How Dumb Do You Think I Am?!?

Ever since coming to Seattle every week for business, I have come to enjoy local food products. For example, I now love the Yami yogurts that are served at my hotel, produced here in the state of Washington. It is creamier and tastier than any yogurt brand you find in grocery stores all over the country.

And then there is the apple juice made by TreeTop, another fine company here in the state of Washington. The juice is pretty tasty, I must say. Better than any Welch's apple juice, that's for sure. But one thing about the TreeTop apple juice certainly leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Not literally.

Squarely centered on the bottom of the front label of the TreeTop apple juice bottle is this disclaimer: "Not a low calorie food."

Seriously?

I mean, if any of you have paid any kind of attention to basic high school classes, be it nutrition, physical education or biology, you will easily remember that fresh fruits are mostly sugar, water and fiber. So it should not come as a surprise that pure apple juice should also contain mostly sugar and water.

As if that wasn't enough, TreeTop seems to be telling me that I'm an idiot. Sure, not many people will remember much about fruits, much less learn about it because some Americans simply drop out of high school before graduation, but on the back side of the bottle is a prominent thing called the nutrition information panel. That label has been required by law in the United States under the 1990 Nutrition Labeling and Education Act.

And right there in the second line item is this: Calories 140.

So, uhm, what is the purpose of the rather large warning statement telling me that the apple juice I was about to consume is not a low calorie food when the nutrition information panel already told me so? It's like labeling a giant mountain rock with "Not a lightweight object." Or having a huge 23-step diagram showing me how to buckle a seat belt. Unless, of course, you were born before 1956 and have never ever ridden in a modern automotive vehicle since then.

Sure, you can argue that it is entirely possible that the warning statement is there because people can't read nutrition information labels. But seriously, such labels have been around for the better part of nearly two decades now that you'd think the general population would know how to decipher at least the amount of calories the juice contains. And if they can't read something that simple, they sure as hell can't read the warning statement in the front, thus negating the point in even printing such a warning statement. And if they can't read anything at all, how would they know that they had even just purchased an apple juice?

Do the executives at TreeTop really think we're all that dumb? They might as well go further by printing right below that warning statement: "May cause you to urinate when consumed."

Noodle Brained

Since returning to Seattle for a project, I've been doing things out of habit like I used to several years ago, as well as asking my friend who have since lived here for advice. His input so far has been quite valuable.

It was my friend who told me about the Taiwanese restaurant called Sandie's Gourmet. I don't know how this came about, but ever since I was a little kid, as far back as I can remember, I have always loved noodles. It is arguably one of my favorite foods, be it Chinese or Italian style. And Sandie's Gourmet serve up a pretty decent Taiwanese beef noodles.

When my friend asked me what I thought of it after I went there, I told him it was so-so. But it was still better than nothing, considering that I have not yet discovered any Taiwanese restaurants in Chicago after living there for over three years. Then he briefly mentioned to me that I should try the beef noodles at another restaurant another time.

Well, after running my six miles after work, I suddenly developed a jonesing for noodles. And remembering what my friend had said, but forgetting the name of the restaurant, I called him up right away.

John: What's that other restaurant you recommended for beef noodles?
Changren: I don't remember the name of the restaurant, but it is on 7th or 8th Ave across from House of Hong.
John: Wasn't it close to Yesler Way?
Changren: No, that would be too far north.
John: Let me look it up on the map.
Changren: Look up the Green Leaf, a very popular Vietnamese restaurant. That noodle restaurant is right next to it.
John: Oh, okay. I got the location. Thanks!

Instead of showering, I got dressed and drove down there. You see, I have learned that the best time to eat is 20 to 30 minutes right after a strenuous workout, as that is when your body can best process foods into glycogen, the best energy store for an athlete.

As soon as I got to 8th Ave, I started circling around several blocks in search of a parking spot. After not having any luck, I finally saw a little sign that read: Parking While Dining at House of Hong. I thought, "Wow, not only have I found the restaurant, they also have their own parking lot!"

When I walked in there, there were perhaps about 75 tables. After being seated in a booth, I looked for the noodles section of the menu. I remembered from the conversation weeks ago with my friend when he described that there are three different kinds of beef noodles. So I looked over the menu, and found three. But I didn't remember which one he had recommended, so I sent him a quick text message: "Which one did you like? They have Beef Noodles with Oyster Sauce, Tomato Beef Noodles, and Beef Brisket Noodles." Although none of them sounded like a regular beef noodles dish, I didn't bat an eye.

Within minutes, my friend called.

Changren: I don't know the name of the dish in English, but in Chinese it is Hong Saow Neo Rou Mien.
John: Oh, okay. Thanks!
Server: [While interrupting my phone conversation...] Are you ready to order?
John: Changren, hold on, okay? The server is here. Miss, which one of these is Hong Saow Neo Rou Mien? [I started feeling cocky, because I was ordering in Chinese. But I immediately realized that she was probably thinking I was an idiot for not being able to read the Chinese printed on the menu!]
Server: What?
John: I want Hong Saow Neo Rou Mien.
Changren: Yeah, that's right.
Server: We don't have that!
John: Hey, did you send me to the wrong restaurant?
Server: ... [Looking really confused at me.]
Changren: No, I didn't.
John: Well, they don't have that dish.
Changren: I don't know what the name of the restaurant is, but it should be next to the Green Leaf!
John: [Realizing he totally forgot about that little bit of details...] Oh, it's not the House of Hong? [Hoping that he didn't notice that I totally forgot about the crucial detail about being next to the Vietnamese restaurant.]
Changren: No, it's a little hole in the wall.
John: [Looking around at the massive convention hall of a restaurant I am in.] Oh shit! I think I walked into the wrong restaurant!
Changren: The noodle shop should be right across from House of Hong.
John: Well, right across from it is underpass of a highway, and lots of parking spaces!
Changren: It should be down the hill on the street.
John: I think it's too late now. I'm already drinking their tea. I'll look for it later. Thanks!

