Theoharides on Chinese Food

I'm here, I'm here, my Puddlers. I know it seems like a long time, but I needed you to digest my epic Memorial Day post. Also, I took a long weekend for a Bachelor Party for my good friend Jeff. We all went to Fire Island. Needless to say there was plenty of beer drinking, swimming, cigar-smoking and carousing.

But now I'm back. We are going to get back to regular posting for the next few weeks. However, starting on July 15, the blog will be on a bit of a summer hiatus. I know, I know. You're probably saying, "How much work can this be, Domino? You don't post everyday and now you've got other guys posting for you out of the goodness of their hearts." And you would be right about all of that. However, I want to work on the redesign of the site as well as focus on my fiction for a bit. Starting around that time, the site may be down or you may see some slight changes, but I will definitely alert you when it is back up and running under the redesign. After the immediate redesign, I may throw up some short posts from time to time.  However, you can follow me on Twitter and on Facebook where I will be throwing up some posts from the archive to bide your time.

Overall, the break should last about a month to a month and half. And, I will be returning with extra energy and effort when I'm back.

Now, today's post sees Alex Theoharides discussing a topic very near and dear to my heart—Chinese Food.  I'll hand it over to Mr. Theoharides, even though he reveals some secrets about how I run things over here.

Theoharides On Chinese Food


Alex Theoharides

A few years ago, (well to be honest, more like six or seven years ago, Zeus, I’m old) I got in an argument with a pseudo-friend (I’ll call her Dumb-Dumb) over Chinese food. To be clear, we weren’t eating Chinese food. The argument was in fact about Chinese food.

Dumb-Dumb claimed to be from the city, which meant she grew up in New Jersey but had visited New York on the weekends, and had read enough gossip columns to know the trendy restaurants from the steaks houses of yesteryear. Based on her romps in the city, Dumb-Dumb claimed that the best Chinese food in the world came from an establishment known as P.F. Chang’s, located on a little island she called Manhattan (never heard of the island? Me neither. Gal was crazy!)

Now, I have nothing against P.F. Chang’s … well … (come on Alex, muster your inner snob, your audience of none expects it, and also please refer to yourself in the third person more often, as in, come Alex, you can do it, come on Alex, there’s nothing to it) … okay, so I have a lot against P.F. Chang’s. 1) It’s in no way, shape or form unique to NYC. In fact, there are branches scattered across the U.S of A. 2) The food is only as good as the nearest toilet. 3) Need I say more?

At the time, however, I had never heard of P.F. Chang’s and I responded to Dumb-Dumb’s comment by suggesting my favorite Chinese Restaurant, the one, the only Amherst Chinese.

“Well,” replied Dumb-Dumb, “It’s not in New York, so how good could it possibly be?”

“It’s very good,” retorted our always quick on his feet hero (me, myself, and I). “New York doesn’t own the patent on good food. There are hundreds of great chefs who would rather serve poop than cook on the garbage crusted streets of New York.”

“Why would anyone want to live anywhere but the City?”

And this is when things got ugly, which means, this is when I stuck out my rather sizable jaw and managed to piss everyone within earshot off with my ridiculous form of arguing, which boils down to a mixture of semantics and bull shit.

Lost in all my nonsense? My real argument.

Finding good Chinese food, like finding a good version of most ethnic food, is a problematic endeavor, made exponentially difficult by the multiplicity of definitions people have about what constitutes good ethnic cuisine. Of course, its my job, (one which Fraulein, excuse me, Editor Matt Domino pays me handsomely in … er … oh wait, that’s right I do this shit for free. God, please remind me again, why was I an English major?) to break these people down into neat little categories for you.

1) People who think the only good Chinese food involves Stinky Tofu and thousand year old eggs.

2) People who think that Chinese food should result in severe abdominal pain and rabies.

3) People who think that Chinese food should be served by pretty blond waitresses who don’t speak Mandarin.

And finally,

4) Geniuses such as myself, who realize that good Chinese food is a construct of my American food identity. Just as my favorite Indian meal will always be Chicken Tikka Massala, a meal invented by Brits, my favorite Chinese dishes are Moo Shu Pork and Sesame Chicken. Boring? Safe? Run of the mill? Yes. Yes. And No. Just because a dish has been westernized, doesn’t exclude it from being delicious. I love food. I love cooking food. Most importantly,  I love eating good food. I just don’t want to turn food time into a visit to the museum. If my palate tends toward Americanized versions of Chinese food, so be it. Its damn tasty food when done right.

