TASTE TEST: Korean Fried Chicken at BonChon

I haven't sat down and had a long talk with my buddy Kristine in a very long time. So I made her trek all the way from Jersey City to meet me for something I've never tried before: Korean fried chicken. Originally, we were supposed to meet up at Dok Suni's in the East Village, but I didn't feel up for the travel—I know, I'm a douchebag; she traveled plenty far for me—so we scrambled for somewhere closer to eat. She told me that if my heart was set on trying Korea's version of fried chicken, I could meet her at BonChon Chicken. Sounded good to me.

As usual, I immediately perused the menu for what was edible. The chicken menu was broken up into wings and drums and combos of wings and drums, and then there were sauce options. I, being the wuss that I am, chose the non-spicy garlic soy sauce and 3 drums. I thought they might be appetizer small, but when the meal arrived, they were adult-sized. Still a little wary of the taste, I took a timid bite.

Crunch!
Sweet!
Juicy!
Mmmm.

I can still taste it. It's like Chinese fried chicken, but ten times better. It's like they fried the chicken twice, and rubbed honey and duck sauce all over it. Where has this been all my life?

I'm a chubby girl, but my chubby friend Ty decided to get a lap gastric band and her doc said she wouldn't be allowed to eat fried foods for several months. That meal, among many others, are why I exercise whenever I can and eat healthy when I eat-in. Because there's no amount of medical warnings that would stop me from consuming that again...unless at least three experts proved it was poisonous. lol

98 Chambers St.

New York City's Summer Movie Series

I LOVE watching films outdoors. And because of my life-long dream of going to a drive-in (after seeing it in Grease as a kid, lol), I've seized every opportunity to attend an outdoor movie series in the city. Most summers I've indulged in the Bryant Park HBO Movie Series, watching Hitchcock and Bond films. This summer, I wanted to branch out and try ALL of the other movie venues, including the Intrepid, Hudson River Park, and Brooklyn Bridge Park.

Of course, I wasn't just going to watch any old film. So I chose each one I was interested in and put them all on my calendar. Friday the 23rd was my first film. Goonies at the Intrepid. Can you imagine it? Seeing a pirate treasure movie on a big boat, the ocean surrounding you? Incredible, right? It was. It was a beautiful view. And the jets parked on the surface were even more awesome! Check out Ali's blue steel:

There was even a vendor selling water and ice cream. Bank of America was giving out little pads to sit on. We had great seats near the front. Everything was perfect....until the rain came.

We were sooooo close. Ugh! Ever vigilant, we were going to try again on the 29th, watching Rear Window at Brooklyn Bridge Park, but I scored a free screening of The Other Guys, so we nixed it. If all goes well (and it doesn't rain again), I might get a second chance at seeing a film at the Intrepid this Friday. They're showing Indiana Jones and Raiders of the Lost Ark, and even though Temple of Doom is my favorite, it's good enough for a free flick. And if it does rain or my plans fall through, I still have a chance to see Annie at Hudson Park on the 20th, Bonnie & Clyde at Bryant Park on the 23rd, and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade at Brooklyn Bridge Park on the 26th.

TASTE TEST: Pan-Asian at Republic

I've never really dabbled in Pan-Asian food before. I try to play it safe whenever it comes to exotic Asian cuisine. Sushi isn't my thing. The sauces are often alarmingly gross. And I've only recently begun to appreciate properly prepared fried dumplings. But my friend Megan came into town from Phillie for a birthday dinner, and she was hellbent on going to Union Square's Republic.

Everything on the menu seemed like a gamble, and I didn't want to spend too much on a meal I probably wouldn't eat. So I thought I'd play it safe and order chicken and rice. Easy enough, right? Not when it comes to my juvenile palate. The rice grains were so tiny, it was like eating pebbles or debris, and the chicken...okay, I'll admit I tried two brown pieces and they may have been mushrooms, but it was chewy and gummy and I felt like I was trying to dissolve rubber. I barely ate anything. Thank god there was great conversation.

37 Union Square West, New York, NY

SWEET TREAT: popbar, a Topper's Utopia

I haven't had a popsicle since I was 12. I used to love them. They were extremely refreshing and I was always eager to read the riddles that were printed on the sticks. (i.e. What is black, white, and red all over? A newspaper. Get it? Read all over.) But of course, like everyone, I hated the fact that they dripped all over you and ruined a perfectly good shirt. Plus, I was soon eternally enamored with vanilla ice cream smothered in chewy rainbow sprinkles, and indoctrinated into the gelato-loving cult. Thus, I retired my love for pops.

Then one steamy summer day last week, lost in the Village while searching for gelato, Ali and I passed popbar, which sells handcrafted gelato, sorbet, and yogurt on a stick, made with 100% real fruit. We were so excited to see a childhood favorite in the neighborhood, we vowed to return, and so we did this weekend after a rousing game of ping pong at Fat Cat.

Even though their menu consisted of cream, pistachio, coffee, chocolate, coconut chocolate, vanilla chocolate, vanilla splash, hazelnut, strawberry lemon, raspberry mint lemon, and their exclusive popyogurt, I ordered the super simple strawberry sorbet (which I'm allergic to, shhh!) and Ali ordered mango. Our friend Kristine was the most adventurous. She chose mango drizzled with Italian gourmet chocolate. 