I couldn't believe how stupid I felt right after that. Well, so much for jonesing for some noodles. Suddenly, I was in a tight crunch to order food, because the server was still standing there waiting for me to order! So I just blurted out: I'd like some shrimp fried rice.

As the server walked away, I felt like the biggest idiot. And later, when all was said and done, I walked out of the House of Hong, and looked slightly to the right. Oh! There's the Green Leaf! Dammit!

Yeah, you can say I got noodle brained tonight...

Bad Server, Bad!

Today was the opening night of The Simpsons movie. I admit I was rather excited about the whole affair. So before heading down to the friendly downtown Cineplex, I decided to have dinner with Jane* and her youngest brother. After some brainstorming, we all agreed to Café Mysterious**, one of my favorite restaurants. If you don't know me by now, Café Mysterious is the place I take all my first dates to, if not the second. Because the restaurant is simply that good, I also take my visiting friends from out of town there as well.

Anyway, my friend Jane is not exactly one to know her wines. I do, but only to the extent of red wines. Ask me something about white wines, and the most I know is that they probably have to be served chilled. As a result, Jane always rely on me to pick out red wines, and tonight was no different as she told me to pick one out while she left for the wash room.

After Lauren***, our designated server, brought us our wine and appetizer, we all started enjoying our food and fresh, warm sourdough bread. The first thing I noticed was that our wine glasses were not clean. For the most part, they were dried on, indicating they were probably harmless water spots. Save for mine, which had a tiny greasy streak. But having confirmed that it was on the outside of the glass, I simply forgot about it.

Before our main course arrived, I suddenly noticed something as I was tipping my wine glass back after having had four or so sips of the 2005 Chateau Ste Michelle Syrah. Sediments! That's not unusual, but it warranted an investigation nonetheless. I gently swirled my glass around, tilted it, and watched through the ambient light cast by the dining room. Gasp! What a pity that such a good tasting wine was contaminated by excessive sediments! Some sediment is okay, but a lot of it is not exactly good for the aftertaste.

So I promptly picked up Jane's glass as well, and surely enough, hers was just as bad. I explained briefly to the table that our wine had excessive sediments, and that possible reasons may include poor quality corks breaking down, or that whoever opened the bottle broke the cork in the bottle. Of course, the only exception to this is when you have really old wine, when decades of years have naturally broken down the cork little by little. Alas, our wine was only two years old though. And Chateau Ste Michelle is by no means a vintner with poor quality products, as it was named 2005 Winery of the Year by Restaurant Wine Magazine!

When Lauren returned to ask if everything was okay, I did not hesitate for a second to mention this problem to her. Instead of promptly taking care of the situation and understanding such a simple and common problem, she actually took the time to talk back at me. I was not sure what could possibly made her think that she had the audacity to drop her poor customer service skills, but I suspected that she thought we were all young kids. First, we had an underage boy at the table. Second, I was wearing a Dave Matthews Band t-shirt and jean shorts with brightly colored shoes. I did have reservations about the age-inappropriate clothing that I had selected before leaving the house, but it was a hot day so I went forth with it.

Without batting an eye, her response was, "That's a Syrah, and that's how it is." I was so shocked at her response, that I simply just stared at her in disbelief. After a few seconds, I snapped myself out of the unimaginable that a server actually flat-out lied to me. I countered, "What? No, that's not."

Instead of asking how I would like for the problem to be resolved, she just asked what was wrong. I tried to explain why it was a problem, but she interrupted me to ask if I would like another glass, or have another type of wine. I replied that this is such a menial and common problem that I would like to still enjoy the same wine, but just without the sediments. After all, the only other Shiraz/Syrah wine they had was a 2005 Rosemount Estates, which I am a proud collector of, from 2001 onward. I even suggested that this was a common problem that I'd be happy if she returned with an empty glass and a strainer. (I didn't expect a restaurant with limited selection of wine would have a decanter.) But she insisted again if I would like another glass or another type of wine. So we decided to get another glass of the same wine.

Before Lauren left, she made sure the remaining party was doing well. That was when my dear friend Jane decided to slowly enunciate, "My wine is perfectly fine. Thank you very much." Lauren asked again, "Are you sure?" because we both had the same wine. Jane again enunciated slowly, "Yes, thank you very much. My wine is just perfect." Not only did she totally undermine my discontent with the bad wine and poor customer service, I thought I detected some underlying attitude that hinted at: "Unlike some people who just like to be difficult, I'm just fine."

I could have been wrong and misinterpreted the purpose of the slow enunciation, but I was still not pleased that she undermined me. My appetite began to wane, despite the fact that I had woken up around noon today and had not had anything to eat all day.

When Lauren finally returned, she handed me another glass of wine and said, "There is nothing wrong with the wine. It was the last bottle, and I was told that if it was bad, it would have smelled bad." I noticed that the wine glass was spotlessly clean. Then she hit the final nail into the coffin: "We opened up another bottle, and it was exactly the same. Like I said, this is normal."

WAIT A MINUTE! So was it the last bottle that I had, or was there another bottle all of a sudden?!? I immediately suspected that she probably just poured the same wine I had into another glass, and in the process did not even use a strainer! After a short thank you, I drank out of the new glass and surely enough, there was just as much sediment in there. By this time, I have lost all my appetite. Not only did Lauren do nothing about it, but my friend who knew nothing about wine totally wine-blocked me with her undermining (think cock-blocking, except for wines, if that even make any sense).

