eleven madison pork

Err, I mean, "Park". Eleven Madison Park. I can't stop thinking about the suckling pig I had there on Tuesday night. Though with limited prix-fixe-only restaurant experience (you mean I'm not supposed to rest my crumbly bread roll on the "show plate"?), I've learned through observing the jealousy of my dining companions that when at a fancy restaurant, unless it specializes in steak or fish or something else, always order the pork. Anyway, I found myself eating this magnificent pig concoction as a result of a birthday gift system I like to employ with like-minded friends: the giver buys the recipient dinner at someplace neither party can reasonably afford. Selfishness and generosity come together, and everybody wins, including our credit card companies.

Our slightly early arrival for our 8pm reservation set the tone for the evening: three hosts standing shoulder to shoulder at the podium greeted us in sync with matching high-school-musical smiles and seated us immediately. The "great corner booth" turned out to be right behind the servers' station, which was fine given the depth and coziness of the booths, but not so fine given my tendency to talk about people the second they leave my vicinity. But we were quickly given the mammoth wine list and an assortment of four hors d'oeuvres, and we were happy.

Until, that is, we'd almost finished our first half-bottle of wine, eaten our hors d'oeuvres, housed our bread rolls (with salt and pepper spooned onto a plate tableside), and had yet to see a food menu. I was slightly annoyed about this until I realized that it meant we'd be at our table longer and be forced--forced!--to drink more. Several robotic waiter interactions later, we had our second round of wine and our first course. My raw or almost-raw Big Eye tuna was overwhelmed by olives, cumin, and super-duper-salty duck prosciutto, but my friend's gnocchi with Hawaiian prawns, calamari, celery, and Meyer lemon was delicate and perfectly balanced. Sharing is caring.

the suckling pig of god

What I didn't want to share was that Vermont Farm Suckling Pig. I don't know how to begin to describe it, so I'll leave that to the expert: "It comes as a brick of deboned, tightly packed, meltingly tender meat that’s been poached in duck fat. The meat is bordered by a strip of crackling skin that seems to defy the laws of nature and science. Can anything really be so crunchy and light while also being so fatty and heavy?" Yes, it can, and it is awesome. My friend ordered the beef tenderloin, and I remember it being good, but even the seared-with-bone-marrow component couldn't distract me from my glorious pork.

I was pretty stuffed by this point, but there was nothing coming between me and that cheese cart (or a glass of dessert wine), as this was to be my first cheese cart experience. Robot Waiter #3,872 (seriously, there were that many) told me what each was and, when I couldn't decide between the triple cream goat and the bloomy rind goat, gave me a half portion of each. I also chose the Gruyere--I have a weakness for the nutty and sweet (see: my relationship history)--and a washed rind raw cow's milk from Quebec that was somehow stinky and sharp at the same time and I wish I could remember what it was called. Dessert was followed up with those truffle "lollipop" things and a gigantic dried cherry and candied orange brioche to eat for breakfast the next morning, which is exactly what I did. And then I went to my first Pilates class.

obloguary

Friends, Random Internet Browsers, People Who Still Check This Blog Occasionally Wondering if I'm Still Alive,

It is with not really that much sadness that I inform you of the passing of ViaGina.

ViaGina was born on Wednesday, March 10th, 2004 while the author sat in front of her four flat-screen computer monitors on a trading floor of JPMorganStanleyGoldmanStearnsBrothers. The job paid the bills, that's for damn sure, but didn't provide her with the level of personal satisfaction she'd attained from exercising 30 hours a week as a member of the college crew team or obsessively studying college admissions statistics in high school. Fortunately, this was before the rampant installation of corporate firewalls to prevent employees from wasting time and money dicking around on the internet, so as soon as her company username and password were set up, she did just that. ViaGina emerged about nine months later.

The initial premise of the blog was to consolidate all the funny and interesting internet-things Gina found during her Monday through Friday 7:45am to 5:00pm with no lunch break website-reading schedule. Of course, it quickly turned into being all about her, as evidenced by Tuesday, March 16th's post about her rosacea diagnosis. (A condition that has since been alleviated thanks to just regular ol' Cetaphil cleanser and not that $50 stinky sulfur crap prescribed by the dermatologist. In case you were wondering.) The blog served as a platform for trying to be funny and sharing way too much personal information with friends, family, and internet strangers. For a solid two and a half years, the blog kept her sane enough to get through almost getting fired from several jobs (key word: ALMOST, though this is really just a technicality because you don't get "fired" from temp jobs and JPMorganStanleyLehmanGoldmanBear basically just asked her to quit), intermittent bouts of unemployment, ill-advised dalliances with boys (Gina's most successful and long-lived relationship during this time period occurred almost entirely over the internet), and lots and lots of drinking.