I rarely indulge in toppings. Even when I bought my Baskin Robbins sundae to score that baseball cap, I stuck to the basics: whip cream, sprinkles, and a cherry. But if I were a top-aholic, I could've had my pick of almonds, hazelnuts, pistachios, shredded coconut, granola, coffee grains, biscotti crumbles, brownie chunks, dark chocolate, milk chocolate, or white chocolate. AND popbar encourages double-dipping and allows requests for one layer of one topping and another layer of a different topping and yet another layer on top of that. It's a topper's utopia...totally wasted on me. lol

BUT, I am interested in trying the coconut next time. Since I love coconut gelato, I might like a coconut pop. Of course, I'm not too keen on paying $3.75 again, when I can just get a pop at my local bodega for a buck. Then again, I can't pretend those are healthy when I'm pretty sure they're not even 10% real fruit.

popbar, 5 Carmine Street

TASTE TEST: Mofongo at La Casa de Mofongo

My Haitian friend Stace loves mofongo. My Miami-visiting friend Morayo has always wanted to try mofongo. I have never (and I mean, ever) wanted to try anything that sounded like mofongo. It childishly reminds me of the Spanish word mojon, which means shit. This did not entice me. But they've been begging me to take them to a place with great mofongo for weeks, since I'm Dominican and I should know where that is. So I went to the great Dominican oracle (Google Maps) and I searched the words "mofongo + ny," and there it was...La Casa de Mofongo, the promised land of all things mofongo.

This is the part where I tell you it was a religious experience and I am now a mofongo-ite. And I spread it on my toast in the morning, and I carry it around in my bag to freshen my breath, and I've frozen a block of it in my fridge in case of emergency. Alas, that is not the case. I have the palate of a newborn. If it aint salty or sweet, it's gross.

For those of you who don't know what mofongo is--essentially 99.9% of you--it's mashed plantains. I know what you're thinking. That sounds friggin delicious. No. No it isn't. Fried plantains are delicious. Plantain mush tastes like mush. Pureed plantains with shredded beef (a.k.a. ropa vieja, which literally translated means "old clothes" and still sounds better) is delicious. Mashed plantains are not. Not even when you mix in a meat (pork, beef, chicken, etc.) and then mold the mixture into a hard, 4-inch tall, cylinder shape, as La Casa de Mofongo does.

The only person who enjoyed it and vows to return is Stace. I, on the other hand, will stick to my old clothes, because if a place that specializes in a dish can't make it taste good, I doubt it ever will...to a newborn at least.

La Casa de Mofongo, 1444 St. Nicholas Ave

ART SHOW: Icons by Mr. Brainwash

On our way to Chelsea Piers, I decided to show Alice this random grafitti art I saw on Mother's Day of Alfred Hitchcock:

But when we got to 13th Street and 9th Ave., I noticed it had been slightly altered. Now Mr. Hitchcock was directing viewers towards a warehouse. At first we saw drawings of Einstein, Charlie Chaplin, and Woody Allen, but then we realized that there was an entire art gallery called Icons inside of the warehouse. And so the picture taking began:

I'd suggest visiting it. It reminded me a whole lot of the rebel artist Banksy, but people who know more about art than I do are suggesting that its all a ruse. The artist Thierry Guetta, a.k.a. Mr. Brainwash, is Banksy's protege, and according to said authoritarians, Banksy could be using him to make a statement about the art market or he could very well be Mr. Brainwash. For more on Guetta, watch his documentary Exit Through the Gift Shop:



Icons
415 West 13th St. b/w 9th Ave. & Washington St.
Hours: Mon-Thurs 12pm-9pm, Fri-Sat. 12pm-12am, Sun 12pm-7pm
Free Admission 
Cameras allowed

FLASHBACK: Fourth of July Fireworks

What can I say about the 4th of July?

When I was a kid, I used to have the perfect view of my neighborhood's fireworks show from my window. I would turn the NBC special on and watch them simultaneously, because the TV screen would reflect in the window. Most people have a favorite firework, but I have a favorite 4th of July. It was the year that they set off a firework so big outside my window that it lit up the entire night sky orange, blew out car windows, and set off countless car alarms. It was like Armageddon, but without the messy clean-up.

FLASHBACK: Gelato for Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner

The cliche American things to do in Italy are to eat gelato, "hold up" the Leaning Tower of Pisa, eat gelato, visit the Vatican City, eat gelato, and shovel pasta—fistfuls at a time—into your mouth...then top it off with gelato. And since I'm American, I did as the Americans would do, minus Pisa—couldn't make the trip.

This gelateria in Florence is just one of the many shops I went to while in Europe. I swear, I ate at least three servings in one day while wandering around Rome. My favorite flavors are coconut and stracciatella, which is basically chocolate and vanilla mixed together. The best I had was next door to a pizza shop called, if I'm not mistaken, Caffè Accademia, right outside the Spanish Steps train stop. That's right, there are train stops near historical monuments in Rome. Your mind would be blown if you exited the Colosseum train stop.

My friend Anna was the most adventurous. She tried a different flavor every time we stopped in every Italian city (Rome, Florence, Venice, and Milan) we traveled to—from mango to Nutella. I always tried hers, but stuck with my beloved coconut. When we returned to Madrid, we "settled" for the gourmet gelato at Giangrossi, two blocks from our apartment. Like in the shops of Chelsea Market, you can watch them make your gelato in their kitchens.