Anyone who knows me well will understand that I love food. Some friends even call me either the bottomless pit or the garbage disposal, because I will also eat their food that they couldn't finish. I even eat when I am sick! In all of my adult life, I can only think of just one other time when I totally lost my appetite seriously. And that was March 11, 2006, a date that will live forever in infamy in the history of my life. It was the fifth and final date with a certain someone, when we broke up after a huge argument. It went something like this: Why haven't I spent the night at her place by this time? I was bombarded with either I like her or don't like her, and that there was no such thing as taking it slow to know each other more. I was given the ultimatum that if I wasn't seriously in love with her, it was over. My empty response did us in, because I liked her, but I wasn't ready to start thinking about marriage. When someone asked, "What are you waiting for? My ass isn't going to look like this forever!" you tend to think that she was looking for a long term relationship. It didn't help that she was a few years senior of me, although it didn't bother me at all initially.

Anyway, I digressed. So Lauren and I began to debate. Who the hell in their right mind will have a little debate with the customer? Seeing how Jane just rolled her eyes, I finally gave up, and proclaimed, "Well, in that case, I guess I know absolutely nothing about wine, and you do." I really wanted to quiz her on two questions: 1) What is the difference between Shiraz and Syrah, and 2) What makes Shiraz/Syrah a different kind of red than anything else. But I was so upset with her un-professionalism and unwilling to rectify the problem that nothing she could do would revive my lost appetite. I simply wanted her out of my sight, so I just thanked her again, set my wine down and watched my friend and her brother eat.

I really wanted to just up and leave because I was upset at the server and my friend, but I couldn't. I couldn't possibly show my anger in front of a 13 year old boy (although I think he probably knew I was upset). I really wanted to say, "Fuck this shit," but that would then cast the appearance that I was the unreasonable person in front of all the other patrons. Besides, there was no point in ruining other peoples' dinner at one of my favorite restaurants, which I still plan on returning (while making sure I don't get served by Lauren P #213 ever again). Furthermore, even if Jane's brother wasn't there, I didn't have the heart to leave my friend there all alone, just because I had some beef with a lying server.

Of course, other reasons why I couldn't just leave were because I had The Simpsons to catch right thereafter, and for the mere fact that sitting next to us, which I had a great view of, was the hoochy girls recently graduated from high school. Damn, I tell ya, the short, short skirts they were wearing. And the one purposely bent over with her ass sticking out at me? Those hooches were just craving attention, and I was more than happy to oblige. If they weren't there, and Jane wasn't a good friend, I would've been out the door right there with just enough cash to cover the food.

What I didn't get is why would Lauren lie to me with a preposterous statement without thought? Not only was that an instant dead giveaway that she knew absolutely nothing about wine, but she felt the need to argue with me! I felt like a poor girl at a used car lot being taken advantage of by some slimy used car salesperson: "Oh, that isn't rust. That is the new, popular coat of paint that just came out!" If that was some other kind of wine, like Zinfandel or any white, then I would have totally believed her without a heartbeat. But here we were, talking about red wine, and not only that, but my absolute favorite kind of red which I am extremely knowledgeable about no less! Grr!

Lucky for her, Jane paid the bill, for otherwise I would have left Lauren no tip and a long letter to management a week later. In my many years of traveling for work, I have been nice and friendly to the wait staff just because I was in that profession at one point in my college youth, and yet I rarely met anyone who would flat-out lie. I have come across some, including bartenders, who didn't know what a Shiraz/Syrah is, but they were pretty straightforward about their lack of knowledge and were willing to learn, because I honestly believe they wanted to know more so they can impress the next customer. But Lauren P Server #213? She was by far leaps and bounds worse than the next worst server I have ever encountered. I think she may have created a whole new class of shitty servers!

Let's just hope she was unique and unlike the general populace of the smart, if not decent, servers in the food industry out there. And I hope when she graduates from college, she better not enter into any kind of client-facing profession.


* Name changed to protect the not-so-innocent.
** Restaurant name changed to protect the secret location of my first/second dates.
*** Name not changed to expose the poor, lazy liar.


Tips, just for your information

When opening a bottle of wine, pull the cork out slowly. Right before the cork is completely removed, hold the end of the cork closest to the bottle and gently twist it out instead of pulling it straight out.

If there is excessive amount of sediment, or if the cork breaks up in the bottle, then you can filter the wine into a decanter. If nothing else, use a coffee filter and a funnel.

When opening red wines, especially older ones, it is a good practice to always decant it for up to half an hour. Before opening, let it sit upright for 24 hours. When pouring into a decanter, stop pouring when any sediment starts spilling into the neck of the bottle (best seen with a light source behind the bottle).

Forget all that jazz you memorized from the movie Sideways. Those things they look for are extraordinary professionals and enthusiasts who can detect miniscule levels of TCA contamination in wines, as well as separating all the flavors and scents that encompasses the wine. Normal people like you and I should try not to pretend to distinguish such tastes, other than the primary and underlying flavors. It only makes you look like a wannabe and a fake. And I hate it when I see people my age who have only begun drinking wine in the last few years talk about tannins and other shit.

Twilight Zone

Oh, other than the fact that I just had quite arguably the worst day/night at work where the "project manager" failed to coordinate and communicate, it seems like I was doomed from the beginning to be in this twilight zone.

After working 12 hours straight, I finally got things done despite said "project manager's" shortcomings. So I headed home around four in the morning. Although we are in the dead of summer, I couldn't believe that I had to turn on the heated air vents AND the butt warmers in my car! The last time my butt saw such fiery action was back in early March! Hello, it's almost August!!!

