#AND someone ordered two luxury hot chocolates AND we had hot food to cook

[fingertipsmp3]

Do you ever have those shifts where just everything goes wrong

[babybottlepop96]

Home Again Chapter 1

Jean x Marco

Summary: Jeana and Marco have been friends since the tender ages of 5 and 7. They grow together and fall in love.... then Jean disappears.

Warnings: This story will contains mentions of past rape and abuse. The violence parts will probably be descriptive, but the rape will not be. There will be eventual smut further along into the story. 

~20 Years Ago~

"Jean, honey, this is mommy's new boss, Mr. Bott. He is the man who is going to help us, so I need you to be on your best behavior, okay?" The small five year old with ash blonde hair, dark brown undercut and honey golden eyes nodded his head as he stared at the tall dark haired man with dark chocolate eyes.

"Nice to meet you Master Jean." The man smiled down at the boy with a warm smile. "This is my son, Marco, he just turned seven a few months ago. Heard you enjoy dinosaurs and superheroes?" Jean nodded as he stared at the boy just two years older than himself with wide eyes, mapping out all the freckles along his tanned skin, milk chocolate eyes staring back into his own with a smile that could make the grumpiest of men relax. "Marco has a boatload of dinosaur and superhero toys, Marco, why don't you show Jean your room?" Marco smiled, grabbing Jean's hand and dragging him up the giant spiral staircase to the second floor.

Once inside the room, Jean's jaw dropped, the size of Marco's bedroom was bigger than his whole house combined. The ceiling was high with detailed trim along the edges, painted in a dark brown and a pale maroon shade of red. The bed was bigger than what any seven year old should have, a giant flat screen tv was mounted onto the wall across from the bed and games, movies and toys filled the rest of the room. "Do you want to play a video game? I have Spyro the dragon, Crash Bandicoot, Mario Kart?" The freckles kid asked, naming off games while setting up one of the many gaming consoles he owned.

"I… ummm.." Jean stood there nervously, rocking on his feet while twiddling his tiny thumbs. "I've never played a video game before." He looked up to see Marco smiling at him.

"That's okay! I'll teach you! We can start with Mario Kart, it's a multiplayer game, so I'll be able to teach you!" He smiled proudly as if he just won first place at the spelling bee.

"Oh, okay! Thank you!" Jean grabbed the controller Marco handed out to him with shaky hands. The two sat down on the squishy blue and purple bean bag chairs and started a game, Marco showing him how to pick his character, how to move and control the kart and how to throw the special abilities gained when hitting the boxes with the question marks.

"So, Jean, what's your favorite color?"

"Purple." Jean spoke as he tried to concentrate on what he was doing on the screen, still having a bit of trouble with the turns.

"Cool! Mines red!" Marco spoke as he gestures to the room around them. 

"Favorite food?" Jean asked, stealing a glance at the older kid next to him, he couldn't help but smile, Marco's smile was infectious.

"Spaghetti! Well, all kinds of pasta! Penne, ravioli, ricotta-"

"I thought ricotta was a cheese?" Jean questioned, he wasn't actually sure himself, he just knew that cheese was a luxury in his home, never having enough money most of the time for really fancy things like cheeses.

"Oh, yeah! It is!" Marco giggled, "I just really like ricotta cheese." Jean giggled too, this kid was alright. "You're my new best friend, Jean."

~8 Years Later~

"Will you just shut up, Yeager?" A thirteen year old Jean Kirstein, as calmly as he could, spoke with his fist balled up at his sides as he walked out of the middle school building.

"Come on, Kirstein, didn't your poor piss excuse for a mother teach you it isn't nice to tell people to shut up?" Eren, the school bully, asshole and dick, in Jean's opinion, insulted. That's when Jean's resolve faded into nothing and landed a swift punch to the tanned, unblemished skin, a crunch was heard throughout the whole parking lot. Eren fell to the ground but quickly regained his strength and landed a kick to Jean's guy. The wind was knocked from Jean's lungs, but his anger was dominant. He lunged for the bastard who insulted his mother, the only parent he ever knew who worked her ass off to make sure he survived, to give the douche-nozzle a good pounding, but warm, strong arms held him back before hos fist could collide with it's intended target.