In late December of 2005, Gina submitted her last electronic time sheet to the temp agency, hinged her entire future on a Craigslist ad for a job at an Italian wine bar, and the blog started to slip away, becoming little more than a memento of a more confusing, but, in retrospect, kind of fun time. It held on for a good year and a half, receiving lackluster and forced updates here and there, and, finally, at 4 pm on Tuesday, August 14th, ViaGina gave up the Good Fight.

Donations in ViaGina's memory will be accepted in the form of visiting my new blog, I Ate the Marshmallow. It will be mostly about food, and the hasty consumption and unskilled preparation thereof. But if you're not that into food, I can assure you that the oversharing of personal information, references to irresponsible life choices, and links to inane things that made ViaGina beloved by literally DOZENS of people will be present in abundance.

food snobs we ain't

Today after our 10-hour shift at the specialty foods store my fellow cheesemongerette and I went to the local branch of a corporate giant grocery chain to get some provisions for our respective dinners at home. I was feelin' the Middle East with whole wheat pita bread, hummus, and baby carrots (I've also been feelin' a little fat lately--but come on, I work at a fuckin' cheese store), and she made a run for the border with chips, bean dip, and salsa. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her pick up a sealed plastic bag of what appeared to be processed domestic shredded cheese-like product.

"Oh my god are you buying cheese here?!?"
"Yeah, this snack is too lowbrow for the Quebec 5-year Vintage Cheddar, plus the Quebec's high fat content would overwhelm the bean dip."
"Right on."

As we parted ways in the subway station, after she wished me a good night with my hummus, I told her, quite sincerely, to enjoy her shredded cheese. If the goddamn F train had taken its sweet time as usual I would've added that I have a green cardboard can of Kraft "100% Grated Parmesan Cheese" (plus a little touch of cellulose powder and potassium sorbate, of course) in my refrigerator, and I love it. Our Bonati Parmigiano Reggiano for $16.50 a pound is superb and complex and all, but you just can't put that shit on pasta-from-a-box and sauce-from-a-jar.

at least our orange dickies aprons are cute

Oh my god you guys! Guess who came into work the other day! Stacy fucking London! From TLC's What Not to Wear! Apparently she comes in frequently! She looks so young and pretty in person and really likes a good aged gouda! And you may think I'm being sarcastic but I'm totally not. For a while we were getting TLC with the pirated cable and then one day channel 42 was all static. I almost cried. But I'm thrilled to have Stacy back in my life, and I plan to wear the same pair of jeans plus ratty shoes and a baggy t-shirt to work every day in the hope of becoming the next makeover-ee. (Not that I haven't been doing that already.) Oh, and speaking of my dreams of being on a TV show, I didn't make it to the Millionaire audition because I couldn't bear the thought of going up to Midtown at the brutally early hour of 2pm. Sigh.

report from the workforce front lines

Fortunately for her, my little sister no longer dons the red and khaki as a Target employee. And, fortunately for me, her new job at a DeVry University is equally amusing:

Today at work I'm supposed to call something like 150 people. I'm supposed to say this: "Hi [insert name here], this is Carrie calling from DeVry University. I wanted to let you know that the deadline to register for the summer session is next Friday, July 6. If you have any questions feel free to call us here at the center. Thanks and have a good day."

But the flourescent lights and the flickering monitor and all the ringing make my head feel muddled. I'm pretty sure my last few messages have been something like: "Hi Carrie, this is next Friday, July 6 calling from [insert name here]. K thx bye."

Oh my.

It reminds me of my very first job as a sales representative for a cheese and gift catalog. Our computers were programmed with a script that you'd read to guide a customer through the cheese and gift purchasing process. The intro was something like "hi, thank you for calling Figi's, this is _____" and was supposed to have our names programed into it. But for some reason mine was messed up and always said Vicky. By the end of an eight-hour shift of non-stop calls during the busy holiday season, I'd just give up and be Vicky.