Then luck would have it, I was forced to stop by the oasis along I-90 to get gas, as the empty fuel tank indicator started blinking. It's just fate's way of tinkering with my sleepy head. Seeing how there was a McDonald's right there, I decided to swing by the drive through window after filling up.

Worn-out John: Hi there. Are you serving breakfast?
Barking Intercom: No! We're only serving breakfast right now!

Wait... What...? Hey, stop screwing with my fragile mind! I'm tired! I'm hungry! I'm sleepy! It literally froze my mind for a few seconds before I could even respond and order a McMuffin.

Dumbass!

And fate has a poor sense of humor, I tell ya!

The Power of Genetic Engineering

We all have heard of genetic engineering at one point or another. Surely you know what a mule is, right? It’s a cross between a horse and a donkey. The mule is the perfect example of the most, basic rudimentary example of genetic engineering that has been practiced for centuries. Then there are the modern ones like the broccoflower; or the corn designed to withstand drought or certain pests that we have been eating all these years; or even the Liberty Link, the genetically altered rice, that was still in experimental phase that somehow ended up in our American food supply; or even StarLink, the genetically altered corn that was approved only for animal feed but somehow ended up in taco shells produced by Kraft.[1]

Anyway, I’m against genetically altered foods, as we have no idea what ramifications they can have to us humans when consumed. But one thing is for sure: the bastard child between a horse and a donkey will surely grow up to never be able to reproduce. Hmm... That in of itself is a bad sign of genetic engineering, right? So why would anybody want to eat such foods that have no known consequence (yet)?

Although this is a very serious topic that I’ll bet very few Americans are aware of, my point is not the ethicality behind genetically engineered food. I suspect that there is a widespread conspiracy between and within the government and the food industry to let loose genetically engineered foods of all kinds to the public, much like how the government back in the day conducted chemical experiments on the unknowing public without notification, such as mustard gas, lewisite and LSD.

Don’t believe me? Let me make my case. I strongly believe that peanuts are already genetically altered for some time now. Peanuts were purposely genetically altered so they can taste so damn good that they are addicting. Have you ever tried to stop eating peanuts after you popped a few in your mouth? That’s right. This genetic alteration was so intense that even other products containing peanuts can leave unscathed. See below:


Exhibit 1: Seriously! A talking M&M?


Exhibit 2: Ever heard of the two headed frogs found in ponds near nuclear facilities? Look what I found in a recent bowl of candies!


Citation [1]: Genetically altered foods are a serious matter. Both Liberty Link and StarLink were manufactured by the North Carolina-based biotechnology company Aventis Crop Science. Fortune magazine senior writer recently wrote an article about it on June 27, 2007. If you want to dive deeper into the serious side of the matter, which my blog entry briefly touched upon and focused more on the jovial and ridiculous side, go to the Attack of the Mutant Rice article on CNNMoney.com or Fortune Magazine.

Is that chocolate?

Have you ever dreamed something so real, that you actually believed that every figment of your imagination was real occurrences? I sure do; plenty of time. But this weekend was kind of weird. Everything felt like a dream, except I was pretty sure that everything that passed by was real. Everything was a huge blur.

It all started with Friday evening. Instead of the ritualistic drive home, I mysteriously found myself still sitting in front of my laptop at work, pecking away. If you didn't know me, or realize the department I was sitting at, you would have thought that I was a code breaker or something, all hunched over a tiny electronic gadgetry with earphones fitted snugly into my ears.

Throughout the day, everybody treated me as if I was stricken with advanced stage cancer, ready to go off into the sunset and die the next day. Quite honestly, it was a strange feeling, for technically it wasn't my last day there. Sure, I was going to Los Angeles to their other office to lead the project there just like I had kick started the now-undergoing project at their Chicago office. "I'll be back once in a while, no worries," I'd say.

Truth be told, I wasn't quite sure. But just in case it was as certain as there are twenty-four hours in a day, I was going to wrap things up. Document everything that has been saved in my little head, and do as much as possible so that I would leave them well prepared and organized. Much like your mother did when she overstuffed your lunch box with too many snacks, various assortment of writing utensils in your school bag, on your way to first ever day of school. Not that I did it because my partner was came with some tools missing in his toolbox, but that I was heavily relied on to keep things in order. I was worried that the fruits of my labor would not ripen in my absence.

When all was done and squared away, I noticed there was light. I shot a quick look at the direction of the clock hanging off the ceiling far away. The short hand hovered near 8. Damn! And I thought I was going to leave work around midnight to join some friends at a bar. I took stock of how time passed, and I realized that I haven't had dinner, except for a couple bottles of Diet Pepsi and a half-eaten birthday cake.

Here I was, starved and tired, stumbling down to the garage so I could drive home feeling relieved. The highway was fine, but once I got off to head down local streets, all hell broke loose. Apparently there are a lot of people meandering around nine in the morning on a Saturday. Typically you would find me fast asleep still at that hour. I have never seen the world hustling and bustling on an early Saturday morning.

While I was suck behind a traffic light, my friend called. A short exchange later, I was going to meet her for breakfast. With my clothes having been worn for two days now, and my mouth tasting worse than a cat's. If I can taste the unpleasantness, I wondered how it would smell. I quickly cupped my left hand to my mouth and breathed out slowly. I almost fainted. The driver in the car next to me was amused to my random behavior. I swore she kind of laughed. Or it was quite possible her smile and laughter were the creation of my sleepy imagination, which was an attempt to make me feel good after realizing how amazingly cute she was.

