Usually when I see two (or more) countries cuisines merged under a single restaurant roof, it’s a sure sign to steer clear. I mean, as a chef shouldn’t you focus on one type of cuisine instead of creating your own United Nations food court? The results are never pretty. Here’s some real world examples I’ve run across:

• Chinese and Hamburgers
• Chinese and Donuts (seriously)
• Chinese and Creole (is a pattern emerging?)
• Chinese and Sushi

Now, beyond the culinary aspects of attempting to prepare and serve two distinct types of food (not to mention the restaurant decor), that last one on my list raises a whole other issue: political. The Chinese and Japanese have repeatedly invaded each other committing horrible atrocities and even today barely tolerate each other’s existence. Maybe I’m thinking too much but if see “Chinese and Sushi” on the same menu, I’m not thinking it’s some Kumbaya hugfest in the kitchen. I mean, the chefs are armed with very sharp knives. If I see that sign, I’m thinking that one chef — either Chinese or Japanese — is being forced to commit treason to his homeland by preparing the cuisine of the other and mostly importantly, it’s probably to ward off the scent of imminent restaurant failure. And even if that’s not the case, you just know his heart’s not in it.

Recently, though, I had to good fortune to experience some delicious cross culinary cuisine and it was due to the fact that I never saw the sign. I just ordered take out from the menu (or I should say, my wife ordered for me without telling me what she was getting). To be fair, it wasn’t that far of a cultural stretch either. We ordered from a new pizza joint. Now pizza, despite it’s American origin, has traditionally been associated with Italian cuisine although the strength of that culinary relationship varies widely from place to place.

This particular place seemed fall somewhere in the middle between American and Italian — at least at first glance. Beyond pizza, they offer several Italian dishes such as pasta and veal. But upon further inspection of the menu on subsequent orders (yes, it was good enough to repeat order), the menu offered some strange and deliicious options.

The dish I’m in love with actually references three cultural cusines which is a nifty trick for a chef of any stature.

Enough with the beating around the bush, here’s the ingredient list:

• Two fried hot dogs
• Large order of cheese fries (sometimes thin cut, sometimes steak cut)
• Wrap it up in a tortilla

Mmmmm….ohhhh, yeah.

Why waste time getting a side of cheese fries? Just slather them on top of your hot dogs (plural) and roll ’em up in a tortilla. My loving wife — knowing my predilection for anything hot dog related — ordered this by chance. And I’ve forced her to order it again several times since (thanks, babe!).

The one problem is they don’t have a good name for this dish. It’s so bad of a name that I can never remember it. Not even now. And a dish as magnificent as this one deserves a good title. Maybe “Cheese-Fry-Dog-Wrap”. I don’t know……….it doesn’t really compete with a great name like “hoagie”. Let’s work on it.

And for those of you keeping score at home, technically, it’s probably only two cultural cuisines crammed together — American and Mexican. But since it’s being offered from a pizza joint, I’m counting Italian too. It’s not too far of a stretch. I could have referenced Irish cuisine due to it’s inclusion of the potato. That would have gone too far.

Of course, long time readers of this blog will notice one other reason I love this dish. The meat log factor. Yup, just wrap a bunch of meat and goodies in a handy delivery device such as a tortilla and I’m in love.

Apparently, I’m going to have to re-evaluate my skepticism toward these cross culinary ventures and be a little more adventurous in my restaurant choices. (Within reason, if history backs me up, I ain’t going in the front door.)

It always happens just when I’m feeling most insecure about carrying a dog in a sling over my shoulder through the NYC subway system. Just when I’m pushing my way down the stairs against traffic and the eyes of annoyed passengers are daggers full of scorn and judgment. Just when I’ve found myself at a loss for words to describe (explain? rationalize?) to a dear friend why I won’t leave him in the car.

And it happened again this morning.

We get on the parked Q train at 57th and before we can sit down on the empty train a woman calls out to me. She has stopped on her way out of the station. She has separated from the leaving herd and come over to us.