Anyway, my sis is about to start her graduate studies in creative writing, so she won't have to worry about jobs like that anymore. Oh, wait...

wishing maggot

Craigslist never ceases to make me happy.

Wishing Maggot - $5
Reply to: sale-357895756@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-06-22, 1:52PM EDT

The $5 includes shipping.

I live in albany, ny and art doesn't sell so well here. However if you are in the albany area you can feel free to pick it up in person.

I take paypal or if you wish you can send a money order to me.

I am not the greatest artist but I myself am a work in progress and I want to follow my dream of making art.

If you would like a conversation piece the wishing maggot is for you.

It is so cheap because I am not a well known artist and I would like people to get to know my art.

Is the artist is a 5-year-old, a high-functioning adult with Down Syndrome, or someone with a very creative and very very weird sense of humor? I guess we'll never know. And therein lies the beauty...

nsfw

And, without further ado, I bring you the best email forward I have ever received. Behold, the Shock Absorber "Bounce-ometer" and sports bra finder. I was impressed with its realisticness when I selected my own size and activity level (small and low, respectively), but was rather dismayed by the result of the FF/G size and high activity level combo. In fact, I may not be able to sleep for weeks.

who's going to be a millionaire?

I am!

Subject: RE: Millionaire Auditions - Monday, July 2nd: 12pm-2pm

From: Millionaire Contestant - millionairecontestantrequests@abctv.com

Your Millionaire audition has been confirmed and we look forward to seeing you on:

Monday July 2nd AT 2PM

At:
The ABC Building
57 West 66th Street
New York City

There will be Millionaire staff members waiting outside the building to assist you. PLEASE ARRIVE 15 MINUTES PRIOR to your given audition time, and check in with the Millionaire staff at the location.

Allow up to 60 minutes for your audition. You will take a timed written test. IF you receive a passing score on the test you will have a brief personal interview with a member of the Millionaire staff.

You must bring a picture ID and proof of age and residency to the audition. Please complete the attached eligibility/application forms and bring them with you to the audition. For the complete official rules go to www.millionairetv.com.

Please note that Millionaire reserves the right to limit the number of times a person may audition for the program.

**Please note: All auditioners will go through a security check upon entering the audition site, including a metal detector. Please refrain from bringing sharp objects and/or weapons of any kind to the test site.

Looks like all those crazy Meredith Vieira stalkers are shit outta luck.

don't you just hate it when that happens?

Did I say in the first two weeks I'd be tasting 150 cheeses? I meant in the first two days. Some more than once. Let's just say I will not be consuming another dairy product for a little while, lest I render myself unable to go out in public (let your imagination run wild as to what might be the reason for this).

But the job is amazing. So far the biggest problem I've had was when I showed up for my first shift and couldn't remember the names of the two guys I was working with, both of whom I'd met and trained with for a couple hours the day before. I knew they were in the one-syllable, common-white-dude-name category, but could not even begin to recall them. Mike? Dan? Dave? The mystery was solved a few hours into the shift when the wine came out. One of them put masking-tape-and-magic-marker labels on the bases of our glasses, because we're a sanitary operation (except for the eating lunch in the meat slicing area part). There was only so much more shoulder tapping and "hey" and "excuse me I have a question"-ing I could do before they'd be on to me, so I snuck a peak at their glasses. Success!

Then yesterday, my second shift, my two other coworkers (there are just five of us lucky bastards) said I was "a rockstar". Then I told my mom all about my job and how excited I am about it and she said "huh . . . okay, so are you going to get health insurance?" and kinda laughed and proceeded to tell me about the two daughters of her long-time friends that are getting married and/or pursuing graduate degrees.

oh, hello there!

I guess I'm back! I will not go too into detail about my little hiatus, but suffice it to say that a temporary internet outage (Verizon, you suck) plus at least two seasons' worth of Degrassi-level drama equals I forget I have a blog. But things are rollin' right along now.