Which leads my to my next point. Very seldom is my kind of Chinese food done right. Typically, the chefs, perhaps conscience that they are catering to dumb Americans, add too much grease and MSG and processed ingredients to their meals, which results in a disgusting mishmash, vaguely reminiscent of food. Good Chinese Restaurants, such as Amherst Chinese (which I miss more than any other restaurant on the East Coast) use organic ingredients in their dumbed down, American versions of Chinese food. They make their own pancakes, noodles, sauces and dumplings. They only speak Mandarin. And they get mad at you when you take too long to order. But by Zeus, they know their business.

Long story short, Dumb-Dumb was an idiot. I’m still bitter. And if you’re looking for good food a few hours away from any major city, look no further than Amherst Chinese in, where else?, Amherst, Massachusetts.

Talk Talk

"Spirit of Eden" by Talk Talk is one of my favorite albums of all time. I will go on the record as saying that. When I first hear the album, from the opening moments of that very serious tuning or ambiance of the strings in the background to the mournful trumpet notes tempered with distorted guitar, I knew that this was either going to be a pretension fest that I was misled to by my trust in another music review, or the best album that I had ever listened to. Well it was close (2nd best after Bob Dylan's "Self Portrait" {easily the best concept album of all time}) Once that guitar comes in on "The Rainbow" to set the scene, mixing with the haunting harmonica (spooky!) you are immediately drawn in. I have always likened this album to Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks." Both albums deserve the accolade "organic." Because there have been perhaps only three truly organic albums (to my knowledge) in rock history: Astral Weeks, Spirit of Eden, and Laughing Stock (also by Talk Talk). "Organic" being a conception of an album born out of the idea that the musicians and lyricist would not coordinate before recording. Astral weeks was made when Van hired the best chamber musicians possible to play tracks that he would sing along to. There was minimal to no discussion of mood. On "Spirit of Eden" the tracks were not discussed or written out. Talk Talk played these songs as they went along - lighting a candle for ambience. The singer (I don't know his name as I write this so I refuse to look it up) made up lyrics as the songs went along. His voice, in the classic Jagger school, becomes another instrument, bubbling up and along with the instrumental tracks - becoming as passionate as their outbursts are and then subsiding just as quickly. This may be perhaps the best recorded rock vocal of all time.

The flowing nature of the music on this album had me thinking that the first three songs "The Rainbow," "Eden," and "Desire" were all just one song for the longest time. However, when the strange guitar and trumpet moans of "The Rainbow" fade and give way to the piano and strumming acoustic guitar of "Eden" build and then break into a laid back drum beat you sooner or later figure out that this is a different song. Here Talk Talk basically trump all of U2's 80's output. As the keyboards and guitar chime together and rise up while the singer sings "Everybody needs someone to live by" you being to think why there were ever any other bands or lyrics or sex in the world. These outbursts subside into a persistant groove that is only broken by sharp blasts of distorted guitar that then give way to the most clear out of tune acoustic guitar strokes, which then raise into another outburst. Music and instruments have never sounded as good as they do on this album.

"Eden's" guitar chime slowly fades out to quiet. The piano builds again only to die out and give way to strings from a keyboard, then just keyboard and distortion. Then the heavy synthesized organ comes in and "Desire" starts. This isn't any U2 cop out. This is "Talk Talk" and they use the power and refrain of the church organ to drive this song home. When the singer finally starts in with the lyrics you are hypnotized: "Desire, whispered, spoken." The keyboard and organ slowly build into a guitar freak out that is simply one of the best codas I have ever heard and if you do not want to rip yourself apart after you have heard it, then you must have less than half of a heart or the passion of someone who keeps the first job they are given. "Desire" is the type of song that, when you are walking along the street and see a tree in first bloom and realize that the universe and nature are eternal and you are merely a part of that eternity in a very mortal sense and temporary, ties into that deep feeling in your gut - that the world, your friends, your love is impossible and you are merely tied into its whims. "Desire" in reality and in song never gives up.