And she tells me that she was having a really bad morning until she saw Archie.

Naturally, I bring him over and he (despite the panting) is happy to be petted. She tells us she’s a photographer and that she was having a really, really bad morning (which is saying something for 8:00am) until she saw us coming down the stairs.

She thanks us, though we did nothing, and leaves with a big smile to go about her day.

She feels better. I feel better. Archie strikes again.

One of the responses I get from people on the subway when they see Archie is some version of “I wish I could be carried like that.”

Now, maybe its a sign of the growing waistline of America and maybe it’s just me, but I’ve never really wanted to be carried around or thought of that as pleasurable.

The litter, palanquin or sedan chair does have a long history around the world, but has mostly been reserved for royalty. And while Archie may disagree, he is decidedly not royal in any sense of the word. The sounds (and smells) he makes are an example of his pedestrian roots.

Does this kind of comment arise from the fact that my fellow commuters are just plain exhausted? Possibly. Archie and I make regular subway runs during rush hour when folks are just waking up or burn out from the work day.

Or is it some fantasy of being royalty? The illusion of being carried through the masses, held aloft, praised (and despised) but always above the fray, above the dirt, off the ground as if flying.

It is certainly not my favorite thing to do — to carry Archie. I think it’s safe to say it isn’t his favorite thing either. He’s too stubborn and proud to enjoy being carried. We’d both be happier if the MTA just gave in and allowed dogs. Anyone who has been a keen observer of the clientele of the MTA subway system quickly realizes that dogs would in no way contribute to the decline of the system or reduce the overall level of humanity.

Really.

I saw a man push a woman out of the way on the stairs the other day and then they got into a shouting match about it.

A walking Archie may actually improve the level of discourse on the subway.

But I digress. The real issue, one I cannot understand, is the desire to be carried. The wish for some sort of relaxation or dislike of walking. A wish that I, as someone who loves walking, who loves having his boots on the ground, never really considered.

Perhaps it’s connected to flying. The dream of flight. This dream is somewhat universal as I understand it so combined with exhaustion it could explain the desire to be carried through life.

I guess the main thing that I find weird is something more personal. The idea that by carrying Archie, I’m pampering him. And then by extension, I’m the type of person who pampers their pet. When in fact, I’m just adhering to the rules of subway (barely).

And sure, Archie is spoiled in many regards, but being carried is certainly not on the list.

I think, for me, it’s the snap judgment about me as a person based on the dog. I’m sure this happens all the time for a variety of reasons, but this particular judgment, this particular perception seems to rub me the wrong way.

So this is my obligatory “Why I haven’t posted in a long long time” post.

Several reasons I guess.

It started with things like travel and holidays followed by things like overtime work and second jobs.

I also found that I was writing longer and longer entries. More well thought out essays requiring more and more time. Now, I love writing these essays, but couldn’t find the necessary time.

Now I’m back. Sort of. Heck, it’s my blog. I’ll write when I can, I’ll write when I want, I’ll write period.

Recently, I have been thoroughly enjoying saying, “No.”

As the weather turns warm and we head downhill towards another election season, worker bees are hitting the streets to gather signatures and spread propaganda for their various causes.

They inevitably ask a simple question as they accost you on the street and usually we citizens react out of habit — if at all — with a simple, “No.”

“Do you have a minute for the environment?” No.
“Do you have a second for gay rights?” No.
“Care to help out the world’s children today?” No.
“Excuse me. Are you Jewish?” No.

You may actually be in a hurry. You may not care about the specific issue. You may find the petitioner themselves intolerably young and idealistic. Whatever the reason (or excuse), we generally give the question no more than a millisecond of thought. Afterall, this is New York City and we are New Yorkers! We must have something more important to do, somewhere more important to be.

Recently though, a certain question has broken through the sheen of exasperation that accompanies such a question.

