Tale.  Because of it, I've never tried blancmange and probably never will without feeling dirty.  Damn you, Chaucer!

I'm going on vacay, and not a mo' too soon.  A bunch of us are going to be in a converted barn upstate.  As I told a friend, we're going to draw constellation maps, study geological formations, and meditate.  And/or get wasted. 

So tune in next week when I regale you with wacky stories of our cheese-making experiments, pictures of our local flora samples, and comparative studies of rural architecture in the Northeast.  And/or complain about my hangover.

****

P.S.  Did y'all watch R U the Girl last night, where T-Boz and Chilli picked Left Eye's replacement?  (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, just let the words wash over you.  Like, for example, waterfalls.)  The girl they picked as the third member of their band -- her name is O' So Krispie.  I'm for serious.  I can't wait for the Ben n' Jerry's TLC flavor.

P.P.S.  I'm so excited!  I'm not going to have any cell phone reception, e-mail, TV, or internet for FOUR DAYS!

P.P.P.S.  I hope to God I do not freak out from lack of technology. 

You know, every time I visit L.A. I think long and hard about when I'm going to return for good so I can be with my family.  Groceries for a feast for nine people yesterday cost about $50, including two whole fried trout with curry sauce; sauteed yellow chives; mild soup with tofu, ground pork meatballs, and fish balls; yum woonsen (glass noodle salad) with pork and shrimp; my mae's unbeatable cucumber salad; and stir-fried morning glory with chilies.  I stopped and sighed when I smashed open a clove of garlic and saw how creamy white, fresh and juicy it was. 

And the living spaces!  My friends Mark and Sara moved from a super slim one-bedroom walk-up on St. Marks Place to a palatial two-bedroom in Silverlake drowning in sunlight, two bathrooms, a washer/dryer, a dishwasher, panoramic views of the hills, two parking spaces, and a deck.  And they pay $400 less than they did for their East Village shoebox.   We sprawled out on the L.A. condo standard-issue cream carpet, munched on Trader Joe's snacks and watched the fireworks from their living room on Sunday night. 

Here are my cousin, my cutie mae, and our huge kaffir lime tree in the backyard.  Imagine -- kaffir lime leaves, limes, chilies, cherry tomatoes, and lemongrass  fresh from the garden.  And sunshine year round.  Don't hate me -- I love New York with all my heart, but I wouldn't kick L.A. out of bed.

As predicted, my mae is bursting at the seams with joy over having both her babies under her roof.  About 8 a.m. this morning, before our morning meal of salmon Khao Thom, she thought it would be nice for us to go pull weeds from her brand new lush grassy lawn AS A FAMILY.  As my mae and I squatted in the backyard like our rice paddy predecessors, wearing matching tropical print muumuus, we heard a gentle, "Krr.  Krrrr." 

MAE: "Ooii! What's that sound?"

She started bounding off the grass and onto the cement patio, which I, following suit, did too, just in time to hear "Krr.  KRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR," as the automatic sprinklers went off. 

Ah, home sweet home.

Like, omigod, I'm totally going to Cali tomorrow, I'm SO EXCITED?  To visit my family?  For July 4th weekend?  I can totally eat egg white omelets, like, everyday?

I can't drive for shit even though I grew up in Hell.A., so my parents still have to drive me around, or my friends have to come pick me up.  Which they do, thank God, because there's nothing to do within reasonable walking distance of my house in La Puente except loiter at the Stater Bros. supermarket, loiter at the am/pm gas mart, or go fishing for bionic crawdads in the cement drainage ditch behind my house. I shit you not.

I'm happy to be leaving Sunset Park for July 4 because some nut has been distributing fireworks to the amateur pyros in the hood.  Last week, while waiting to meet folks at Tacos Matamoros, the explosive pops and the burning objects shooting every which way were really putting me on edge.  I always think shotgun and drive-by when I hear loud pops like that.  Another unfortunate leftover of my La Puente childhood.