Nowadays, I settle for the Village's Grom whenever I need a fix. $6 for a little vanilla delight. I wouldn't say it's the best, but I will say that I'll be trying a few more places around Bleecker Street this summer.

SWEET TREAT: Baskin Robbins Mini Baseball Caps

When I was a kid, I vaguely remember eating ice cream out of a black plastic baseball cap. Nothing odd about that...except I think I was in the Dominican Republic. Hmmm I have the worst memory.

But I still have the cap. I didn't notice which team it was for though until a few months ago. The White Sox. I'm no Boston fan, but when I was in high school I liked a White Sox fan. If I was superstitious, I would've thought it was fate. Instead I thought, "Man, I wish I could get the Yankee mini cap." lol

 That's Wile E. Coyote and Bugs Bunny under there.

So me and Ally made our way to the nearest Baskins and basically just asked for the cap and whatever else we had to buy to get it. $5.99 for a two scoop sundae (I recommend America's Birthday Cake, despite the embedded cake cubes, or the Daiquiri—it's so weird) with fudge, whip cream, a cherry, and assorted toppings (sprinkles, nuts, etc.), plus a bottle of water. I know, the water is kind of random, but appreciated. The promotional ads say to collect all 30, but I honestly can't picture myself eating 30 sundaes this summer. I mean...if they were gelato, maybe. lol

Hitting the Batting Cages at Chelsea Piers

Train ride to Chelsea Piers? $2.25
Ten swings at soft slow balls? $2.50
Two strained wrists + a banged up finger + an inability to grip anything with my right hand + sore back muscles? Priceless...or the price of a hospital visit—one or the other.

I may have previously expressed a love for baseball. Of course, being athletically challenged, I can't exactly join a neighborhood league or play a friendly game with a few friends. But I've always thought going to the batting cages could be a fun alternative. I'm not expected to run any long distances and there's no possibility of spraining an ankle or bruising my knees sliding into 3rd. The ground is clearly marked for where you need to stand, so there's no chance I'll get hit by a stray ball. And there's netting surrounding you on all four sides, so you couldn't possibly hit anyone. But, as it happens, there are still a few hazards.

It hurts more than you would imagine. 

First off, if you don't know how to hold a bat—and don't expect anyone to volunteer to teach you—your improper posture will cost you. Once your bat connects with the ball, if you can manage to hit it, it feels like an earthquake running from your hands to your shoulder. For the 5 seconds you feel accomplished by your amazing eye-hand coordination, you'll spend 4 days with aches and pains. Slow soft balls are supposed to be perfect for beginners. Clearly, I was delusional.

I guess there's three good things that came out of our weekend expedition:
1) I got to see if I was any good at baseball...and technically hitting 6 out of 10 balls makes me at least minor league material. lol
2) I now know that I won't be doing this for my birthday come December.
3) And I definitely won't be doing this on a date. Ever!

Chelsea Piers, W. 21 St. and 11th Ave.

A priest, a baker, and a mime walk into a bar...no wait...

My favorite film genre is comedy. I love to laugh. (And I'll be honest, I started loving it even more after learning laughter burns calories. lol) So one would imagine that going to a comedy club would be an ingenious idea. I've told you guys about seeing comedians Anjelah Johnson and Donald Glover at Comix, and since that was such a great experience, I thought I'd try seeing Johnson's hilarious opening act Erik Rivera at Gonzalez y Gonzalez.

Let's see, how do I say this? Rivera was funny as usual. His opening acts, on the other hand, were...not. They were actually excruciatingly awkward and since there were about 20 people at the venue, the laughs were few and far between. I'm not sure if it was the restaurant's poor promotion—when I called they couldn't even confirm that he was performing—or if Wednesday's just not a night everyone wants to go out, but I felt humiliated for them.

It's safe to say that the next time I go to a comedy show it'll be at a fairly large and established venue, and it'll be on a weekend.

But definitely check out Erik Rivera the next time he's in your city.

Fat Cat: Ping Pong & Scrabble

I love to Ping Pong.  I am the Ping Pong master!

Um ok, I've only Ping Ponged 3 times. The first time was on vacation with my brother in the Dominican Republic Junior year of college. We were animals. No one else in the resort cared for the game, so we dominated the table, and went at it until the beach beckoned...or our parents. The second time was last winter for my birthday. I had the brilliant idea to go to Fat Cat after my friend had her birthday there. Actually, she invited a ton of people and no one came because of the weather and the late hour, so we ended up playing a squirrely game of Chess (we forgot the rules, lol) and a clumsy game of pool (those sticks are impossibly long). The wait for the Ping Pong tables was tedious so we left early. But I made a mental note to return so I could see if I was only "vacation talented."

Fat Cat likes to brand its patrons.

December came around, I invited a few friends, we reserved a table and proceeded to...suck. Five girls who had no clue what they were doing and 1 guy, really just a saint of a guy, who patiently taught us not to wail on the ball or run from it like pansies. We all took turns for an hour, and none of us really felt victorious at the end, just sweaty and exhilarated from all of the embarrassed giggling.

