At least it wasn't more meat and potatoes...

So moved was I (not!) by this dining experience at Cuba Libre in Littleton, CO (about 20 miles south of Downtown Denver) that I had to add my own review to the Citysearch website. Okay, okay...what I was really moved by were the entertaining reviews that preceeded mine. Check it out...

When I arrived at Cuba Libre, the first thing that struck me was the very odd decor for what I expected would be a Cuban (or at least Cuban Fusion) restaurant. Of all the Cuban restaurants that I've ever patronized in North or South America, I have to say that this is the first to have the "Breckenridge-Ski-Lodge" look. Sorely lacking was anything remotely Cuban. No Cuban flags, no cigar memorabilia, and no salsa music, although I didn't mind the reggae. I hoped the food would contain enough Latin flair since they had clearly overlooked that detail when they designed the place. (Actually, this building MUST have been home to some other restaurant in a previous life, unless Fidel has some Ski Resorts outside Havana of which I am not aware.)

I arrived after 9pm on a Thursday, and there was not much of a crowd. After being greeted by the now legendary owner (thanks to lady_port 's citysearch review from 10/7/2006), we were promptly seated in one of the booths. It was no surprise that the list of specialty cocktails contained the obligatory mojito as well as some other ambitious takes on some caribbean libation favorites. However, neither of the 3 drinks ordered by my party was particularly spectacular, nor was their presentation terribly impressive. (This bartender wouldn't cut the mustard on either coast.)

The food was by no means the best Cuban food I've ever had, however, I must say that the chef was much more meticulous in his presentation than was the aforementioned bartender. Unfortunately, however, neither the tostones appetizer , nor the rack of lamb and yucca churros (curiously, no hint of yucca was detected) left me anticipating my next visit. While mediocre, the food was at least a sharp departure from the meat and potatoes fare that is the norm in metro Denver. Since that's what I was looking for on this night, the experience was not a total disappointment. Dessert was, however. Their interpretation of Tres Leches cake was barely recognizable. It was neither wet, nor sweet, looking more like something that Hostess might sell in bulk, than a sweet treat at a nice restaurant. Like I said, it’s not the best Cuban food, but at least its not meat and potatoes.

Feliz Dia de los Muertos

Clearly, not all the freaks come out at night. Some were definitely still lingering on Wednesday morning at Oakland Int'l Airport. Perhaps it was the revelry of the Spirits in effect as the supernatural was no doubt behind the oddities that occurred right before my eyes.

3-headed Freak: First there were the United Airlines employees that put the "S" in customer Service, as they proved to have no compassion, nor desire to see to it that I, as their customer had a pleasurable experience on their airline. Both the ticket counter agent, the gate agent and the flight attendant uttered the ultimate service industry no-no ("Hey, I just work here...") before they decided NOT to attempt to get me a better seat when better seats were indeed available. It's not like I'm 6'7" or anything. Oh, wait, I AM 6'7". It wasn't until, when asked to produce my ticket and nearly needing the jaws of life to unwedge me from my original seat, I stood up and towered over this diminutive woman (she subsequently gasped and said, "Oh MY!") that she decided to see what she could do. Never mind the fact that the bulkhead seat in row 3 had been vacant all along. United insists that sitting in any exit row or so called economy-"plus" section is worthy of the customer shelling out additional dough. Enough of that.

Freak #2 (Lunch Money Freak): There are 3 major unwritten rules that all business travelers obey. We live in a world that requires such rules. We, as business travelers have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You scoff and curse at our Executive Platinum status, and our President's Club memberships. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what we know, that, while tragic, our business travel is driving new business opportunities, and that our efforts and tactics, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you drive REVENUE. You don't want to know the truth because deep down in places that you don't talk about at staff meetings or PTA meetings, you WANT us on that plane. You NEED us on that plane. We use words like bulkhead, first class, and upgrades. We use these words as the backbone of the time spent evangelizing our corporate missions to the masses, and negotiating something. You use them as punch lines. We have neither the time nor the inclination to explain ourselves to people rise and sleep under the blanket of the income that we provide and then question the manner in which we provide it. We would rather you just said "thank you" and went on your way. But, I digress.