I don't want to give you the wrong impression -- I don't hate L.A. the way I did when I was 16.  In fact, I'm looking forward to seeing people I love, soaking in some smog-filtered sunshine, and eating well.  I'm planning to eat a meal at my MOST FAVORITE THAI RESTAURANT, Ruen Pair on Hollywood Blvd.  My parents will also be barbecueing at home for my cousins and my brother and his friends.  Reports TK if I remember to pack my digital cam.

In the meantime, be good.  Don't get drunk and fall off someone's roof.   And remember, Somebody in California Loves You!

DAY FIVE, Sunday, April 10

12:00 p.m. Short stack -- Dos Gringos

We're going ho-ome, I can sleep in my be-ed! Before we can get back, we eat a very civilized brunch at a little cafe with outdoor space. I usually don't go for the outdoor eating, but I have spring fever and the sunshine feels good on my skin, and we've got a black gate protecting us from the sidewalk rabble. Marika enjoys her cilantro scrambled eggs with havarti on whole wheat toast.

I suspect that they cook their eggs in the microwave, and I'm very picky about my egg texture, so I opt instead for the crisp Belgian waffle with whipped cream, pineapple, mango and kiwi, along with a teacup full of rather tough, turmeric heavy "scrambled tofu" and roasted tomato. I double fist with an iced coffee and a tall glass of fresh squeezed orange juice -- i love a variety of beverages at brunch. Of course, towards the end of the meal, I get a coarse reminder of why I never eat on the sidewalk -- the owner of old hatchback parked in front of the cafe warms up his engine, sending huge plumes of noxious exhaust into our food and faces until Marika asks them to move on. But it's definitely a pleasant hang otherwise, very California casual in a "There goes the neighborhood" kind of way.

Grade: B+

Total: $12 for a ton of food -- waffle with fresh fruit, whipped cream and nutella, a side of scrambled tofu, a fresh squeezed orange juice and an iced coffee.

Will I return? You definitely get bang for your buck here, but it feels like more of a locals hang than a dining destination. I don't imagine I'll need breakfast in D.C. again for a while. Let's just say that if someone suggested it, I wouldn't say no.

Dos Gringos
3116 Mount Pleasant St., NW
Washington, DC
202-462-1159

7:00 p.m.
I made it home in time for the Contender, people. Life is good.

And that concludes Tour de Farce, April 2005. Special thanks to Jewlia and Marika for many laughs, great music, and a fucking great hang. Confucius say: A good adventure is as ephemeral as the cherry blossoms, so take a picture and get on with your life!

DAY FOUR, Saturday, April 9

5:30 p.m.

We perform at Chapters Books for a small audience in folding chairs.  We sound fantastic, if I do say so myself.  Sem is in the audience and I totally mess up one of his lyrics, but he pretends not to notice.  I spy my friend Dan in the audience and am ecstatic to see a familiar face.  After the performance, we slip out to the bistro around the corner for a glass of champagne.

8:00 p.m.

I slip away from the Bosnians and the Charming Hostess ladies to meet up with Dan again.  (A lot of Dans on this tour, huh?)  "Is there anything you want to do?" he asks.

"Ben's Chili Bowl!"

"I go there at least twice a week.  We can walk over there."

9:00 p.m.  Short stack -- Ben's Chili Bowl

I asked some of my touring musician friends if they had any suggestions for eateries in Baltimore, Philly, or D.C.  Ben's Chili Bowl came up a couple of times.  This U Street institution has been keeping it real since 1958 -- and I don't think much has changed since then.  The decor is very '50s diner, complete with red leatherette bar stools and booths, and the grillmasters wear white uniforms with white paper caps.  Be careful if you put back a couple of drinks (which, if you've made it down to the Chili Bowl, you probably have) -- the insta-sobering white fluorescents are quite harsh on the eyes.  Just squint and focus on the perfect rows of sausages on the beautiful grill.

"What do we get?" I ask Dan.

"Half-smoked with everything."  (Apparently Bill Cosby's favorite.)