I had a lot of fun that night, so I vowed to make it a summer staple. Whenever I'm in the village and looking for something to do besides go to the movies, I'd go to Fat Cat and beat a plastic ball into submission. Morayo, the girl who introduced me to Fat Cat, is visiting from Miami, so I thought it would be a perfect time to finally get a game in. Turns out she doesn't actually know how to play. lol And Alice, who went to my birthday celebration, still wasn't comfortable with a paddle.

So this Saturday we took turns humiliating ourselves in a corner of Fat Cat, squealing whenever a ball zipped past us, treating the metal ceiling lamps like gongs, and shamefully interrupting nearby games. But we had loads of fun.

Favorite memories were:
1) when Alice took a premature victory lap around the table when she was beating Morayo
2) when Morayo started doing Karate Kid moves because the jazz band started randomly playing Oriental music
3) when I got to referee Morayo and Alice's game

Oh yeah and when I won...four times! Honestly, I would've had fun either way. I've never needed to win in order to have fun. We only kept score so we'd know when to switch players. Otherwise, we would've just kept goofing off. A few of my karaoke friends want to battle us, so I'll definitely be going back soon.  

Fat Cat has several different games to occupy you while you wait for a Ping Pong table. My personal fave is Scrabble, but there's also Pool, Foosball, Chess, Checkers, Backgammon, Othello, and Go. Everything is relatively cheap. For 2 paddles and 1hr, we paid $13, and Scrabble is only $3 for as long as you want.

Fat Cat, 75 Christopher Street, NY, NY

SNAPSHOT: Parisian Skateboarders

One of the most shocking discoveries that I made during my travels through Europe was that there are skateboarders EVERYWHERE! I'm not sure why I thought the French were far too refined for such a thing. But I was glad, during my last weeks abroad, to see a familiar sight.

Karaoke Stage Fright

I can't live without my iPod. If Apple told me the only way I could get a new one would be to take 3 planes and a mule to Thailand, I would. It's like my life has a soundtrack. No matter where I am, I can use a song to lift my spirits, relax my nerves, or get in the zone. I have a playlist for songs I can't help but dance to and songs that I love to belt out…when I'm washing the dishes or in the shower. But being the shy, somewhat reserved, semi-hermit that I am, I've never felt the urge to take the stage and perform. When my mom volunteered me to be an altar server at my church, my heart raced for the entire mass. Ten years later, I still get a little nervous holding the bible, pouring the wine, and lifting the cross.

So when my friend Yedi told me she was the Karaoke Queen, having karaoked almost every night in high school, I thought it was my chance to rectify the debacle that was my 21st birthday. My friends took me to Second on Second, where I sipped a very strong Long Island Iced Tea and took the stage to sing Ricky Martin's "Living la vida loca." It was quick, it was nerve-racking, and the moment I was done, I bolted towards the door. This time had to be different. Three years had past. I had to be braver, right? I mean, I went to a foreign country and fended for myself for 4 months, why couldn't I get up in front of a few of Yedi's friends in a private room and sing a little ditty?

It wasn't until I got to Karaoke One 7 (29 West 17th Street) that Yedi told me that we were going to sit in the small section of the entrance and monopolize the bar. So basically we were going to sing in public. We would be the first thing people heard when they walked in. Greeeatttt! What was I supposed to say? I'm going to shit myself?

Luckily, my friend Morayo was visiting from Miami and she's always game for everything. I said I would sing if she sang with me. It took me a quarter of a Mai Tai (I never finish drinks) and an hour so I could get up the nerve to nauseously mumble through Madonna's "Holiday" with the microphone a bit too far from my mouth. As I was singing, I slowly realized I never really knew the words to the song. Actually, I was surprised by the unfamiliar lyrics running across the flat screens and the amount of rhythm changes in all four songs that I sang. Singing is hard. lol

I think being a singer is the coolest job. I have no aspirations to be one, but I think it would be one of the most incredible highs I could ever experience…especially if I knew the words. After it was over, I was glad to hand the mic to the next brave soul. Morayo and I agreed that we couldn't really hear ourselves. At first we thought it was just a result of being nervous or audio feedback, but it turns out you have to put the mic right near your lips and cup it to isolate the sound.

Knowing that, Morayo eagerly looked through the "By Artist" binder and stopped on The Fugees' "Killing me softly." When she said the title, I was immediately transported back to 4th grade, when me and my bff of the time Erica wrote all the words out in our school notebook and proceeded to master all the pitch changes by repeatedly singing it for weeks. I blurted out, "I wanna sing that!!!" Just in time too because one of Yedi's other friends had intended to sing it as well. Fortunately she was gracious enough to leave the wailing to me and Morayo. I was genuinely excited to see if my voice would crack and to see if I knew all the words still, Plus, my stomach wasn't churning as much as before and I had the mic etiquette down.

Once it was our turn again and that familiar melody began, I choked that mic like I was holding on for dear life. I guess I hit the high note. I couldn't really tell. But Morayo said I didn't sound bad, which to me meant I was amazing. lol We didn't crack. That's all I cared about.

It was getting late and the bar was getting packed. More and more people were starting to sign up for songs and the wait time was getting longer. So we agreed that we'd all get one last song in before it hit 11pm cause we were starving—we'd been there since 7pm. Yedi was dying to do Justin Bieber's "Baby" so she could rap the Ludacris part and Morayo and I settled on doing Michael Jackson's "Bad," so I handed the bartender $4 for two song slips and jotted down the code numbers.