"Desire" fades and we get a reprieve of rain from the cymbals in "Inheritance." The singer's moan fits the slight jazz snare sweeps and the late night piano until we it what I guess is a chorus that springs out of stand up bass plucks and soars into synthesizer sounds that are too good to have lived past 1990 in order to be destroyed by bands who didn't know how to use them. This gives way to an interlude of clarinet and oboe that hadn't been seen since 1967. How ahead of the time and yet so retro! And once more for good measure we get the sweep of synthesizers. Talk Talk had really understood their peers at this point, had mastered the mastery of their initial angular image and the image of the 80's that was being sold in sight and sound and manipulated it into a completely new sound and art form - something that has become timeless. This is ultimately music of the 80's but set apart from it simultaneously, which is what any artist does and should do with his own generation.

"I Belive In You" is the fifth song. A slow burner that rises to a boil like all of the songs on this album. The singer starts in really haunted on this one though. This is a song that feels like a constant pivotal moment. Here is the singer's finest moment, he hits the emotive levels of "It's My Life" when the weird ghost guitar and organ songs come in. This song is a day in the mist. It makes you feel as though you are ready to explode, especially when the singer moans "Spirits" and the organ, keyboard, and choral backing voices all swirl together and fade away.

Finally, after what seems like an emotional journey, we come to the beginning of the weary "Wealth." The piano is slow and then a true churchly organ comes in and the singer belts "Take my freedom!" Just as soon as you feel redemption, the melody fades back into a low base point of piano, organ, and acoustic guitar, before rising once more into a shimmering hallelujiah. Outside of a religious sanctuary, this is the closest you come to feeling that strange grey feeling that being in any holy place gives you - for good and for bad. This song makes you see the ritual, of either worshipping, of creating, of living and makes you see the holiness. For that is what church hymns do. They are tied to an institution and institutions must always be avoided, but they make you remember the power - the absolute power of melody and intoxication. How you can be swept away by any maudlin emotion of love or worship. There ain't no Jesus and there ain't no Holy Land. I wouldn't vote for either no matter who endorsed 'em. We're always East of Eden - that's way all we have is the Spirit and that's as much a tree or an onion or a beer. And that's what the organ says to me on "Wealth" as it fades away.

A poem:


SATURDAY

The street vegetables heard you sing
Exasperated, thinking of the moon,
Never tired or angry by the oranges –
Just bloated and wanting to cry.

Your favorite movies play on Saturday
And your love seat memories come alive
Even if your skin feels less than
And your patience has drive you mad.

Subways make you think of Desolation Row,
But your mind isn’t satisfied there,
You want something fresh like parsley
A new American song in a peach crate.

The girl you know invites you over
She keeps her soul singers in a box
She tells you about the rates of sex
That a young couple should have.

While she’s asleep in the jade,
You’re out watching the lightning,
Thinking about all of the hurt feelings
And smiles you should’ve hurt much more.

So take a walk then – the backward guitar –
See the rain turn the stoplight magenta
On the pavement, feel the rain on your back;
Turn white, damp flowers into a motto.

Cars keep going but only for so long,
You’ll have to face the sunlight
Your young muscles and your friend
In her navy suit on the way to work.

The cobblestones will turn her to dust
So too will the rails you trip on
Making your way down to the waterside –
Slabs of granite waiting for a picnic.

Where is Monet to paint the crowds?
Where is Monet to paint the willow tree?
The dots gathered on the grassy shore,
The children wading shin deep in silt.

You can see the spot under the Bridge,
The spot where Hart Crane was beaten by sailors.
It’s all under water now crashing with waves
While elevators raise you to your pay.

Maybe we should all jump off of boats
And rip ourselves apart because of a song
To see the mist fall in between pine trees
To want to disappear into the day.

We could all disappear with haircuts
But then we’d all be like you
And no virtue was born of that
But here is April with its showers sure
So this May will be the best in years.
Your friend won’t tell you the story you need.
She won’t tell you of indecision in suspenders,
Of falling on the floor in delirium.
She won’t tell you the truth, because she’s your friend
And she wants to see you by the vegetables,
Alone with the moon to your right
Water in your brown, worn work loafers
And fear, alone gathered in your right hand.

That’s where your song will seed.