"Can we get some chili cheese fries too?"

"Great," he says.  He points at the percolating drink dispenser.  "What do you want to drink?  Red, orange..."

"How about pink?" I reply.

"Okay.  Can we get two half-smoked with everything, one order of chili cheese fries, and one small pink, one medium pink?"

We take our feast to the table and chow.  The half-smoked is quite snappy and yummus, oozing smoky fat out of every crevice, the generous slathering of chili with a little mustard and chopped onion gilding the fatty lily.  The chili cheese fries are pretty perfect -- crisp, thick fries with plenty of spicy chili and a cheez whiz kind of sauce.  The pink drink tastes faintly lemonade-y if I close my eyes and use my imagination.  After about five minutes of eager scarfing, I'm starting to feel the burn.  After ten minutes, I have come to a complete halt.  It feels like my meal isn't mixing very well in my stomach.

We go back to Dan's house to split a fizzy bottle of Korbel brut and play some scrabble.  As the burn fades away, I suddenly have a hankering for more of those chili cheese fries.  I don't know what they put in that chili, but I'd risk the burn again for just one more hit of it...

Grade:  B

Total:  $8.50 per person for a half-smoked with everything, my half of a plate of chili cheese fries, and a pink drink.

Will I return?  Honestly, I'm still fiending for those damn chili cheese fries.  How else am I going to sate a craving like that?  It's hard to get that kind of grub in this health-conscious era.  Ben, I'm under your spell.

Ben's Chili Bowl

1213 U Street, N.W.

Washington D.C. 20009

(202)667-0909

DAY FOUR, Saturday, April 9

1:00 p.m.

We get back in the car and drive out to the northeast corner of D.C. to report our car incident at the other police station.  The very friendly folks at this station tell us we can file a complaint against the other station for refusing to take the report.  We decline, we just want to be done with this business.  After about an hour, we are finally finished!  Is there somewhere we can get a little breakfast around here?  "There's a Dunkin' Donuts just down the block."  Heh heh, cops and donuts, heh heh...okay, let's get the hell out of here.

3:00 p.m.  Short stack -- Julia's Empanadas

This little storefront on U St. carries about 10 types of empanadas daily, from sweet fruit empanadas to Jamaican style-beef patties.  I order the lovely saltenas, with curried chicken, potato, peas, sliced hard-boiled egg, and lots of onion.  The filling to pastry ratio is excellent, though the plain, egg-brushed pastry is a little on the tough side.  Would have been a perfect no-mess portable snack for a picnic under the cherry blossoms, if we had made it over there.  Dun dun dun!

Grade: A-

Total: $3.18

Will I return?  Sure.  I bet they'd be great snacks for the car.

Short stack -- Cakelove

Poor D.C.  Cakelove ain't Sugar Sweet Sunshine, I'll tell you that.  The cupcakes are beautiful, but why are they getting tough and cold in the refrigerated case?  I got two cupcakes -- the chocolate with strawberry buttercream and very pretty bits of chopped strawberry, and the vanilla with amaretto icing.  I allowed the cupcakes to come to room temperature and bit in.  The satiny buttercream was lovely and didn't overpower the cake as icing sometimes can.  But the chocolate cake was deeply disappointing -- the crumb was not tender enough and it didn't have enough chocolate oomph, a problem I encounter when I use Scharffen Berger chocolate at home.  I didn't even bother with the Amaretto -- I think vanilla cakes are even harder to get right.  And Cakelove charges a whopping $3 per cupcake, TWICE AS MUCH as Sugar Sweet Sunshine charges here in uber-expensive New York City.  At that price, I should get some love with my cake.

Grade: C-

Total: $6 (!) for two refrigerator burned cupcakes

Will I return?  No way.  There's a lot of diabetes in my family.  Every simple carb counts, so if there are vials of insulin in my future, I only want to consume kCals worth becoming ill for.

Cakelove

1506 U Street, NW, D.C.

202.588.7100