And not for the content of the question itself per se, but because of the big smile it never fails to bring to my face. A smile brought on — not by the content of the question — but by the realization that my answer was sincere and honest. My answer was not an excuse, not a convenient way to blow off the asker, not the product of a lack of thought at all.

Of course it’s not just the honesty of my “No” answer that could bring such a smile, but also the perverse joy in the reasons behind the answer. And this is where the story, my mea culpa, really begins.

You see, a while back in a fit of frustration and exasperation with the Democratic party, I left and became an independent voter. A voter without a party. Now, in all honesty, I had only joined the Democratic party to participate in the primary elections back in California. This was before they went to an open primary system. I really have no allegiance to, or belief in, the Democrats, but for a lark, I signed up. Like many people, I think I got caught up in Bush-monkey hating frenzy right before the 2002 presidential election.

And after the election, I felt betrayed by the Democrats. Why should I continue to belong to a party that didn’t seem to want to win the election? In a fight to the death to determine the future of the world, the Democrats just didn’t want to fight. They were, in comedic stereotypical fashion, content to whine about things being unfair. At best they claimed to take the high road and refused to debase themselves and stoop to the level of the Republicans.

And that’s what threw me over the edge so that I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t be part of a political party — even in name only — that in all reality didn’t want to do what was necessary to win. The nature of the opponent determines the nature of the fight and when dealing with current state of the Republican party it would seem prudent to fight dirty. (Naysayers may claim that two wrongs don’t make a right, but they can go screw. Both parties left good governance and legal and/or moral upstanding behavior behind long ago.)

So what I’m really doing when I say, “No” is to reaffirm my individuality, my honesty and my beliefs. It’s quite liberating to be lifted from the mire of crap that lies between the two major political parties. I hadn’t been aware of how deeply my peripheral relationship with the Democratic party had affected me until I left. In leaving, I am no longer being misrepresented, categorized, chronicled, polled and abused. I’m simply left to stand on my own two feet. Which is where I’ve felt most comfortable (and effective) all along.

Having been abandoned by the Democratic party, what other option did I have? Join another political party? Hmmm, not quite ready for the disappointment just yet. Not to mention the sheer enjoyment and perverse joy of somehow in a tiny way, sticking it to the Democrats. That liberal whiny bullshit is just too much for me. If there’s no crying in baseball, there sure as hell isn’t any in politics.

“Are you a Democrat?”
“No. No, I’m not.”

And that is something that can keep anyone smiling as they go down the street.

As one grows older, one develops various hobbies. It’s recently occurred to me that I should pay more attention to the fine details of some of my hobbies. To take them a little more seriously.

To that end, I’ve started keeping track in the form of lists. It helps to refresh my memory and sometimes focus the direction the hobby takes.

You can view two of the lists in the right column: single malt scotch and cigars.

(Note: These lists are in no way recommendations or in any order, but merely a catalog of varieties I have sampled.)

Sometimes you meet the most fascinating people — in the strangest situations.

Exhibit #1: The 75 year old man i met on the uptown #3 on Friday night.

He pushed his way onto the train — along with me — and when a person behind us got caught in the doors and pulled himself back out, said, “I guess he didn’t want to ride with the common herd.”

You have to be open to experience and I was coming from band practice and I was in a good mood so I responded and we were off.

It turns out he has seven kids (by different mothers) and one of the things he said to his daughter was, “You’re never too young to die””

She used to tease him about all the things like that he said to her.

She died 3 weeks before her 19th birthday.

And like a good father he whipped out his wallet and showed me her picture.

She was a beautiful young woman.

And this is where we started talking about God. (Coincidentally, the same day, it was released that Mother Teresa even had doubts about God’s existence.)

The man’s birthday is on September 3rd and he wished my a happy holiday (for what I’m not sure — maybe the weekend?).

He said he’s never late to work and he’s never taken a day off work when he wasn’t sick (and he doesn’t get sick).

And that was our brief, yet poignent conversation heading uptown on a crowded subway on a summer’s Friday night.