Quiche, Grindhouse, and Gaijin at the Noodle Shop

There’s a little known law of science. It goes something like this:

If Rachael (when Rachael = a) cooks an elaborate meal (when Elaborate Meal = b) comes into direct contact with houseguests/moving objects (when Moving Object = H)
Then A multiplied by B divided by the speed of H = No Fucking Leftovers in my fridge.

Above mentioned visitors did bring a chocolate cream pie with them, of which half is still in the reefer. I won’t actually eat that though. Now if there were quiche left that would’ve served for another two night’s meals.
It was rich.
Tasty.
Bad for you.
In other words it came out perfectly. A full pound of cooked bacon. Lots of half and half. Gruyere, Swiss and Mozzarella. Sautéed mushrooms and onions. Flaky crust.
Yep. Good and good for you.

After consuming this feast we went over to Harrah’s for an hour or so then stopped at Blockbuster to rent Grindhouse, the Quentin Tarantino ‘drive-in double feature’ released last summer.

It was fun. Straight-ahead Tarantino fare. Lots of over the top violence and a perfect homage to the ’70’s fast cars/tits and ass/chock-full-o-violence B flicks.
I should know. My formative years were spent immersed in those films. Gah. I lived for (and at) B movies as a pre-teen and teen.

Both films were enjoyable fun and the first one, Planet Terror, had a zombie plot. It was directed by Robert Rodriguez (of Sin City).
You all know I have a soft spot in my heart (and brains) for Zombies.
As an added bonus what’s not to love about a peg-legged stripper heroine?

The second piece is Death Proof and was directed by Tarantino. Nice work by Kurt Russell playing a total psychopathic stuntman killer.
You see, there’s always that quirkiness that makes any Tarantino flick amusing.
Still…. There was the lingering feeling of ‘move along nothing (new) to see here.’

Damn Quentin. Enjoyed the movie but was hoping you’d push some new button, if not boundary.

This logically (in Reno) brings us to the eternal question of white people eating in Asian restaurants.
We visited a Vietnamese place for lunch. Just a little family run place.

I tasted something which sounds fairly vile but was actually quite tasty. This soup contained everything from tendon to tripe to brisket but I always try something new given a chance.
I ordered something that sounded quite tasty and was quite tasty.
The food was delicious.
The cleaning bill will be stupendous.

What is it about the inability of white people to eat Asian food in public?
Here’s a test I’ve devised. It’s called

Find the Gaijin!

FIRST: pick out an Asian restaurant. Any type will do. Korean, Vietnamese, Chinese, a Sushi Bar, whatever.
NEXT: put a bag over the head of all the patrons.
Sure they’ll struggle momentarily but explain it’s all for science. Or hit them over the the head with a Sapporo bottle.
Now you’re ready to play!

Q: How do you discern the white people in the crowd?
A: Count the number of noodle bits, soy sauce/rooster sauce blotches on their shirts.

I Guarantee you’ll Find The White People.

Fuck. I had actually left the house in a gray shirt as opposed to my requisite black. You know what happened don’t you.
This is why I wear black.
No. It’s not just a fashion thing.
It’s because I can’t use chopsticks or big-ass ceramic spoons for shit.

Thankfully this white girl cooks a mean quiche.
Hai!

~Miss R

Currently listening:
Eyes Open
By: Snow Patrol
Release date: 09 May, 2006

What Happens in Reno…

sure as hell doesn’t stay in reno. …not with this blog.

When we last saw our heroine she was busy making plans, but not for Nigel.
In the intervening week things have just gotten funny. Yeah both ways.

I’m not gonna say things have become weird or strange. The last time I typed those words –at the New Year- my dad died, the debacle with the family occurred and life generally went fucking sideways.
We’re gonna try the adjective funny today.
Oh hell. What if I’ve just cursed Mom?
Well at least I wouldn’t have suffer through the nightly 20 questions over the phone.

Anyway, last Saturday brought a visit from Washington State’s own Dave and Lisa. The last time they were in town we peeked into a swinger’s club, pole danced, and generally wrecked havoc throughout Reno. That was also the infamous weekend of Turn Down The Stereo Immediately Or You Will Be Evicted Tomorrow.

This time my friends had a room at the Peppermill. I thought ‘what could possibly go wrong and if it does it won’t be at my place.’
Being a genius I decided to take a cab over there; no chance of the decrepit Zamboni being used as multi-passenger transportation.

It took 20 minutes to get ahold of them after I’d walked into the casino. The casino/hotel switchboard wouldn’t put me though on the phone without the last name, even though I had the room number. So I called back to get a different operator but she told me that there was something wrong with Dave and Lisa’s room voicemail.
Alright Plan C.
I sashay over to the hotel concierge, bat my eyelashes, lean my cleavage into his direct line of sight and sweetly ask how to find room 3121.
Presto!

Hugs all around and then back downstairs to the casino for the three of us.
Now, Dave is a serious blackjack player but neither Lisa nor I do much gambling. I don’t gamble because I suck at it.
We go into one of the lounges, play some video poker and then head back out into the neon monstrosity that is the Peppermill. Here we bump into Dave’s old Reno roommate and friend Mike.
Mike is a professional gambler. For real. For years. Poker. He especially loves going out on Friday and Saturday nights to play cards because the tourists are in town. Heh.

Lisa and I are then schooled on the salient points of poker. Somehow I managed to leave the friggin casino 35 cents richer than when I’d come in four hours before.
We’re hungry at this point. It’s around midnight.
Sushi!
Where better than The Men’s Club. Yes kids it’s a sushi bar on one side and a strip bar on the other. Gotta love Reno.
We went into the restaurant and spent an obscene amount on all manner of delicacies. This is not an All You Can Eat place. Even though it adjoins the strippers and lap dancers.

Our restaurant bill was high enough to merit non-payment of the cover charge upon entering the strip club.
I will say that the girls at the Men’s Club look a bit finer than their counterparts at the Wild Orchid. Don’t push me on the point since it’s been a long time since visiting the latter platter ‘o boobies.
Here’s a bottle of water I ordered:

Yep. A tit bar with their own privately labeled water. As well it should be since I paid $3.00 or $4.00 for the stuff. Boobylicious. I’m sure.

My friends dropped me off at home somewhere around 3:00 am. The next morning I was up at 7:00 feeling dehydrated from smoking an entire pack of ciggies in one evening.

Dave and Lisa made their flight the next day and back to Washington. My apartment was noise and litter-free. I’m thinking that a fine time was had by all.
Haven’t had but one cigarette in the past week though. Back on the Nicorette/Commit and club soda diet. It’s a goddamned good thing that those two only come into town every month or so. Fuck me.

The seven days since have been a slow-motion blur of getting new glasses, avoiding the computer, avoiding people, reading, isolating, screening phone calls, contemplating which caliber bullet would have the best taste, and going to doctor’s appointments.

This morning has been spent pirating music for my collection and burning CD’s into iTunes.
I’m on an 80’s Big Beat/Power Pop jag:  Graham Parker, Nick Lowe, The Plimsouls, Dave Edmunds, Phil Seymour, The Romantics, 20/20 etc.
Good stuff.

Oh yeah, and waiting for my ’94 Audi to show up. The Zamboni is going bye-bye. So long ‘ya bastard.

I’ll now bid you all a fond adieu. Been up since 4:20 this morning (fucking sleeping pill at midnight gives me a grand total of almost four and a half hours of sleep) and need a cup of coffee and some toast.

Do I live the life or what.
The correct answer is Or What.

~Miss R