Now, come to think of it, I'm not even certain if she was cute to begin with! Could it have been a man?

Anyway, breakfast was delicious. In my current state of affairs, a piece of old, dried leather would have tasted mightily fine as well. Just as long I was supplied with ground pepper and a large bottle of Tabasco sauce. I swear, Tabasco sauce makes everything taste better, despite my general distaste for vinegar, commonly used in spicy sauces produced in, and for, the United States.

I enjoyed the company, but was in a hurry to get home. After all, I felt a thin and sticky film glazing over my eyelids. With every single blink, I struggled to peel back my eye lids. So I dropped my friend off, and hurried home. The clock read 11:15, and I debated if I should just stay awake so that my sleep cycle doesn't get screwed up. Needless to say, I tore off my clothes like a young man getting ready to bed an unbelievably hot girl for the first time as soon as I stumbled into my bedroom. Unlike said young man, I fell asleep as soon as part of my torso hit the bed.

Saturday was a blur. Someone called in the midst of my deep slumber, and I vaguely remember talking on the phone, with the clock flickering 15:30. Before I knew it, I roused myself up around six in the evening, despite the fact that I was still dead tired. I think I somehow managed to tackle my biological experiment in my kitchen, which I have procrastinated again and again, for almost three weeks. As I ran hot water over a stack of dishes and bowls, a strong and interesting scent came off. Damn! I'm never letting dishes pile up for so long, I thought. Even though I have scrapped the dishes after each use before leaving it in the sink, they still managed to sprout out different kinds of fungus and mold. Each plate had a different kind. I thought to myself, this must be the Korean mold from when I ate Korean food on this plate, and that must be the Iranian brethren of similar living microbes on that plate. There were a few I couldn't quite identify, and I was quite certain I must have created a whole new bacterium.

Eww!!! I thought to myself in disgust. Then, being the always reasoning person that I am, I quickly brushed aside my recent thought and said, "You know, I could be a Nobel Laureate, for I could have somehow discovered, no, created, something that could fight off incontinence in old people. What a shame that I had to wash it all down...

Because of my insane obsession with cleanliness, it took me a couple hours to do the dishes, when normally it would have taken far shorter. Somehow, I managed to muster up the will and motivation to work on this little chore. Maybe because I would hate the idea of coming home next weekend from Los Angeles finding some giant walking spore of a mold smoking a cigarette on m couch, watching the Learning Channel on television.

The rest of the evening after my cleaning bout was rather uneventful. I watched The Chronicles of Narnia on Starz! HD before packing my suitcase and heading to bed for the second time that day. I had something to go and do on Sunday morning, as it related to the call from some stranger while I was sleeping in the afternoon earlier.

The alarms were blaring, and I hurried to get ready. I can't be late for this thing, as it was going to be my first. Besides, they were going to provide free breakfast. Nothing motivates me more than the promise of free food. Never mind the fact that I make enough money to have breakfast delivered to my doorstep through one of those gourmet food delivery companies, which I liken as the middlemen of restaurants all over Chicago and lazy consumers like myself. Even the threat of missing my flight if I had an early morning flight was no match to free food, as witnessed by the fact that I have overslept and missed my Monday morning flight maybe three or four times in my career.

While I stood there talking with the stranger who called me the day before, I apologized profusely if I sounded like I was drunk or high like a drug addict on a Saturday afternoon. Of course, my apologies were barely there, because there was free food to be had, and this guy looks like the uglier version of Edward Norton. When I moved down the aisle to inspect other foods on the table, I stared at the tray of bagels. There were two distinct kinds; one with all kinds of scary looking seeds, and another with brown dots spotting all over the culinary delights.

As I studied the second batch of bagels, a lady from behind chimed in, as if she was reading my mind: "You suppose those are chocolate chips or raisins?" I thought she was so brilliant, as I was wondering whether they were clusters of rat shit or just bad flour. Her options made it more edible than mine, that was for sure. So I picked one up, and started chatting.

When I finally got to my table and took a bite of said bagel, I almost gagged. My first instinct was to spit it out, but for one, I was starving, and second, it wouldn't have looked good for me to hurl the meshed bagel bite onto my plate in front of people I have never met before. Chocolate chip, I like. Raisins, I hate, but if they were baked into the bagel, I could learn to tolerate it. But of all the real plausible choices, it was neither, and I secretly wished I was eating a bagel full of rat shit. Of all the things a baker can make bagels with, he had to choose clusters of cinnamon!

Great! What a way to die on the plane en route to Los Angeles. This was certainly not the mile high club I had planned to join so soon.

Worse Than a Girl?

Some days ago, Erin quipped, "God, you're worse than a girl!" Normally I would have laughed it off, but this is serious. This is no longer laughing matter. That was her reaction when I caressed my belly like a four month long pregnant woman would with her own bulging belly. Okay, maybe not caressing, but rubbing it like one of those fat Buddha statues you see in Chinese temples. Except I wasn't sporting a million dollar grin on my face.

You see, I usually don't care so much about my weight. But last summer, I got a new job, and I was working very hard to do a good job that I left little room for running and other exercises. In fact, I didn't do as many races as I had hoped for. Worse yet, Thanksgiving and Christmas did little to help my sad situation.

Then eight days ago, a friend and I made the executive decision to turn this around. That Sunday, the two of us would do our final binging on delicious food, and start the Monday afresh. Eight days later, I am just now deciding to get on the wagon.