Okay so while I was way less nervous and just eager to get out of there and grab some food since I hadn't eaten in 9 hours, I was a little all over the place. Bieber's song is actually a lot faster than I thought it was. lol There was no way in hell I was going to pull off Ludacris's mid-verse Speedy Gonzalez rhythm, so I handed the mic to Yedi's friend Adrienne who was the only one willing to do any rap songs. As soon as the song was over, I rushed over to Morayo to sing "Who's Bad?" only to discover that there are A LOT of words in that song. lol I seriously just resorted to screaming "WHO'S BAD?," cause that night, we were.

Fear = Dominated!

Photo by myuibe

FLASHBACK: Real Madrid game

The first sporting event I've ever been to was a Yankee game. Like most Americans, I'm a baseball fan. But I've always found soccer fascinating. Probably because I'm athletically challenged and the thought of me running and kicking simultaneously is laughable. Since NYU in Madrid was 1 block from the famous Santiago Bernabeu stadium, my soccer-playing roommate wanted to go to the adjoined mall and buy souvenirs. I tagged along out of boredom. Don't get me wrong. Madrid wasn't boring. The day had been filled with classes and I was in need of excitement. Once we got in the store, my eyes were flooded with how many possible things a brand could put their symbol on. Thongs. There are Real Madrid thongs! I avoided the racy section and bought a drawstring backsack and a water bottle-sized, cylinder-shaped purse for the tiny objects that get lost in my tote. She bought…a lot. Almost 300 euros worth, which apparently gets you 4 free tickets to a game.

Of course, I immediately started begging to be one of the lucky ones since there was five us in the house. Fortunately, one of my other roommates had an admirer who opted to tag along and buy her a ticket as well. (In theory, romantic, but in retrospect, the beginning of a very long, unwarranted and unreciprocated obsession.) We were set! Two Americans, 1 Dominican Black American, 1 Chinese American, 1 Chinese Peruvian American, and 1 Peruvian were about to have an adrenaline-fueled culture shock: a Spaniard soccer game.

Ok technically, it was just me. My four roommates were so busy taking pictures and trying to spot Beckham, they barely watched the game. And my roommate's Peruvian paramore was so busy staring at her and acting like he invented the game, he was barely paying attention. I, on the other hand, was immersed.

The Madrileños were pumped, singing lyrics I couldn't make out, swilling beers, and operatically declaring "GOOOAAAAALLLLL" whenever we scored. Think of a volume meter that goes from 1 to 10. Baseball is a 5. Soccer is a 10. Everything gets turned up. Cheering, jeering, and drinking. It was so intense that every time I heard British voices, fans of the opposing team, I froze, fearing that nearby Madrileños would catapult them off the stands.

The energy was addictive. Other students were at that game too and the next day, most of the student body was talking about meeting up at Retiro park, the Central Park of Madrid, and kicking a ball around. I was tempted. But I had homework and I was exhausted from weekend travel, so I couldn't. Plus, I didn't want to make an ass out of myself, so I passed. But I heard their amateur game was awesome. Madrileños joined in, and my sorority-girl friend Sam scraped her knees to the point of limping the next day, but even she said it was a memory worth making.

Now with the World Cup dominating Facebook, Twitter, and ESPN2, I'm starting to get the itch again. I'd love to go to Central Park with a few friends and kick the ball around, but…I'm trying to avoid any major medical bills. ;)

Baseball Game: Yankees vs. Phillies

I grew up about 14 blocks from Yankee Stadium. I am a Yankee fan through and through. So much so, that in high school two of my crushes lost MAJOR points for being Mets and White Sox fans. If they'd been Red Sox fans, they would've been deleted from existence. However, I've only ever been to 3 games. The first when I was like 6, and I don't remember anything. That's why I was excited when I heard that one of the perks of attending NYU are the discount Yankee tickets. So during Senior spirit week, me and my Polish friend Anya went to see a game. Again, I have no recollection of who they were playing, but I do remember having an awesome time, despite the fact that it was drizzling and Anya got bored after the first five minutes. lol

Remembering that adrenaline high, I jumped at the chance to see another, asking one of my NYU friends to buy me tickets. They were sold out. :( So I resorted to StubHub.com. $33 later, I was sitting in the nosebleed seats in Left field with a good view of the JumboTron. Never have I been so afraid of heights in my life. Seriously, how do children not cry uncontrollably when they get there? Must be all the ice cream and french fries—which probably bring their parents to tears at $7+ prices. Yowza!

Me and my bff Alice are movie fiends. We figured we'd have downtime to watch a flick on her portable DVD player while watching the game. I don't know why. We were delusional. Normally baseball games are slow-going. Nothing like a soccer game or a football game. It's practically golf but with less walking and a whole lot of chanting. But by the 2nd inning, we were wrist-deep in a nail-biter. The Phillies loaded the bases and ended the inning with 4 runs on the scoreboard. New York was disheartened. And I, I was sick and tired of hearing Jay-Z songs every time ARod came up to bat. He doesn't deserve Jay-Z. NINE fucking innings and the only 3 runs were made my Posada and Cano. How is it that Jeter and ARod get paid the most? [Taking deep breath.]