Okay, so, I'm in line at the Pizza Hut across from Gate 5 before I boarded the aforementioned flight. I decided that I might as well get on this soon to be miserable flight with a full stomach. Yeah, I know it was 7:20am, but believe it or not, even Pizza Hut has a breakfast croissant, and no, there is no tomato sauce OR pepperoni on it. Freak #2 had apparently received the memo at the Conspiracy to Destroy Destah meeting. Being the last person standing between me and said breakfast sandwich, he proceeded to produce a zip-loc baggie full of small change from his satchel. Counting dozens of pennies and nickels in the palm of one's hand is a blatant violation of one of the 3 unwritten rules, especially when there are 11 people in line behind you. Not 11 ordinary, lolli-gagging, Crocodile shoe sporting(not Gators, but the oft-brightly colored plastic Crocodiles fit for the beach), bermuda short wearing leisure travelers, but 11 BUSINESS travelers. Who else inhales recently nuked food at this hour as if Hoover were written on their foreheads? Draw your credit card from your hip as if your name were followed by "The Kid" or preceeded by "Wild", let the person on the register swipe it, and keep it movin'!
Even the lady at the register rolled her eyes, made eye contact with me while making a face that displayed the incredulity of a person that had just witnessed the Washington Generals storm back from 30 down to beat the Harlem Globetrotters at the buzzer, and then looked back at Freak #2 in disbelief. By the way, rules #2, and #3, in no particular order prohibit attempting to ram a "rolly" bag the size of a Hyundai, that has no earthly explanation for being considered a carry-on into the overhead compartment while blocking the row like fatty tissue in an artery, or ever , ever , ever, EVER bringing kids into the first class cabin. (Also receiving votes: talking to the person seated next to you that is clearly trying to read or sleep; getting up to use the bathroom if you are not seated in the aisle; asking somebody to let you cut in the security line so that you don't miss your flight, as if the rest of us have chosen to arrive at the airport the recommended 2 hours in advance).

Freak #3: As a fitting end to this day, I called a restaurant called Aji in Boulder, CO to see if it were busy, and if it were necessary to have a reservation for a party of 2. The hostess that answered the phone very enthusiastically replied that there was no wait, and that reservations were absolutely not necessary. My co-worker and I left the hotel and arrived at the restaurant not 5 minutes later eagerly anticipating the latin-fusion cuisine, only to be scooted aside and told that there would be no table ready available for at least 20 minutes.

"Would you like white meat or dark meat?"
"Dark Meat."
"We're all outta dark meat."
"Then why'd you ASK???"-- from Spike Lee's School Daze

One in a Million

I started this about a week ago, and then proceeded to leave my notebook in the seatback pocket of an airplane. So, I gave it another try and here it is. Enjoy.

Looking up from my steaming bowl of Quaker Oatmeal this morning, I gazed not through the blinds and out the window that peers out over the MacArthur freeway that is a mere stone’s throw from my building, but at the black-framed front page of an old Washington Post that sits just above the elevated bar table in my breakfast nook. I’ve stared at this newspaper hundreds of times, to the point that I have nearly memorized the headlines as well as the faces in the photographs that appear. On this morning, however, I was actually struck by not only the significance of this particular edition, but rather by the fact that this paper was dated exactly 11 years ago today: October 17, 1995.

After wiping the “wow!” expression off my face, I immediately began to peruse that day’s headlines with renewed interest. Oh, how the world had changed. One headline talked about an impending meeting between Hamas and the late Yassir Arafat. Ground was to be broken for the downtown D.C. arena that would come to be the MCI Center, according to another. In another, still, then President Bill Clinton urged America to put an end to racism. A cursory glance seemed to reveal that the day’s news had no new themes, only new characters being featured.

