First, there is the big black woman at the ribs place on LaCienega who chastises us when we can’t finish and congratulates us when we overorder and eat up everything. “Good boys,” she says, smiling. “Good boys.”
Second, there are the parents, who arrive on Sunday, spend a few days on Catalina, then come back for a few nights with me in K-Town. I expect the best and fear the worst and imagine things will come out somewhere in between.
Third, there is the Policy of Fun Eatin which I will employ while the folks are here. The Policy of Fun Eatin is a good guide to life but can get expensive and I usually only trot it out for special occasions (Mid-B’s presence, for example).
Fourth, there is Mandate of the Unknown (also known as the Inveighing Against the Stale), which states that an important and often overlooked element of fun is the Discovery of the New Thing.
Fifth, there are the usual winners, the dim sum and the Korean barbecue, but this time there is the lovely Puran’s on Hillhurst for lunch and a wonderful oyster bar in Long Beach with live jazz and brick-sized bread pudding (I wussy out at the last minute…the thing probably has 1200 calories).
Sixth, there is the Exercise Used To Expel the Black Cloud of Gluttony Guilt.We go on a crazy 10am walking tour put on by the Echo Park Historical Society. 80% of the group is originally from Washington, including four lovely ladies from Seattle, one of whom seems interested in me, and yet, is not. I highly recommend going on walking tours of blighted areas to meet normal (normal is good, BTW) Northwesterly women.
Seventh, there is the Behavior of the Parents, which is exceptional and not too insane and actually pretty fun. I enjoy being a tourist in my own town and they are not up in my grille about the usual stuff so it’s nice to see them and go around and do the things of the world. Turns out my fears were for naught.
Eighth, there is the Impending Move From Los Angeles, which suddenly has me enjoying this city immensely. Why do we need Close Calls With Death to convince us that life is worth living? Why do I need to move to appreciate this crazy sprawling mess of a city? Anyway, I am having fun now w/ the parental units but I will still move, God willing.
Ninth, there is the Good Sportsmanship Award, which goes to Pops for eating kimchi, chicken feet, and other questionable things against his will. He also endures Mom and me looking at pottery and overbrowsing at Books Kinokuniya in Little Tokyo.
Tenth, there is the Uzbekistan restaurant on Sunset and LaBrea which is the perfect coda for a weekend of Fun Eatin. Uzbekistan has to be seen to believed. Uzbekistan is in a lousy strip mall but the inside is Full On. There is a disco ball, an old man singing up on a stage with mini-disk accompaniment (“Uzbek Karaoke?” We wonder aloud), a smallish dance floor where two ancient couples swing each other around, a looming and mysterious Russian Man who stands over us (“KGB?”), a strange doorman who talks to himself and sways erratically, long tables filled with extended families and Uzbek cuisine, colorful murals, recessed onion-dome shapes and minarets, and a domed rotundaesque ceiling. I have a shot of Stoli to play along with the vodka-swilling old ladies and nearly choke (“Hey this isn’t sake!”). There is a confrontation between and two old dudes (a beautiful young woman in a beautifully unfashionable (and colorful) 60s-style print dress intervenes). A red-haired former beauty replaces the Uzbek fiddler on stage and sings forlorn ballads in Russian while staring glassy-eyed into the corner of the restaurant. We can’t understand a word but we know she is singing about some dude who done her wrong…but she’ll survive dammit. Hell yeah, she’ll survive. Dad takes pictures.
We finally order (kabobs, yogurt cucumber salad, trout and mushroom sauce, a difficult-to-describe lamb-veggies-and-oily noodles dish, and two non-metric/non-standard 22oz Russian beers) and when we do so the ominous KGB guy looms right on over to the table. The corners of his mouth turn up. It’s not quite a smile but for him it is.
“Good boys,” he says, patting Pops on the back. “Good boys.”
3 comments:
Thank God you escaped from the South no harm done (I'm assuming, if you're eating lamb-veggies-'n'-oily noodles at Uzbek-o-rama in L.A.).
I have long thought we ought to congratulate ourselves for being good eaters, i.e., cleaning our plates, when we're adults. It used to be a good thing to clean your plate. I do this especially when I'm at my mom's, eating dinner with my sisters. I congratulate them for cleaning their plates, and they congratulate me. Perhaps this is a corollary to the Policy.
I can testify that the Policy of Fun Eatin' is in full effect when Middlebrow visits. It's a good policy and needs to remain on the books, wherever Sleepy E goes.
I am simultaneously made starving and sick. I want to engage and engorge, but perhaps over a couple of weeks instead of one very overstuffed weekend.
Still, Uzbeckistan will be the cuisine of the 2010's.
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