Don't get me wrong... I had every intention of getting on the wagon a week ago. But this is how kicking into the healthy bit turned out for me. It lasted all of a meal. I had a salad at the cafeteria at work for lunch. Then as the evening loomed closer, another friend and I conspired to get all-you-can-eat sushi buffet. So the three of us went, and let's see... I myself had three appetizers, tons of rolls and sushi pieces, followed by two desserts and half of hers, only because her boyfriend couldn't finish it. The check to the left is a living testament to my loathsome gluttony. Yes, I have fallen off the wagon before I could get my second feet on board! Sadly, I myself ate more than 50 percent of the items on this check. =(

Tuesday was going to be my new beginning. After having a bowl of Cheerio's, I had a renewed sense of purpose with renewed motivation. That lasted all of three hours, sad to report. The client team went to Chevy's Mexican restaurant, and I dumbly went along, despite having brought a lone, tiny sandwich from home. Oh, I'll just eat that for lunch tomorrow instead, I thought. Having not been to Chevy's in a very long time, I was overwhelmed with their new menu with practically nothing unchanged. Lunch special? Well, you decide how horrible I was by looking at that picture to the right.

Then I woke up Wednesday with a new sense of urgency. Stop screwing around; this is for real! And better yet, I was going to do a 3.14 mile fun run with friends after work at Momentum that evening. I felt especially awesome when I ate my tiny sandwich with a cup of fruits and yogurt for lunch. Yeah, the healthy me will start emerging today! Little did I know, I ended up eating eight (!!!) slices of pizza and a huge apple pie that night after the struggling 3.14 mile run. As if the gods weren't punishing me enough, I was hurting all over my knees from the short, brisk run. Apparently my legs are not used to the weight I have let myself go to!

I would have to say that Thursday was arguably a decent day. I had another tiny sandwich for lunch, and also another cup of fruits and yogurt from the cafeteria. I remember thinking that it was a going to be a promising day. Until I got home and sat my ass down to watch Grey's Anatomy. Somehow, I managed to eat three tiny sandwiches which I had prepared for lunch throughout the week some days prior. Crap! It was hopeless. At least it was just some sandwiches, right? I'll just pretend I never spread mayonnaise over them. Out of mind, out of tummy, right?

And just when I thought I couldn't sink any deeper, Friday was a real test of how low I could go. My health compadre and I conspired to have pizza together after work. I made damn sure that we involved our trusty field greens for companionship at dinner time, for as we all know it, you can certainly call it healthy eating if you include some vegetables. Never mind the fact that the salad dressing was somewhat high in delicious calories made with sesame oil. If it was any consolation, the pizza was vegetarian. Drenched in thick, juicy cheese.

But that didn't help us, or at least me, much. Before my friend left, I briefly got onto the weight scale in my bathroom, a device I have simply learned to ignore for almost a year now. I knew all along that the cheap Ikea crap was very generous and forgiving as it had always lied to me by about five pounds like any trusty and reliable girl friend any girl could ever have. But even that wouldn't save my soul from the damnation I had to suffer all week, in that I could not fit into any of my dress slacks, save one with the stretchable waist band from Perry Ellis.

180 pounds?!? Holy shit! In the back of my mind, I knew I really was 185 pounds. That was not comforting at all. It was quite depressing. In less than a year, I have managed to pack on almost 30 pounds. I should not have lied to myself each day while I stood naked in front of the mirror just before jumping into the shower. Oh, the lies I told myself, like I didn't have moobs (man-boobs) and that I was sporting the best single pack (as opposed to a six pack) anyone has ever seen. Reality set in. "This is the wake up call I needed," I remember thinking to myself.

Of course, I hit the snooze button just like I would when I wake up in the morning. Except that this snooze would last through the next day, Saturday. I met up with a few friends for dinner. Invariably, it was sushi. The thought of all that fish and green tea ice cream almost made me gag. For all of a millisecond, of course. I easily brushed aside the 185 pounds of mass that I am carrying, easily forgot how tight my jeans felt that night. I remember telling myself, "This is truly your last hooray, John. Enjoy tonight, and we'll reconvene on Monday."

Well, it is Monday now, a full week after my last attempt at the health kick. So far, I've done well: Cereal and banana for breakfast; home tossed salad and self-cut watermelon and cantaloupes for lunch; and a tiny sandwich with grapes, watermelons and cantaloupes for dinner. Hmm... This looks promising. I can totally see the sporty ol' me in a few months! Sadly, I know it is a little too late to make any major progress by this Sunday when I run the Shamrock Shuffle, but by golly, I'm going to try my darndest! Of course, I'll be wearing some thick overlays to hide the overflowing bulges here and there.

Now, if only I can ignore that voice telling me to eat that leftover pizza as my tummy growls before I go to sleep... Sigh

So Much For...

I rolled into the office with a renewed sense of purpose. Today's the day, I thought to myself, considering what happened last night. I unpacked my bag and turned on my laptop. Given that my client here in Los Angeles has a full cafeteria, I walked over and got two small boxes of shredded wheat cereal, skim milk, a banana and orange juice. I came back and ate my breakfast, feeling all proud of myself.

When I was done, I went to put my trash in the trash bin. Lo and behold, the corner of the office, where a bunch of us IBMers share the room, sported something new, something that wasn't there yesterday when I left work. In addition to the usual cans of soda and a variety of sweets, there are now two boxes of Girl Scout Cookies! Ooo, my favorites: Tagalong and Do-si-dos!

Well, my sense of renewed purpose just went down the toilet as I continued to chomp on the cookies in my mouth. At 09:20 in the morning!

Damn temptation!

Time to Slow Down

I have been in a denial for a little over a year now. I have been denying a simple little fact, blaming it on Thanksgiving and Christmas. But I give up; it's time to face the music.