Certainly my life has changed tremendously. On this day in 1995, I was in the midst of my 2nd year of Super Senior-dom, still chasing the elusive and excruciatingly painful Electrical Engineering degree that would eventually make a mockery out of my grade point average. Back then, my life consisted of midterms, midnight runs to SavOn foods with my roommates, fraternity parties and an occasional woefully under-funded roadtrip. Surprisingly, the duality that is my current routine as serial business traveler and car-pool driving soccer Dad is no less exciting, as I’m often called to duty as referee of the epic battle that often rages on in the backseat of my SUV, between rival factions “She did it first” and “he broke mine” . At least I now regularly experience the forbidden world on the other side of the curtain when aboard airplanes, and give not 2 seconds of thought to why I should not consider driving somewhere for 5 hours that I can fly to in 1.

I feel an almost familial connection with the man whose image is featured prominently in black and white newsprint on this edition. Not only has he been on the wall at all of my residences the way a family member might, but the emotion splashed across his face and outstretched arms sang a song of many that were in attendance for that day’s events on the Mall in Washington, D.C. that day. I’m talking about none other than the Million Man March. As the brass label on the frame that encloses this historical periodical states, “I was One in a Million”.

I can remember stumbling upon a Final Call as I rummaged through all of the reading material at the barber shop, having already brought myself up to date on that week’s top 25 in College Football as well as all of the “Beauty of the Weeks” that had graced the pages of Jet since my last fade. On the cover of that issue, Minister Louis Farrakhan had boldly challenged black men from all across the land to descend upon the Chocolate City for a Day of Atonement and to renew the commitments of our forefathers to uplift our communities. Somewhere between the Freedom Marches, Afros, bell-bottoms, crack cocaine and slain leaders, the light at the end of that tunnel had grown very dim. Ours was a generation that was apparently less willing to resist, struggle and sacrifice like Malcolm, Martin, and Huey, instead choosing to be more like…well, Mike. Hip-hop music, one of the last bastions of transcendental positivity, able to entert-, er…excuse me EDU-tain the masses, unfortunately was exiting the period where consciousness and afro-centricity were en vogue, giving way in most cases to gangsta rap and non-sensical anthems that applauded and glorified pornography and promiscuity.

Although I was nearing the half-way point of a stretch of 11 years in which no pork products would touch my lips, I was not one with 2 feet firmly in Farrakhan’s or the Nation of Islam’s camp. However, I knew almost immediately that this was an event that I must not miss. It was not surprising when my roommate came home from work that day with the same notion, as if we were both struck by the same thunderbolt at the same time. After all, as two young, collegiate, black men , this day’s Talented Tenth, it was almost our duty to be there. So, after making a few phone calls and securing some accommodations with friends, we purchased our tickets from San Francisco to Washington, D.C.

When we arrived, I was overcome by a feeling of homecoming. Immediately, Washington’s National Airport (I STILL call it National!) was like a big family reunion. At Continental Airlines baggage claim, I ran into a former teammate of mine from UDC that was working for the airline. Before I left the airport, I saw another guy that I knew from my time in L.A. It seemed like everyone there was a familiar face. As we would discover later that night, the family atmosphere would even carry over to the night club scene. Unfortunately, my generation has almost come to expect at least the possibility of a physical altercation each time we are at a club, and even more so when it is very crowded like it was that night. To my amazement, not even the cold reality of the night club scene could extinguish the love that was seemingly apparent everywhere on this weekend. The same cutting in line, or stepping on a shoe that would ordinarily lead to posturing or fisticuffs, was instead followed by very gracious, “My bad…excuse me, brotha,” or “no disrespect….” It was unbelievable! Of course, there’s always that one brotha that takes the “spirit of the season” a bit too far, chastising anotha brotha with, “Aren’t you down with the March!?” when that brotha took exception to this brotha’s advances on his lady friend.

