Growing up, my best friend used to always say, “Secrets, secrets are no fun. Secrets, secrets are for everyone.” Really, she only said that when she wasn’t already in on the secret, which as it was, wasn’t often, because she was always in on the secret, but still. She didn’t like not knowing things, and either do I.
Which is why it was annoying me that I hadn’t been to Please Don’t Tell yet. I had been to Crif Dogs, the East Village hot dog shop with the phone booth that you have to go through to get into the not-so-secret speakeasy, but never actually inside the bar itself. The place is small so reservations, which can only be made by calling at 3pm the day of, go pretty quickly.
But recently, I got let in on the secret, and so now I’m gonna blab about it, because even though the name is please don’t tell, everyone knows half the fun is in telling. Continue reading
I would love to hear the scientific explanation behind greasy food being so richly satisfying when you’ve been drinking. That’s a lie, actually. I don’t really want to know the science behind it because science isn’t really my thing. I rather just skip to the good stuff: the greasy food.
Recently, during a night out with friends, someone suggested getting something to eat after our first drink and before several more that were to come after it.
Mango chicken at Yamo: cheap, greasy and obscenely filling. Everything I look for in my drunk munchies.
“Well, what do you guys want to eat?” asked one person I was with.
“Something greasy,” was the fast and firm answer from someone else.
This night could’ve been any night, in that when is that not the answer? I mean the above dialogue happened between two people I was with but really, I’ve had that same dialogue internally with myself. Sometimes when I’m sober, I actually want a salad, or some fruit, or a bowl of oatmeal. But after a few drinks? I want greasy pizza, street meat and Mc Donald’s.
On this most recent occasion, a friend had a better idea, (thankfully sparing us all from the golden arches). In response to the request for greasy, we found ourselves at Yamo, a tiny, almost literal hole-in-the-wall Burmese lunch counter in the Mission.
Nothing takes the edge off a long week like a little booze. Which is why, even though the week was still one day shy of being over, I was psyched yesterday when a friend brought me a little souvenir from a lunch-time trip to Koreatown: a bottle of soju.
Mmmm mmmm awkward!
This was doubly exciting because first of all, I love trying new things when it comes to food and drinks. Soju, a Korean distilled beverage similar in taste to vodka, but usually made from rice, tapioca or in this case, sweet potato, was nothing I’d ever had before. (I Googled it. How did I live before Google? In the dark apparently.)
Oh engrish, you never cease to amuse me.
But best of all, this gifted soju was great because of its hilariously awkward bottle, complete with a busty Korean girl (I’m assuming that’s where she’s from) in a semi-skanky top, trying to entice the drinker with the words, “Feel~! So Cool” Everything else, aside from that and a small alcohol content description (19.5% alc. by volume) was in Korean. A classic example of grade-A engrish.
Had a swig after dinner that night and although it wasn’t anything mind-blowing, the label did provide for a good laugh and a funny photo op. Thanks, Chum Churum soju, I did “Feel~! So Cool”