After changing into my running outfit in my hotel room, I stepped off the elevator on the second floor. Knowing that there wasn't much time till I had to meet up with my manager for dinner, I thought it best to put in as much running as possible. After all, it was going to be at one of those all you can eat Brazilian steakhouses. With time not on my side, I guessed at best I would squeeze in three miles. Oh well.

I swiped my hotel key at the door to the fitness center, and walked in where I was greeted with mirrors everywhere. My jaws dropped. The person staring back at me is not the same person I've seen many times before. Instead of a nice fit from my medium-sized Run Hit Wonder jersey, the person in the reflection was sporting a rather big and pudgy belly. The "roll" or "spare tire" was not only noticeable, but defining.

That's when I realized that perhaps I have to face the music that my metabolism has slowed down now. It has been of no use when I eat as little as possible, except for huge dinners. I even went so far as eating cereal for dinner some days of the week. No luck. My choices? Kick it up a notch when I'm running every other night from the usual five miles to eight miles. Or I could just eat significantly less in quantity as well as restrict certain kinds of food.

But here's the problem. I love to eat. Culinary arts and the celebration of such is a very integral part of my life. I would rather kill myself if I have to eat salad every night. And with life demanding so much of my time, there is no way I can run eight miles on a routine basis, unless I start running at eight minute-mile pace steady. Since I'm not an elite runner, I don't think my knees can handle that, or my heart for that matter with the asthma I have.

What's a 30 year old boy to do? Okay, I'm technically not 30, but I might as well be.

Oh well. I'll sleep over this little dilemma, while I try to digest the five pounds of meat I just consumed a few hours ago. Mmm... Skirt steak. Filet mignon. Brazilian steak. Pork ribs. Lamb. Brazilian sausages. Chicken. Beef ribs. Tri-steak. Or maybe I should totally give up trying and just let go. I think a 300 pound Asian dude would look mighty fine and attractive. ;-)

Super Bowl XLI was Lost...

Like many other Chicagoans, I am sad and disappointed that the Bears lost, despite the explosive first five minutes of the game. But unlike many other Chicagoans, I am also glad that the Colts won. Not because I'm not a Chicago Bears fan, but because above all, I am a sports fan who believes in sportsmanship.

It is very unfortunate that the Bears' defense against the Colts' running game was lackluster, along with the many failed attempts to blitz Peyton Manning. We sacked Manning just once! Equally as unfortunate is the poor showing from the Bears' offensive squad. Grossman did not step up to the plate and perform the best he could. And it is sad that Benson had an early injury, for I am sure our offensive running game could have been just as charged as the game against the Saints was he there along with Jones.

Although my desire was for the Bears to win all the way, it is just a disappointment that we didn't do a good job playing the game. Five turnovers? Horrible snaps? Our performance today pretty much amounted to the Colts deserving the win. Fair and squarely.

Now, before you lambaste me as a heretic, let me explain simply why I said what I said. My coaches have always taught me to play strong and clean, earn and give respect. And if the opposing team won the game because of our own substandard, then go over and congratulate them as they deserved the title. The title, whether it be the Super Bowl (although I was never a football player in the NFL) or some regional championship, is something to be earned. It is not something trivial, or easily received. And our performance today showed that we did play to our best abilities. But that's not to say that there is a lack of desire or passion in each of the Bears players' hearts. I am sure they all wanted the prize just as much as I did, possibly more.

All I'm saying is I'm such a fan of sports and sportsmanship that I'm magnanimous enough to understand that I cannot be upset or bitter simply because we lost. You have to frame the whole context in the bigger picture, because like all unbiased referees say before all games to the team captains: "May the best team win." And Dungy, Manning and Co. definitely proved us today that their team was the best this evening.

On an almost unrelated note, I threw my first Super Bowl party this year. It was a smashing success. But I seriously overestimated the power of my 12 friends' drinking and eating abilities. Of the 36 cans of Miller Lite, we only made a tiny dent by putting away a dozen. And of the three large pizzas I ordered, I have half of all that left. To my friends' credit, they did bring their own alcohol despite my indication that I would provide the beer. I guess I'm in the minority who enjoys Miller Lite. And also to their credit, I made too much hors d'oeuvre. Assorted vegetable tray, cold meat cuts, baked taquitos, chicken tenders, chips and salsa and guacamole, cashews and honey roasted nuts. What can I say? I love to make food and entertain.

Now I just have to find the room and will to eat pizza, taquitos and chicken tenders for lunch and dinner for the next two weeks. Not to mention putting away a huge case of Miller Lite and dozens of assorted girly drinks* in my fridge. =)

* By girly drinks, I mean the following: Bacardi Silver RAZ, Smirnoff Ice, Pumpkin Ale, Mike's Hard Lemonade, Mike's Light Hard Lemonade (especially this, with only two grams of carbs), Cider Jack, Bud Light, Rolling Rock and Tommyknocker ButtHead. Okay, maybe the last two aren't exacly girly drinks, but like the others, the girls brought them. ;-)

Yes, I'm a Little Weird

First, think of a glass of milk and a glass of orange juice on a table. Now hold that thought.

A reminiscent thought came to mind earlier today. It was a flashback to the summer of 2004 when I was working on a project in New Orleans. Ah, the good old days. Fleeing to Houston by automobile with my coworkers when Hurricane Ivan the Terrible threatened New Orleans. The super long hours I put in to make up for my project manager's lack of management skills. The good times I had at the French Quarter getting sloshed with my coworkers. And the time I spent training my protégé new to the position to become as smart and skilled as I was.

One afternoon, said protégé and I went to the cafeteria for lunch. He got his food faster than I did, so he squatted on some prime real estate table at the atrium. I finally came out of the checkout line and joined him. "Uhm, that is really weird," he said as I sat down. "Why do you say that?" "Your choice of food for lunch is just unbelievable!"