It was an incredible weekend culminated by perhaps the most amazing feat of all, as we right in the middle of the peaceful assembly of more than 1 Million black men captivated by the words of one Louis Farrakhan. Although the media tried to belittle the occasion, claming that a mere 300,000 to 400,000 were on hand, all of us on hand had no doubt of the true attendance figures. Minister Farrakhan spoke of atoning for the sins that had made fatherless households, objectification and disrespect of black women the norm rather than the exception in the black community. Farrakhan urged black men to look within themselves and take responsibility for repairing their relationships and become the positive role models that were ever so present in the communities of years past.

So as I finished that bowl of oatmeal, I reflected on what has transpired in the 11 years since then. Yassir Arafat has since passed away, but Hamas and other such organizations continue to grab headlines on the myriad of news channels that seem to exist for no other reason than to incite fear and justify American military activity around the world. Bill Clinton, the greatest president of my lifetime, left the Nation’s highest office under a cloud of shame. The MCI Center became the home of the Bullets who would subsequently change their name to Wizards, who, despite their name have yet to perfect the magical, mystical feat of making the numbers in the loss column disappear (POOF!) in a puff of smoke. In the grander scheme of things, the black community does not appear to have been able to sustain the incredible momentum that followed this event. The city in which I live has continued to outdistance itself, setting records 3 of the last 4 years for total homicides. A very well known member of perhaps the most prominent of the conscious hip hop groups, has become a weekly spectacle on cable TV, objectifying and continually disrespecting hordes of scantily clad black women, who seem not to mind. Closer to home, I find myself constantly trying to keep my children from listening to the misogynistic, denigrating strip club anthems that are no longer relegated to the parental advisory section of the record store, but rather are prevalent on daytime radio. Rather than give up hope though, I instead choose to at least step up to Minister Farrakhan’s challenge and be a very involved father and role model. Furthermore, and perhaps most amazing to me is the role that my faith has played in my striving for daily improvements. That 23-year-old, much less worldly, and much more footloose and fancy free kid was not very likely to have prayed for much more than a passing grade on an exam in 1995. In 2006, this 34-year-old, regular fixture in the church on Sundays prays for the day when we will all have the faith to collectively renew the atonement that we sought so many Octobers ago.

Setting the Record Straight: Tio's alright with me

“No one has EVER caught a fish with him around,” chuckled my father from the background. I was on the phone with my mother, allowing her to live vicariously through my experiences, and she yelled to the other room to inform my dad in the other room, “..your son went deep sea fishing!” She often gets greater excitement out of my adventures than I do. Actually, that’s not true. I get excited. Sometimes. I just keep a really even keel, as they say. The act of being on a 33-foot fishing boot called the Reel Hooker, 15 miles off the coast of Lana’i , knifing through the very choppy Pacific Ocean waves on a sun splashed Sunday morning would do it for most people. I guess the prospect of catching a 500-pound fish took some of the bite out of the moment for me. I enjoyed it though. Honest! What’s not to like about such picturesque views. It is truly amazing how these land masses jut out of the deep blue sea, and how the thick, rich foam of the crashing waves explodes on the rocks. Clearly, just such a view must’ve been one of the things that the Lord threw in as an added bonus following my nightly prayer thanking Him, in advance, for waking me the next morning. There are certainly a whole lot worse things to look at.

I made it. That’s the important thing. Mr. Tio was a very gracious guide and host. He provided very useful insights and wonderful “fish” stories about voyages past, talked about some of the colorful characters that frequent “the ‘Goose” and even let me drive the boat! Yes, a 6’7”, baggy-short wearin’, Gucci shades havin’, freshly lined and faded beard sportin’ Captain Jack Sparrow; although my hat bore a Swoosh instead of a Jolly Roger. After awhile, I actually thought I knew what I was doing. I convinced myself that I could go “with the grain” of the waves for a smoother ride. (Give a brotha a rope, he thinks he’s a cowboy…)

