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It’s oft the case that the best deli proprietors be of the Asian-persuasion [!]. Around the corner from me in Brklyn is Hyun’s Deli, which according to the signage works directly in cahoots with Boar’s Head Meats; and it’s my assumption that some stock may have been exchanged. The owner-guy’s name is Kim which on this side of the pond is typically a girl’s name, but from what I understand it’s like everybody’s name over there [there pronouning for like Beijing or Thailand or Argentina or some yellow-country]. His sidekick (and possibly wife?) is this freakishly quiet and stilly smiling woman with bright red lipstick that by this point in her life probably can’t ever be fully washed off. But you know what, she can dole out the change rapidly and accurately so no complaints here. Kim always gives me this attitude, but it’s all-good since that’s kinda the jokey rapport we’ve developed, and it’s especially nice since any conversation-gone-awkward can be ended with a quick chuckle, an evil glare, and the exchange of goods for money. I buy Orangina from them on a daily basis (the second largest of the four sizes I know of).
And typing of food stuffs, I had the most unsatisfying lunch today. Ever heard of a dosa? It’s either North Indian or South Indian… which ever one makes the shitty food that you don’t usually find in generic Indian restaurants. I think it’s some bastardized, mutated (like the incest related type – not the comic book related type) remnant of France’s presence in the area at some point in history ‘cause it’s like a crepe, but made from rice and it’s also classified as sourdough, which I will tell you right now is a major culprit in ruining good sammies and cheeses. So they take this crepe and roll up a spoonful of crap inside… and these fuckers are big. It’s two feet long which only makes you feel worse once you’ve eaten the whole thing even though it’s really light and there’s pretty much nothing filling about it. The only reason I got one is because my boss swears by them and I feel bad when she wants to go there and no one else does. This too sort of worries me since in more serious situations I’ve shown little to no compassion or remorse (like the time when we took a hearse on a road rallye through New England at the expense of me ditching out the night before I had promised to take my ex-girlfriend to Buffalo for an old friend’s wedding, forcing her to buy an expensive last minute plane ticket, cry her eyes out… AND NOW SHE’S PREGNANT… and I still think it’s funny!). Anyway, good times.
I wanted to tell you about my recent plane ride home from L.A. and how I had the farts from the crappy omelet served up in Air Hollywood, the only eatery at the Burbank Airport with made-to-order food, and then after each one I’d make a big show of looking accusingly at everyone else, peaking over the seats and glaring to the back of the plane; but I guess I should like do some work before I go home and fill my veins with designer drugs and watch Modern Marvels on whatever channel that’s on: Discovery? History? Travel? All of them?