The Phillies murdered us in innings 2 and 3, forcing the Yanks to switch pitchers to a rousing applause from the audience. By the 9th inning, fans were so over the game they were already leaving. The only way we'd win is if they followed the Phillies' initial tactic: loaded the bases and got one out of the park. The bases were loaded. We were at bat. Fans stopped leaving. They gathered around flat screens all over the stadium. And...NOTHING. So anti-climactic. Like a faulty magic trick.

I felt like someone had run over my dog. I don't have one, but still. It hurt. The $13 I spent on large fries and a small soda hurt. But this was excruciating. The only upside was that I paid for excitement and I got my money's worth.


Favorite part of the game: chanting and clapping, especially "hip-HIP!" "JORGE!!!!"
Least favorite part of the game (besides losing): when people would stand up and block the plate. Seriously, SIT. THE. F#@^. DOWN!
All in all…I'd watch another game. Next time, Yankees vs. Mets. Battle Royale!!

FLASHBACK: Cerveceria 100 Montaditos

In the summer of 2005, my Chinese friend Anna convinced me to study abroad in Madrid with her for our Junior Spring semester. I mention her ethnicity, because even though I'm Dominican, she was more confident speaking Spanish than I was. Of course, she learned Spanish in a classroom, five days a week, and I learned it in the barrio. Not everyone knows this, but all Spanish people do not speak the same Spanish. We all have our own cultural colloquialisms that get lost in translation once we cross the border, and it can lead to plenty of misunderstandings. Not to mention, Spaniards pronounce the letter "z" as "th," and they use the "vosotros" tense. The idea that I would have to be a mime for 4 months was freaking me out. What I didn't count on—despite my history of being a picky eater—was not liking the food.

When we first arrived, our school treated us to a few snacks at orientation. I passed. I rarely like buffets at meetings. Then they told us to meet them at a restaurant for lunch, and bought us all paella. I rarely if ever eat seafood. Chalk it up to my deep fear of aquatic animals or the fact that it just tastes like salt, so I didn't eat much. To top off the day, a few us met up at a restaurant for dinner—safety in numbers and all that. I had the chicken. It was a little weird. I figured I just needed to get use to Spaniard menus and learn all the translations, and eventually I'd find something I liked. Until then, I was a frequent customer of Burger King and TGI Fridays. Yes I know, how American of me.

As a part of the study abroad program, our school organized several weekend trips to some of Spain's cities. Places, like Segovia and El Escorial, that tourists rarely think to go. On every trip I played it safe: chicken, with a side of chicken, drizzled with chicken. Then one day I saw what looked like spaghetti and meatballs on the menu…only to discover that "meat sauce" was alfredo style with chunks of pork. The Spaniards are HUGE fans of pork. The cow has no stock here. Babe is king. So I gave up. It was no wonder I lost 20lbs in 2 months. With all the walking and the serious lack of food, I might as well have been on a diet.

Then one magical day in Seville, on a birthday weekend trip for one of my roommates, we all went to Cerveceria 100 Montaditos for lunch. It's a restaurant that runs like clockwork. At each table is a list of 100 tapas, small dishes—each for 1 euro. You check off as many as you'd like (or can afford), bring it to the counter, and wait to be called for pickup. I tried my friend's tortilla española: eggs, potatoes, onions, and a shaker-full of salt. At last! It was like my stomach had finally arrived from America. It got stuck in customs, but once it was cleared, it was ready to party. After that, I was a little more adventurous to try more tapas. There were a few hits (ox tail) and misses (patatas bravas - eck!). I was just happy to finally feel like I was in Spain.

Photos by jordanfischer and E Vön Zita

Best. Dumplings. Ever!

Alright, full disclosure, I'm not an adventurous eater. The first time I had dumplings was because a co-worker pretty much called me out as a woose and demanded I tried a variety at 23rd Street's Rickshaw Dumpling Bar. I tried the steamed and fried dumplings filled with pork, chicken, and other mysterious contents, and it was…decent. It wasn't exactly a mind-blowing, life-altering, palate-changing experience, so I confidently resigned dumplings to the Inedible column.

Then I went to Pocha 32 (15 W. 32nd St.) in Koreatown and, at the urging of my friends, tried chicken-filled fried dumplings for the 2nd time. It was perfect!!! I'm Dominican. Our dumpling-equivalent is pastelitos. We have beef-filled and chicken-filled, and I hate the chicken-filled. I've never liked chicken-filled anything in all 24 years of my life. But these dumplings were perfectly fried and perfectly juicy. I couldn't stop eating them. I felt bad about it. I hadn't ordered them, but my friends insisted they couldn't finish them all, so I kept going. If they let me, I would've eaten every last one. If I weren't on a budget, I would've ordered some to go. Instead, I just kept reminding myself, "You can come back!" You know the food is good when you've already decided you're coming back before the main course arrives.

Speaking of which, I ordered the Korean BBQ thinking it tastes the same everywhere—my favorites being from Seoul Garden, Friend House, Aoki, and a food truck in Midtown. But it doesn't. My friend's roasted beef tasted way better. I know what you're thinking. This could be one of those situations where everyone else's food just tastes better than yours, a.k.a. grub envy.

n. the ravenous sensation that eaters get when they realize someone else's food tastes better than there's and they've made a horrible mistake picking what they ordered. Example: Monica's got grub envy. Look at the way she's drooling over your fried dumplings.