Sensing how much pleasure I was deriving from being in charge of this voyage, I think Tio let me stay at the helm longer than he might have. After awhile, he hardly gave any instruction, unless I got too close to some scuba divers in shallow water (“Sorry…”). But the great stories continued all day. Although he kind of resembled a shorter, chubbier, poor-man’s Michael Douglas, the lore of days gone by made him sound a lot more like a modern day Huck Finn. As legend has it, at 17 he ditched his classmates on a senior trip in Santa Cruz to join a surfing competition, and never returned to his native Southern California. He’s surfed all over the place, although not much anymore, and has even held some Hawaiian state records for the largest fish caught. We didn’t catch anything but it made for a much more memorable Sunday morning than sitting in my boxers watching the NFL on Fox on a 19” hotel TV.

An oldie but goodie: 3 Not so perfect Days in Dominica

I wrote this after I took a trip awhile back. Enjoy.

Who ever heard of an island with no beach? Surely, the very definition of island suggests a land mass surrounded by water, and henceforth a beach. With the possible exception of Alcatraz (aptly nicknamed “the Rock”, just off the mainland of my beloved San Francisco Bay Area), I could think of no island that lacked a beach; especially not a Caribbean island. Well, not that I had a reference for Caribbean islands, but it just didn’t seem possible for me not to expect to be splashing around in the clear blue waters with the dolphins, sipping from freshly cracked coconuts. I had been seduced by the very inviting , goddess of a woman that emerged from the water on the beach of St. Croix, water glistening off her well-toned body, as her radiant platinum bikini confirmed the evidence of divine presence, in the 80s television spots that urged us to visit the Virgin Islands. I had been told to “Come to Jamaica” by colorfully clad Air Jamaica employees that danced off the plane with 10,000 mega-watt smiles.

Despite the warnings of a co-worker that the island of Dominica was “not much to write home about”, I refused to have any of it. In my mind, there was no way to go wrong with tropical weather, a Caribbean island, and exotic food as ingredients. Let’s not forget about the beach that I presumed to be the icing on the cake.

Having had a 36-hour layover in San Juan , Puerto Rico on the way to Dominica, I was all primed to lounge on the beach. Both my drink and I took cover from the bright sun under umbrellas as the waves crashed about 20 feet away.

Little did I know that my dreams of paradise would not be joining me in Dominica. Nor would my luggage…at least not immediately. There is one flight a day to Melville Hall airport via American Eagle from San Juan, and despite the fact that propeller planes are forbidden by my religious beliefs, I managed to be on it. Melville Hall is a quaint little airport about the size of the dressing rooms at a Bloomingdale’s department store. Don’t be fooled by its size though. It is every bit the equal of all the other international airports in the world in its ability to consume large chunks of your time as you gather your luggage, attempt to clear immigration, and secure transportation. You quickly gain an understanding of the fact that no one is really in a hurry to do anything in Dominica.

The capital city of Rousseau is about a 90 minute drive from Melville Hall Airport, through very mountainous terrain and windy roads. Did I mention that these are 1-lane roads with 2-lane traffic and as if that’s not enough, they drive on the WRONG side of the road? This drive is not for the faint of heart. Although paved at one time, the roads are in very poor condition and the local cab drivers seem hell-bent on proving that they missed their calling as Formula One drivers. This combination ensures that your ride will be a memorable one. Try not to think about it, or say a prayer if you have to, but don’t let these less than royal travel conditions cause you to miss the brightly colored houses in a town called Marigot. As you wind down this road past Pointe Augustine and Pagua Bay, you may see some of the locals going through the motions of their day.

Perhaps the most spectacular part of this drive is the part that takes you through the Central Forest Reserve. Dominica is actually quite world renown for its rainforests. Home to the highest mountains in the Caribbean, this Windward Island treasure reminds many of the Hawaiian islands with its forested mountains and five volcanoes. Home to more than 132 species of bird (including 2 parrots found nowhere else in the world- the Jacquot and Imperial) and having the richest biodiversity in the Lesser Antilles, Dominica has long been a haven for wildlife enthusiasts.