As I alluded to in the last post, I've got a new gig. I 86-ed myself from the waitressing when it got to the point where the next customer who requested water with lemon was going to get a whole lemon tree shoved up his or her ass. It's not that we didn't have good customers, for the most part, it's just that I'd cut way down on the drinking the last few months, and it turned out that drinking heavily was indeed a requirement for on-the-job happiness. Aaah well, it was fun while it lasted. A little too much fun, at times... Anyway, I used my new food geek connections and, as of yesterday, I'm working part-time (for now) in a little shop in the fancy part of Brooklyn, where I will be mongering cheese and also "specialty foods" like wild boar cacciatorini and unhomogenized milk. Over the next couple weeks I have to taste about 150 different cheeses. Life is rough.

Things with the boy are good. When we're not out eating and drinking, in eating and drinking, or watching Home Improvement reruns, he does nice things like helping me paint the apartment floor, and I pay attention when he teaches me about tractor pulling, a sport I somehow missed out on despite my Midwestern upbringing.



In other random news, I've recently discovered that the New York Water Taxi is by far the most awesome way to get around the city. It's cheaper than a cab, less annoying than the subway, very fast (Queens in 17 minutes!), and, when the water's choppy, just scary enough to give you a little buzz afterward. It also goes from near my apartment directly to such useful locations as the bar/grilled meat purveyor Water Taxi Beach, the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, and Wall Street. (I'm kidding about one of those three. Can you guess which one?)

still on the respirator

Is my blog dead? I don't know. But it's coming out of its coma for this mini-tragedy I just found on Craigslist while looking for ways to supplement my income as a part-time cheesemonger:

My frogs are eating my angels. I need a tank.

---

Reply to: sale-343490373@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-06-02, 3:35PM EDT


If anyone out there is getting rid of a tank 10 gallon or more, please let me know. I'm broke as a joke from being given notice yesterday that my new apartment will be available on July 1st. We've got to plan a move and figure out how to pay for it when my ex thinks it's ok to pay child support when it's convinient for him and not when the kids' shelter needs to be paid for. I just really need a tank, preferably with a filter, for free or as little as possible so my frogs will stop eating my angel fish. They're disappearing one by one every week. The petstore told me they'd be ok together. Now there's only one left :-(

lolcats

I've lost the last few weeks of my life to this website. Well, no, I've actually lost the last few weeks of my life to working till 5 am 5 nights a week, sleeping all day, and eating and drinking as much as possible to make up for it. But still, the about page alone I've read about 18 times.

things i would've written about lately if i ever actually updated my blog, in reverse chronological order

*The Allman Brothers Band concert I went to with the newly-of-drinking-age boyfriend where we sat next to his very, very drunk parents and passed around a little marijuana pipe until a security guard snatched it out of his sister's hand.

*The LVHRD Vending Machine Challenge, where my best friend made me beam like a proud Asian parent whose kid just got into Harvard by consuming one third of the contents of a vending machine before puking her guts out 14 times, and which was also inexplicably attended by one Lance Bass.


*My little sis' getting into grad school out in the wild wild west, and how I'm only slightly more excited for her and her future success than I am to go visit and drive her minivan (donation from my parents--one parent's minivan is another's marijuana, i guess) in places where they don't have speed limits or Starbucks.

*One of my best friends in the whole wide world, my college roommate, getting engaged, and royally freaking me out until I learned that she's wearing neither an engagement ring nor a white dress, and making her the first of my close friends to do the deed, except for the Wisconsin ones from high school that don't count because everyone in Wisconsin gets married when they're like 15.

*Celebrating the big 2-1 at Peter Luger, which is right by my house and way overlit at night, while dressing up kinda guido and wearing sunglasses inside.


*E's birthday party at good ol' Pies 'n' Thighs, where I ate the new and improved pulled pork sandwich and much air hockey ensued.


*My restaurant's belated holiday party, which in no way compared to the Spotted Pig's but was awesome because I was all over the then-20-year-old like my cat on a piece of wilted arugula (most fun toy ever, apparently), and it actually worked, thanks in no small part to the free booze and the blind eye turned by the management with regard to his alcohol consumption.