But everyone agreed. Fried dumplings and roasted beef was the thing to order at Pocha!

Of course, being the negative-Nelly that I am, I fear that it won't be as good the second time around. What if they're not fried to perfection again? What if the chef from that night is out sick or on vacation? What if I get the order wrong? lol I'm a fatalist. I rather expect the worst than fantasize about the best. This Saturday, I'll return to decide once and for all if fried dumplings go in the Edible column.

6/26 Update: ALL of it was still amazing.


Photo by Charles Haynes

Murder Mystery at The Met

"Who wants to pay $46 to play a murder mystery game at the Met?!"

That's the text my friend Kristine sent me a week before the event. My mind immediately calculated the number of things I could purchase with $46:
- 3 movie tickets
- 23 iTunes tracks
- dinner
- cab fare...

Obviously, I was trying to talk myself out of it. But everyone I ran it past, thought it sounded like fun. I actually thought it sounded hard. I was afraid they were going to make me act out a persona, like a live action Clue or that wonky day at Dunder Mifflin. I also thought there would be pressure to contribute from my fellow teammates. I mean, I haven't "solved" anything in 7 years, having finished all mathematical and deductive problems in high school, so I was pretty sure I was going to suck at this. Ultimately, my mom and my bff convinced me to go, and the Met pried 46 pesos out of my tightly-gripped fingers. As for the pressure, I figured I would just be the comic relief slash cheerleader if nothing else.

When I first arrived, Kristine introduced me to her college buddies, Steph and Yedi. Our first task was to name our team. Steph wanted The Fantastic Four, but then squealed when she heard Yedi's suggestion, Rockapella. I suck at naming things, which you might agree with if you find this blog's name to be lame, so I was happy with whatever. But by the suggestions that these ladies were churning out, I knew I already liked them.

Once we were all branded and united under a common goofy name, the event coordinator from Watson Adventures, the company who runs the game, gathered us for mystery orientation. She gave us clues, waivers, and team sheets. Uhhh, signing a waiver that says the Met is not responsible for anything that happens to you during a murder mystery game is a little unnerving. There were muttered jokes about the likelihood that one of us would be the actual victim. I was happy she was going over the mystery details and games instructions, because I'm an unbelievably slow reader and it was hard to concentrate among all the excited chatter. The giant number on the front of our clue sheets denoted the question number to start with. Ours was 6. Afraid I was going to screw this up, I immediately started pounding her with questions--one of which being "What about questions 1-5?" Turns out, to prevent cheating, overlapping, or overhearing, they start each group at different numbers and then you have to circle back to finish off the ones you "skipped." Seems easy enough.

After the Q&A portion was over, we all playfully bolted towards our respective starting lines. Each clue starts with directions on how to get to the piece of artwork where the answer is hidden. Our first question brought us to a room with religious paintings and statues. The clue asked something like "There are 12 of these men and one is not like the other." So I thought, What religious painting involves 12 men? Thankfully, my mom's Roman Catholic and I immediately thought of The Last Supper. Calling the girls over so we could examine the painting, we realized that one man didn't have a crown, Judas. But Yedi corrected me and called it a halo. Later, we discovered that being exact would be crucial to finding the murderer. My favorite clues were the ones that involved cool paintings/sculptures, like the memento mori (left). The clues I hated were the ones we couldn't find because of confusing directions. At the end, we went over our clues and discovered an anagram. Once we were triumphant, we had to figure out a motive. Duh! Power! Every villain's kryptonite/Achilles heel/Rosebud.

With 15 minutes left on the clock, we raced towards the finish line to discover the events coordinator sitting all alone near an Egyptian temple. We were 1st! I'm not a natural born gloater, but these girls were. They were ready to crown themselves and take a victory lap. We spent the rest of the time taking pictures in front of a temple and filling out opinion surveys.

Once the other groups arrived, the events coordinator calculated each of the groups' points and with an implied drumroll announced that two groups won: Womp! There It Is (the new name Steph and Yedi came up with while we waited, lol) and Asian Invasion. We were tied! Eager to win the mysterious prize, we waited with baited breath for the tie-breaking question: "How many possible endings are there to the game of Clue?" WHAAAAT??!! Who the ffff..?" Only two members of my group had ever played Clue, so we were at a disadvantage. Not to mention, I was never any good at probability. In the end, the group that guessed closest to the number won. And that group was...Asian Invasion. Their prize? T-shirts with modern hieroglyphics spelling out "Watson." Bummer, I know. But still, the most fun I've ever had at a birthday party.

Photos courtesy of Karrie Anne Ducusin and DanielMitsui.com (memento mori)

Road Trip: Conan O'Brien at Mohegan Sun

I can't drive. That's why I've never been on a road trip. Films and magazines always make them seem like the best bonding experiences you could ever have. So when my bff Alice asked me if I'd like to join her and her brothers on a 2-hr mini-road trip to Uncasville, Connecticut for Conan O'Brien's "Legally Prohibited From Being Funny on Television" Tour, I jumped at the chance.

My dream road trip was an idea Jane editors had to send pairs of writers to different BBQ-loving states and determine which city in each state had the best BBQ. It was sort of unbelievable because half of them didn't even look like they ate red meat, let alone meat, but it sounded delicious. Plus, Jane girls always knew how to have fun, so I was bummed I was just an intern. I mean, don't they need interns on road trips? Who will…read the menu to them?