Finally in Roseau, I arrived at the Fort Young Hotel. Billed as the premier lodging in all of Dominica, the Fort Young is nestled on a cliff overlooking the Caribbean Sea. One accustomed to traveling in the United States or Europe might be less than impressed by the Fort Young’s open-air lobby, and cobblestone covered foyer. However, the courteous staff and breathtaking views quickly make these first impressions ancient history. I checked into my Ocean Front Suite and nearly forgot about my missing luggage. A very ornately decorated room, it somehow exuded relaxation and freedom from the rat race. Opening the sliding glass door to my wrap-around balcony, I could see the waves crashing on the rocks below my room, each erasing my big-city worries one at a time. The room was probably close to 600 square feet in all, complete with couch and wicker chairs in a lounge area and a whirlpool bath and shower opposite a rather large vanity mirror. I made a mental note to let MJ (both Jordan and Jackson) know that I had found him a place to relax when he didn’t want to be found for a few days.

Not trying the local foods will be missing out on Dominica. For a food lover like me, this was truly one of the best parts of the trip. You will be hard pressed to find any “bad” food in this city, unless you are utterly repulsed by Caribbean cuisine.
The real delicacy in Dominica is the crapaud (or mountain chicken) as it is called. Crapaud is a large frog and a dweller of some mountainous regions. It’s generally either fried or stewed in a sauce. The meat is tender and tastes similar to…yes, you guessed it: chicken. However, it is said to be much better. I had to take their word for it because this is not something I could bring myself to try. Two memorable meals were the Beef Satay Kebabs at La Robe Creole, and the Grouper that I had at the Marquis de Bouille inside the Fort Young Hotel.

La Robe Creole is a comfy, down-home type place with a friendly staff in the heart of the city. Adding to the exposed brick décor was the artwork (done by the owners daughter). Try this for lunch and dine either inside or out. For a more elegant, white table-cloth dining experience, the Marquis de Bouille is your spot. Sitting on the terrace, looking out onto the ocean and listening to the waves crashing below, I was moved to order Grouper. I know, this seems rather boring for such an exotic locale, but I assure you that they did a much better job than your local Red Lobster. Creole-style, spicy fish and chicken dishes are the specialty in Dominica. Heavy use of cinnamon, hot peppers, vanilla, cocoa and bay leaves is quite common in Dominican cuisine. Having said that, you may now be able to appreciate how good this Grouper was. It almost fell apart when touched with the fork, and melted in your mouth. Clearly, this fish was just caught about the time I stepped into the restaurant. The flying fish is most popular among the locals, but the Grouper was plenty satisfying for me.

Downtown Roseau is chock full of many shops and street vendors selling their wares. Nearly exempt from mass tourism due to its lack of a jet port, these shops are frequented by the very limited cruise boat tourism that arrives daily. Various souvenir trinkets and local garb are seemingly available on every corner of these small streets. Sticking to my custom, I was in search of a doll representative of a native to give to my mother. Unfortunately, on this shopping expedition I was also sticking to another one of my customs of shopping at the last minute. As a result, I rather hurriedly and indiscriminately chose a doll and headed back to the Fort Young in order to catch my taxi back to Melville Hall Airport. The events that followed this purchase lead me to believe that I inadvertently bought a voodoo doll of some sort. After the scheduled taxi arrived 30 minutes late, he subsequently tried his best to burn out the clutch of this very narrow mini-van, blew a tire on the aforementioned windy, pot-hole ridden, one-lane with two-lane traffic, wrong-way elevated expressway, and proceeded to have a very difficult time operating the jack and fixing the flat. Refusing to let us hop in another cab, apparently too proud to admit defeat to a fellow yellow-cab compadre, he finally managed to get the vehicle back in working order and did his best Bourne Identity driving impression in getting us to the airport at 2:25pm. Recall my mention of a mere one flight per day to and from this airport. This one was scheduled to leave at 2:50pm. Also recall my description of the sheer enormity of Melville Hall’s terminal. Well, despite the big puppy-dog eyes and sad story that I told the gate agent, she refused to allow me on the flight. Never mind the fact that I could see the plane through the backdoor a mere 100 feet away. Surely it could not take 25 minutes for my luggage and me to make it to the aircraft. I could even carry it there myself. I finally wore her down enough for her to allow me on the flight. Once again, however, my luggage became an issue. She insisted that she could not check my bags all the way through to my final destination and that I’d have to claim them and re-check them in San Juan. Perhaps this really was the case, but I tend to think that she had just received a fax transmission of a memo from the vendor alerting her that I was in possession of the doll. How else would you explain ), being re-routed on aLmissing my ensuing connection in San Juan ( ), and theJflight that would require an overnight stay in Miami ( severe cold front and near freezing rain that kept me off the strip in South Beach and stuck in a hotel eating Domino’s pizza?

