| rev:text
| - When your partner's least favorite kind of food is your most favorite kind of food, you have to pick and choose your battles.
For me, this means only suggesting Asian cuisine when Misty S is a) not feeling good, b) not feeling Yardhouse, or c) not paying.
All of these scenarios have one thing in common; they rarely ever happen.
But alas, as chance would have it, Misty S and I both came down with something over the holidays.
Thus, I began my attack.
"Let's get some pho."
"I hate pho."
"It'll make you feel better."
"No thanks. I don't like pho."
"Oh wow, you know what sounds really good right now? A big bowl of soup. Hot, steaming soup. Oh man, Ci Ci's has soup! All the chicken soup you can eat, and pizza too! Snap, chicken soup and jalapeno pizza! We'll be good in no time!"
"Fine, we'll do Pho."
Ironically, when we pulled into Pholicious we saw what may have at one point been a greasy child-infested Ci Ci's, now closed to the world like a tomb. A graveyard of all-you-can-eat-awfulness.
Walking inside, I could literally feel the steam off of other people's bowls. It was like a sriracha flavored sauna. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a gentleman drinking coconut juice right out of the fruit itself. And waiters carried around massive bowls of noodles and stuff and other stuff.
For a moment I felt that I had found my perfect restaurant.
And that's when I panicked.
For it is practically written in the cosmos that the more I love an Asian restaurant, the more likely Misty S will find it lacking.
See Also: Wong's
See Also: Dragon Garden Express
See Also: Any Chinese Buffet....ever.
One of the many joys in dining-in at any Asian restaurant (sushi included) is that I'm not expected to actually pronounce any of the items from the menu. That's why there's all the numbers.
Whenever I go for Mexican or Italian the waiter looks at me like I'm a tool if my pronunciation's off and corrects me before having a good laugh at it.
Oh, thank you, JEFF, for imparting your SUPERIOR knowledge of the Italian language onto me. Here, before you leave, can you make sure I'm pronouncing this correctly...
Vaffunculo e muoia! Now bring the check, I'm going to the Olive Garden.
I ordered the #2 (spring roll), and the #40 (egg noodle soup with barbeque pork, prawns, quail egg, and something something).
The spring roll was deceptively delicious for a bunch of shrimp, rice, and veggies rolled up in cold rice paper. It came with a nice thick peanut sauce that was topped with peanuts. I love it when there are multiple forms of the same ingredient in a dish. It's so aesthetically pleasing from a deconstructivist standpoint. Blah blah blah, pretentious bullshit, blah blah blah.
Before my number 40 came out, Misty's #10 (crab and asparagus soup) was served, and Misty invited me to take part of her soup. It was warm, eggy and soft. Almost with a hint of sweetness, I thought. Light, subtle, and very white.
Satie, one of my favorite composers, used to eat "white food" so that he could get into the mood to compose "white music".
This is what you learn at art school.
My number 40 was awesome. Simply awesome. Spicy, sweet, sour, noodly and meaty. It even came with a side of bean sprouts and chili peppers that I could throw into the soup myself. It was like hot pot but much cheaper and without me screaming at the top of my lungs if someone could please pass me the fucking fish balls.
The soup was so good that even after all the noodles and meat were gone I still sat there, sucking down broth by the spoonful. Misty tried several times to coach me on the proper way to hold the porcelain spoon, but alas, I make as proper a lady as I did a boy back in the day. C'est la vie, I guess.
After all the sriracha and peppers I had added, the broth was so spicy that my nose was running and my eyes were watering. I looked like I had just been cut from the Rocky Horror cast and yet I still sucked that soup like I've never had it so good.
The waiter came by and took away the broth while I was trying to cool off with some ice. I remember thinking "awww man, I wasn't done with that" but aftewards feeling grateful that I was being inadvertantly saved from myself.
I feel like I've got a sniffle coming on. Maybe if I wait it out a bit I can do my sad puppy face routine long enough that Misty gives in and takes me back to Pholicious again soon.
(After learning I was writing this review, Misty would like to remind me and inform all of you that she doesn't hate ALL Asian food. She's particular to Malay and Indian food, but can't stand all that "panda express" nonsense I gorge myself on. Surprisingly, I don't mind being the tacky and tasteless one in the relationship.)
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