*My trip with E to Los Angeles, including our arrival at Newark Airport at the same time as Catherine Malandrino and a ridiculous flight delay that sent us straight to the bar; an absurd amount of absurdly good high/low dining thanks to the epicurean Alex and Eric involving my first experience with guanciale, yellowtail belly, brain tacos, fish tacos, baby eel, and epoisses cheese; the seven-course comped dinner courtesy of my college pal Chef Steph at the schmancy steakhouse she works at and where Kevin Bacon was also dining and actually paying for his food; the store we almost didn't go into on Third where almost everything was 90, that's NINE-ZERO, percent off; the Echo Park hipster bar we went to where we nearly escaped a drive-by paintball shooting; and, of course, the memories, pictures, and stretch marks to last a lifetime.

the sort of good samaritan

A few nights ago, for the first time since that time in the summer after eighth grade when i left my backpack unattended at a waterpark in Phoenix because i was too lazy/cheap to get a locker (on that same trip I was also too lazy/idiotic to use sunscreen, resulting in second degree burns on my shoulders, but that's another story), I lost my wallet. It vanished mysteriously somewhere between that last bar and my house, and I didn't notice it was gone until the next morning. I figured the most likely scenario was that it fell out of my bag when I was in the cab home (and by "fell out of my bag" I mean I probably took it out and then missed the bag in attempting to put it back...hey, it was dark in there and both bag and wallet are black.) So I spent the next day canceling cards and calling every cab dispatch office in the New York metropolitan area. After several descriptions of my lost property and resultant snickers, I started regretting getting a wallet with a dinosaur on it. By the eighth or so call I gave up hope of ever seeing my wallet, and the $200 cash, bajillion cards and paychecks that'd need replacing, and almost ten-year-old Wisconsin driver's license, again.

After a few days of carrying around my passport and borrowed cash stuffed into the pocket of my Moleskine notebook, I received a phone call from my old roommate from the East Village apartment.

"There's a package for you here with no return address."

"It doesn't happen to be wallet-sized, by any chance, does it?"

"It looks like it could contain a wallet, actually."

Lo and behold, it was my wallet. Because I have yet to give my employer my new address (we just get our checks at work), and because I put off depositing my paychecks, whoever found my wallet sent it to a most convenient place. (Procrastination, you always come through for me.) Whoever found my wallet also availed himself of all the cash (coins included!! to save on shipping costs, perhaps?), and my monthly metrocard. I would like to know what went through the wallet finder's head. I imagine it was something like, "Thanks for the new iPod, silly drunk girl. I guess I can at least give you your crap back."

Oh well, I'm just happy to be able to put off going to the New York DMV for another year. And I like the dinosaurs.

in case you haven't barfed enough lately

So I'm maybe kinda actually seeing someone, with whom I may or may not work, and who may or may not be of legal drinking age. I know I know, I'm shocked too (about the first part of the sentence at least). Almost as shocked as I'd be if I ever managed to get to the coffee shop before 1pm. Anyway, last night I had my first bartending shift, which means I closed. He used to close on Wednesdays and then a new manager started doing the schedule and didn't anymore. He was going to switch to get the closing shift (longer hours = more money), but noticed that the closing busboy was the one who has a car and has, on occasion, given me a ride home. He kept the lesser shift just so I'd get a ride. The logic is somewhat flawed in that while, yes, I saved $10 by not taking a cab, he would've made a lot more than $10 had he worked the extra hours. But still, awwwwwww. I need one of those swooning couches.

lazy!

It is 6 a.m. and I haven't managed to fall asleep since my first attempt at 2:30, so I'm up writing a little roundup article I was assigned about afterhours/24 hours places in New York. I am less disturbed by my insomnia than that it took me a good hour to realize the Alanis-esque irony of this situation. Now I feel guilty that I'm at home eating granola and dicking around on the internet rather than out inhaling Korean barbeque, drooling over computers I want but don't need, or getting creepy-sounding spa treatments.

holymotherfuckingshit

After six, count 'em, six months without internet, I am writing this from the comfort of my overly heated, unnaturally lit apartment. I used to think I could never survive without internet at home, but, apparently, I can. It's like that book we all read in 9th grade where the dude is freezing and has to kill his dog and crawl inside his still warm carcass to survive (and the title and author of which I cannot recall at this time but could probably look up now that I have the internet)--any obstacle can be overcome with enough will, determination, and patience to spend 10 hours over the course of a month speaking on the telephone with Verizon customer service representatives. Internet Garage, you will not be missed.

warning!