You see, my fast food tray had the following items: 1) a tiny carton of two percent milk, 2) a to-go size box of cereal, 3) a small tray of sushi with six pieces, and 4) a bottle of V8 juice. Yeah, you're probably asking yourselves as well, "What the hell?!?"

Well, I was hungry. And after eating butter-laden Southern food meal after meal for days on end, I wanted something healthy. But I knew cereal alone, even with two boxes of it, would not hold me over for even two hours. Hence the sushi.

Why was I thinking about this today? While at work here in Schaumburg, my coworker and I went down to the cafeteria. He had a salad, and I had a Shrimp Po'Boy from the grill, along with two side items for an extra $1.29. They were French fries and steamed broccoli. What? you say? Well, I wanted something healthy to balance out all the fried stuff. And I love broccoli!

Seriously, if you think hard about it, it isn't really all that strange or weird. Let's think back to the milk and orange juice. Would you drink both together in one sitting? You might say that it's disgusting, right? So if that is weird, then why is it perfectly normal to have a glass of orange juice along with your cereal and milk in one sitting? You see my point, right?

So really, I'm not weird after all! =)

Poopie

BL: MA

READER DISCRETION ADVISED

This blog has been rated MA for mature audience.

Okay, for any of you who don't know, I'm Asian. Although I may be American and a mutt, I was raised on Asian food. Don't get me wrong, I love both Asian and Western foods. In fact, I love food so much that I try to embrace culinary arts from all cultures. If anything, I'll try it at least once. Lessons I've learned so far? I don't really like Ethiopian food, or escargot.

Some time ago, a group of friends and I went to this Argentinean restaurant to socialize and boozelize. It was a bring-your-own-beer (or any alcohol for that matter) type of a place. I have never been there, but if you know anything about South American cuisine, at least the American-bastardized versions, their main culinary attraction is typically meat. Lots of meat. And that is why my friend who hosted the evening chose that place.

I got the El Filet, which is practically two filet mignons that came together as about 20 ounces. And it was only $21! No wonder it was a popular dish. And some other people got skirt steak as well. Basically, all the meat dishes were bountiful for the price you pay. And the taste rivaled those of the expensive chophouses in downtown Chicago! A far cry!

Anyway, in Asian culture, or at least specifically in Chinese methods of cooking, everything is sliced thin. And although we eat varied types of meat, the quantity of it is small as we typically balance it out with vegetables. Sure, a typical dinner will have a beef dish (with broccoli), a chicken dish (with leek or another green), and a plain vegetable dish. To feed a family, we will never use more than half a pound of beef or chicken.

So where am I going with this? Let's go back to the Argentinean restaurant. Pretty much everybody finished their food. After all, eating a slab of meat by itself is part of the American culinary culture. But not me. I ate one of my two filet mignons, and took the rest home.

As I'm not used to eating a hunk of meat by itself, I was hurting the next day. I mean, we Asians eat food with rice and vegetables. No rice, no appetite! Anyway, I was sitting on the toilet, and I was practically crying. Not because I had the runs, or I had a tummy ache, but the digested meat was hard and not cooperating with its exit! Ugh!

Then I thought to myself, if this is what I have to deal with every time I eat meat alone as a meal, how the heck do people on Atkins diet handle their daily bowel movement?!? I remembered a project manager who was of Italian heritage. Carbohydrates were a part of his daily meal, much like us Asians. But one day after working together for years, he and his wife decided to lose weight and go on the Atkins diet plan. And I remembered joking with him, "Does it not hurt every time you go to the restroom? Isn't it a struggle?" And his response, after being on the diet for a couple weeks, was, "Well, you get used to it."

Yeah, I don't think I can ever get used to the pain. I think I'll stick to the Asian balanced meal. I say Asian, because our food pyramid really has four times the carbohydrates the American food pyramid recommends!

American Croissants are just so...

Do you sometimes get the feeling that there is something you really want, and you have to do whatever it takes to get what you want right now? For some reason, I cannot stop thinking about croissants all day long. Even when I was full after breakfast, I was already jonesing for some croissants. It was so bad that after work, I made damn sure that I squeezed in a dash to Dominick's between dropping mail and picking up at the dry cleaner's errands.

When I got my dozen croissants, I could not wait to rip the box open. I walked through the parking lot back to my car. Given that it was Friday evening, Dominick's was packed. {And don't get me started with the shopper in front of me in the express 10-item limit checkout line, with an entire cart full of groceries.} As I walked to my car, I was already being hounded for my parking space, for this girl in her little white car was following me slowly.

Then I got in my car and threw the croissants on the passenger seat. I inserted the key into the ignition. But all my mind could think about was the damn croissants. Instead of turning the key, I muttered gently as if I was seeking forgiveness, Sorry, lady. You'll just have to wait. I have a withdrawal to fix. So I busted open the box and gobbled down a croissant. Never mind the fact that I have not washed my hands. Yeah, I was that desperate!

After satiating my jonesing, I drove off. And I thought to myself, "Why is it that American croissants taste so bland, like plain bread, and not so flaky?" I mean, how hard is it to mix the right kind of yeast, the right combination of ingredients to yield a tasty, airy and flaky piece of pastry? As my French friend Sabine would say of American bakeries, "Those stupid Americans don't know what they're doing!" And I agree. I mean, our neighbors up north are a continent away from Europe, yet they sure do know how to make good croissants!

Sadly though, as much as I hated how the American croissants tasted, the jonesing came back even after I had dinner. I reluctantly consumed two more croissants. God save me!