So, needless to say, I had high hopes for this mini-road trip. Perhaps too high. First off, I expected to be better at DJing, but trying to be considerate of two 20something Asian boys is difficult when most of your playlist is riddled with tracks by Ke$ha and Bieber. So I left the DJing to them. Then there was the conversation. I love talking to my girl Ally, but I have a very low toned voice and she's practically hard of hearing (lol). Now add speeding winds (due to the lack of AC on an 80-degree day) and the radio volume, and you can imagine how limited our conversation was. I resolved to not being too bummed, since it was my fault for developing this unrealistic picture in my head, and geared up for Conan's show.

I love Conan, but I hadn't seen him in a while and I was hoping he'd be back to his usual antics. He was…somewhat. I should've realized that if the title of the tour was bitter, he would be too. It was essentially 2hrs of him playing with his band and griping about getting fired/laid-off. I was laid-off last year and I don't complain as much as he does. Granted, millions of people weren't notified and I wasn't treated like dirt, but I was given less than 24hrs to vacate the premises and I wasn't given any sort of monetary compensation for the abrupt notice. Plus, I live at home with my parents and I owe more than $50,000 in loans. Soooooo, I was pretty much over Conan's whining after the first hour, which was mainly monopolized by mildly amusing opening acts.

The drive home was better because my expectations had been brought down to a reasonable level. We proceeded to play the "Date, Marry, Screw" game, and Alice learned that her eldest brother is in love with Cameron Diaz. lol And I learned that not everybody knows who Adriana Lima is.

Next time, we bring snacks, a portable DVD player, a pre-made pre-approved playlist, an air conditioner, and cards. And we head to the beach. Because there's no way a road trip can be anticlimactic if you end with sand between your toes and the ocean before you. Right?

Having a laugh

Most people think Summer starts in June. Students generally consider the millisecond after the last bell rings on the last day of school as the true beginning of Summer. But for those of us who’ve been locked up in our homes all Winter and Spring, due to this wonky weather, Summer starts as soon as it gets warm-ish.

My idea of fun is going to the movies. My idea of Summer fun is…going to the movies. It is truly a year-round activity. However, I always feel kind of lazy and ignorant whenever a friend or a tourist mentions a part of New York I’ve never been to. Twenty four years people and all I’ve done is eat at the same places and go to the same theaters. Granted, I didn’t start heading into the city without parental supervision until 7 years ago, but that’s still 7 summers I could’ve been trying something new at least every weekend. The only way I do is if my friends drag me somewhere that I inevitably enjoy, causing me to kick myself yet again for not having tried it sooner.

…which brings me to my first summer activity slash new experience: going to a comedy club. I figured this would be a nice mix of what I love—laughing at the movies—and what makes me a little uncomfortable—watching someone who might humiliate themself. It was awesome! It was so awesome I went again two weeks later. If it didn’t cost $20+, I’d go every week.

I’ve actually been to a comedy show before. NYU had a free taping of two HBO comedy half-hours with Caroline Rhea (the kooky aunt on "Sabrina the Teenage Witch") and Omid Djalili (the ridiculous prison warden in The Mummy), and I enjoyed myself. But I’m pretty sure I only enjoyed myself, because it was free. It turns out if you pick comics that you love, like I did with Anjelah Johnson (the younger sister in Our Family Wedding and the hilarious "MADtv" character Bonquiqui) and Donald Glover (Abed's better half on "Community"), it’ll be ten times more fun, especially since it’s not censored and there are no commercial breaks.

Check out Comix's (353 W. 14th st.) upcoming acts.

N to the Y to the C to the L to the U to the V

Last night, I was reading this blog post on the finance site Bundle.com and one of the writers asked the community: “What do you look for in a city?” After my travels all over Europe, and my subsequent love affair with Seville and Rome, I realized that at the top of my list of must-haves was family.

I LOVE wandering the world, but I cherish my family more than anything else. And if my friends reach a point where I love them, instead of just like them (or tolerate them, lol), they become family too. What I hadn’t realized though, until just this morning, after having a dream about my dad and brother moving to Tampa, was that New York has become a member of my family as well, and I couldn’t bear to leave it either.

We’ve had too many good memories to just brush it aside. We’re about to hit our 25th anniversary together this December, and we still have so much to do. This summer will be the first in 3 years that I haven’t gone on vacation. It’s no surprise. I don’t generally have an influx of cash to pour into a generic vacation spot somewhere in the tropics. But after getting laid off last Fall and hopping onto the never-ending freelance train, I really wanted to treat myself to something relaxing and uninterruptible. Alas, I must be financially responsible and have a (ugh!) staycation. (I hate that word—not just because of the meaning, but also because of its mere existence.)

New York and I are going to get acquainted, like cousins who only see each other on major holidays and birthdays. No more surface pleasantries and ritual hangouts. No more treading the same ground and regurgitating the same information. It’s time to find new favorites and make original memories. The MTA just released the new Subway map and I’m about to put it to good use.

Annnnd since I have the worst memory in the History of Forgetters—couldn’t tell you what I did, said, wore, or ate yesterday—I’ll be recording it on this blog, along with flashbacks/snapshots of what I did the Spring of 2006, when I immersed myself (as much as an American can) in European culture for an entire semester.