Fishing for Marlins...

Just in case I come up missing on this mysterious
fishing trip with total strangers with no last names
(set up by my co-worker), here's where to start the
search:
1. I parked my white audi a8 (rented from hertz) at
this guy Tio's house (no last name) at 16** *****
Street in Lahaina. (Hey, I lived to tell about it, so the least I can do is protect the guy's privacy).
2. He is the bartender at this bar called the world
famous Sly Mongoose in Lahaina. We we're told to get
in touch with him (she, my co-worker, was...not me) by a guy we met
at our last trade show named Skip , a part
time harley custom bike shop owner in Santa Cruz.
3. Tio's red Ford F-150 truck is Hawaii license plate
M** ***.
4. Tio is about 5'7" , maybe 150 pounds. I should be
able to take him unless he's a card carrying protector
of the house of shaolin, has a gun, or puts something
in my drink (strictly bottled water for me).

Who woulda thunk it?!

I'm in Maui today chillin' at the Ritz. I guess all of the horrible studying I did to ride my C average to an Electrical Engineering
degree has paid dividends in a manner of speaking.

I've had 3 meetings a day since Wednesday and today is the first day that I've just sat around and done nothing. I had room service (see picture..grand marnier souffle french toast), walked around the grounds, worked out, and watched a lil'
football (Texas vs. Ohio St.), so its been a pretty good "Destah" type day. I'll try to catch up with you soon.

Breakfast, anyone?

The question isn't how did it taste, it's how did I ever get on a plane and ever leave?

Souffles in Saigon

So...I'm sitting in the back of another diminutive
taxi cab in downtown Ho Chi Minh city when it occurs
to me that this isn't the way that I want to go out.

In my mind, I'm running through all the bad scenarios
that await me. My impending doom...

First, unbeknownst to be, I'll be driven to some
remote part of town. Then, I'll be relieved of my
belongings, roughed up and left to rot in an alley
which, due to the extreme over-population and
incredible heat and humidity, bears a stench with a
pungency you can scarcely fathom.

But suddenly, my eternal optimist rears its adorable
little head. I'm a good guy. Good things happen to
good people. Jesus loves me. Never mind the fact that
no less than 5 times since I arrived 3 days ago, a
local has attempted to get over on me. Have faith, I
tell myself. Who cares that neither the cab driver,
nor the bell captain at my hotel were able to figure
out the restaurant that I was trying to go to, despite
the concierge's best efforts to explain it to them.
I'm not at all encouraged by the fact that the two of
them have agreed on a suitable alternative for me
(sans my approval)and my yearning for French cuisine.

As we sift through the shear madness that is Saigon's
constant brigade of motorized bicycles, (chaos does
not begin to explain it), I lay my head back on the
headrest and sigh (two peas in a bucket, que se ra..se
ra...well, you get the picture...). Jesus loves me, I
say again, under my breath.

Then, like a train reaching light at the end of a
tunnel, daybreak to a wino slumbering on a park bench,
title-hopes dashed and a season ended at the hands of
some Florida Gators...SUDDENLY...we pulled up to the
gated fortress that was Au Manoir de Khai.