This here site is dangerously close to becoming another food blog. The majority of my daily procrastinate-at-work emails involve discussing with friends 1.) where we're going to eat next, 2.) how awesome what we just ate was, 3.) our gastric situations following a culinary outing.

Example of a Number One:

gina: how about hearth or centovini?

sl: i think i lean more toward centovini than hearth, but only because i saw some negative reviews of the service there. what about blue ribbon bar? though i can't really find much on it. or klee brasserie? which, i'm pretty sure, i'm spelling wrong.

gina: i'd looooove to go to blue ribbon bar. but i'm afraid it's going to be packed. although if i'm off on monday or tuesday.... maybe we could try blue ribbon bar and then have centovini as a plan b? and i'm always very skeptical of people who write on citysearch about bad service. people take one or two mistakes made by one waiter on one night and determine that it's a problem with the restaurant as a whole. also, service has to be very far from flawless for it to ruin my experience, provided the food is good.

anyway, you spelled klee brasserie correctly. my problem with going there is that the creepy colon cleanse informercial guy who compares the size of his daughter's bowel movement to his forearm is named klee.

Example of a Number Two:

Stay tuned tomorrow (or, if I'm too hungover from tonight's belated holiday staff party, Thursday) for a full Los Angeles recap, including my first experiences with the following: guanciale, steak tartare, epoisses cheese, baked pork buns, yellowtail belly, brain tacos, fish tacos, baby eel, and spicy Szechuan.


Example of a Number Three:

Fortunately for you, the reader, I will say no more other than that you should be prepared to suffer for your spicy Szechuan. Please pass the Metamucil.

love (and cold dryness that is making my fingernails break off) is in the air

It's kind of sad that the spam comments to my blog posts are more interesting than my actual blog. But I've been busy! Busy working! And getting kicked out of bars! (Namely, Hooters.) But mostly just hibernating in my windowless furnace of an apartment. Last week I completed the Thursday crossword puzzle for the first time. It's probably my greatest accomplishment since college graduation. Anyway.

*So I have actually been a wee bit productive. Here's my latest contribution to the wonderful world of internet service journalism. Awesome header photo courtesy of my horndog editor. Bless his heart. (Also, please don't stalk me.)

*Next Tuesday, we're closing the restaurant early and, finally, having our holiday party. There's no way it won't be ridiculous, but, unfortunately, probably not this ridiculous. Note to self: Get hired at the Spotted Pig by next February.

*This new service is pure genius. It reminds me of college, when if we locked ourselves out we had to go to the housing office across campus to fill out a little form and get a key copy and the numerous times I had to go there barely clothed and barefoot. And of my first apartment after college and the time I left my keys and cellphone in the apartment so I couldn't call any friends and I took a cab to FAB's on the Upper East Side and rang the bell but she wasn't home so I went up to ol' alma mater and figured I'd crash in a dorm's common room but was able to use a computer to look up an old teammate/current student's number and beg to sleep on her floor. And of my current apartment, specifically when I hadn't given S a copy of my key after they changed the outside door's locks and got home from work at 5am sans keys and had to wake her up and spend the night on her futon in Greenpoint. I've since wisened up and hidden keys outside my apartment.

*I thought it wasn't possible for me to love Pies 'n' Thighs any more than I already do, but then this guy came along. Score one for Homie the Cat.

And, in case anyone was wondering, I will be spending Valentine's Day working at the restaurant. And then, most likely, enjoying a nice six pack alone in my apartment. Maybe I'll even spring for something imported.

don't drink and diet

There is a bump on my forehead the size of a golf ball and I have no idea how it got there. I think perhaps it has something to do with last night, when, after spending two nights in a row this week alone at home watching the Oprah 20th anniversary DVDs, eating ice cream, petting the cat, and, yes, crying (judge me after you watch that dear little 11-year-old poet boy with muscular dystrophy and a desire for world peace), I decided to give up on the whole virtue thing and hang out after work at work with my coworker. We essentially re-tasted every wine we pour by the glass, in full glass proportions. I didn't really learn anything about the wine, but I definitely learned that a chicken salad is not a sufficient alcohol absorber. Needless to say, my head hurts, and I will be having sparkling water after work tonight in preparation for tomorrow's outing to Hooters for a friend's early retirement party (she's giving up on the ol' NYC and moving to Miami). Pictures to come.