Quickly, i wiped off the gas-face that had formed
during this excursion, and gleefully accepted the warm
welcome given me by the doormen at this, at first
glance, incredibly grand dining compound. Indeed,
trial and success (save for marriage)continues to
reign supreme in this charmed life that I lead. I
proceed to follow the maitre'd past a fountain,
through a garden, a very regal sitting room, up some
stairs and, finally, to the seat where I would bear
witness to evidence of divine presence...at least
culinarily speaking.

Perhaps I wasn't meant to find the other place at all.
Surely, it would have been the letdown to end all
letdowns compared to this place. The decor of the
dimly -lit room would have set both Marie Antoinette
or Louis XVI at ease. Elegantly lain across my
table was a red and gold striped ribbon, a vase full
of tulips, and a candlestick holder (surely there's a
sexier, more sophisticated term for that) so ornate in
its golden-braided magnificence that I grew more and
more apprehensive by the minute at the notion of
sullying this heavenly portrait of a place setting.

My waiter/sommolier (picture Theo, of 92 the
Beat/Waiting to Exhale fame on crack) brought me the
velvet jacketed menu and accompanying wine list. I
tried to play it cool...act as if I'd been there
before, but every fabric of my being wanted to ring
out with alacrity, exclaiming my extreme delight in
the fact that there were neither packets of sweet n'
low , nor plastic salt and pepper shakers atop a
red-checkered table cloth in front of me. In no time
at all, I had not only selected hors d'oevres, a main
course, and dessert, but a suitable libation (Hedge
Lane, a 2004 Shiraz from Australia) to wash it all
down. If I wasn't such a proud, world-renowned (I'm a
legend in my own mind...so shoot me!)"foodie", I might
have wallowed in self-pity about being without some
female company on this glorious occasion. As the
signature cut from my favorite Miles Davis classic
album so empatically claims...SO WHAT! This dining
experience would prove to be too exquisite to even
trifle about such mundane matters as companionship and
dinner conversation. Surely, my very satisfied
expressions were not lost on the handful of other
patrons in the vicinity, nor the very attentive wait
staff. (I caught Theo shaking his head at me more than
a few times....)

What's more, the entire experience bordered on the
sublime. Not only was my table decorated to a
precision that would make both Martha Stewart and the
Queer Eye guys proud, but the impressionist art on the
walls (still life's are impressionist, aren't they?)
and the very choice musical selection created just the
right ambience. Something about harpsichord music that
just speaks of refinement and elegance. I think it was
Mozart. Yeah...The Life and Times of W. (dot) Amadeus,
Vol. 1...The remixes. I polished off the first course
as 22 Etudes rang out from the speakers. (Okay,
okay... it didn't ring out...politely played, at a
volume consistent with tunes in an elevator would be a
more accurate description). "Can't Knock the Waltz"
got me through course number two. Without a doubt, the
Source would've given this one a 5-mic rating in its
day (back when 5 mic's used to mean something). As the
Grand Marnier Souffle was dropped in front of me, Ave
Maria sent me into a Tom Hanks moment(Philadelphia,
dawg...the operatic arias?...keep up!), as I
reminisced on a childhood of playing classical music
on the piano in my parent's living room.

As I finished the souffle, I found myself staring at
the painting on the wall in front of me, as if I were
at the Louvre, and Jacques Sauniere himself were
lauding the complexities of the wilted roses and
sunflowers as well as the music box monkey that lurked
in the background of this very busy oil painting.
Clearly, the Shiraz was having its way with me at this
point.

Alas, the fact that you are reading this email proves
that I managed to stagger out of there and eventually
make my way back to my hotel. As I conclude this epic,
with Tom Brown's "Thighs High" playing on AOL's XM
radio (gotta love the internet) I leave you with these
two parting thoughts (questions):

1. Is Verbosity indeed a curable affliction?
and
2. I know I have missed the entire NBA playoffs to
this point, but did the Slippers (er..uh...Clippers)
really win a playoff series?