"Jean." A warm voice whispered in his ear, Marco. He relaxed in the freckles arms but he was still livid. "Let's go." Then, he was dragged off to the black Chevy Impala.

"Is that your boyfriend Horse Face? Man, I knew you were fruity but seriously? You could do better!" Jean almost got out Marco's grip, but the taller, older teen had his grip firm and all but threw the teen into the back seat.

"Jean-" 

"No, don't start Marco! He taunted me about how I have to live my life, insulted my mother, then insulted you! He deserved to get his lights punched out!" Jean yelled, unshed tears forming in the corners of his Carmel eyes, threatening to spill any second. Marco just simply drew the younger into his arms and the driver drove towards Bott Manor. "He… he doesn't have to be so mean! I never did anything to him!" 

When they finally pulled into the Manor, Marco led Jean to his room, the same room they first became friends in eight years ago. The stuffed animals and small toys are now replaced with books, CDs and even more games and movies. Marco sat them down on the bed and neither spoke for a few minutes. "He was right, ya know." Marco finally spoke and Jean looked at him like he had four heads. "You could do better than me, if we were together."

"Marco Bott, you stop right there! No one could ever replace you! You are literally the best person alive! If I had the balls to kiss you I would!" Jean and Marco's eyes widened and Jean turned into a blushing, flustered mess. "Oh my god! I'm so sorry! I.. I don't know why I said tha-", but Jean couldn't finish, Marco's lips pressed firmly against his in a gentle yet passionate kiss that spoke thousands of words and so many feelings. 

"I love you Jean." Marco whispered as they pulled apart, foreheads still touching as both tried to regain their breath and slow their hearts. Jean cupped Marco's face in his hands and kissed him again.

"I love you too, Marco."

~2 Years Later~

Jean Kirstein, fifteen year old freshman at Trost High, walked through the park on his way home after work. He hates his job, hates working behind the counter at the local Taco Bell, hates that Eren works there too in the kitchen as a prep cook, hates dealing with annoying ass customers with snarky attitudes complaining that their crunch wrap supreme doesn't have enough sour cream. Well sorry, Karen, I don't make the fucking food nor do I determine how much sour cream goes on it. Today was a particularly bad day, Eren called off claiming he was sick when Jean really knew he was out with his "boyfriend" leaving him to prepare food and take orders. Then someone took a dump on the men's bathroom floor, didn't even try to aim for the fucking toilet! Just took a shot right there in the middle of the goddamn floor which he had to clean up himself while his manager bitched about him not doing his job at the counter. All Jean wanted to do was go home, talk to his boyfriend for a little before he eventually went to bed and got up early the next day for school.

It was a simple request that he wished for while the clock ticked by slowly. Jean was so into his own head, he never heard the footsteps coming up behind him until it was too late. A wet cloth covered his nose and mouth, his eyes widened for a second before the world faded to black.

-------------

"We have to find him!" Marco shouted at his father who was looking at him with a solemn expression. Marco paced back and forth in front of his father's desk, hands taking through his u kept hair. He has barely slept a wink since Jean vanished three days ago, his mind wondering about all the worst scenarios it could think of.

"We are trying, son, but we have no evidence of anything taking place. No struggle, no personal belongings, nothing to suggest anything has even happened."

"But Jean couldn't have just vanished into thin air! He wouldn't run away either! He loved his mom too much to just up and leave her and me…" Marco trailed off, thinking about his and Jean's time together over the last two years. Picnic and arcade dates, eating pizza and hot wings while they binge watched their favorite tv series at that moment, the soft and gentle kisses they shared between one another before they parted ways, always promising to text each other once they got home, letting the other one know they got there safe. That's the single most reason why Marco knew something was wrong. Neither of them forgot to send the 'im home safe and sound' text. Not once, in the ten years that they've known each other, did they miss sending that text. Even as children and Marco's father gave Mrs. Kirstein a cell phone as a gift to keep in contact, did they miss THAT text.

"Son, we are doing everything we can to find Jean. But we also need to think rationally, Jean might not ever be found." Marco froze at those words, Jean may be lost forever? He may never see those honey eyes, beautiful smile, perfect sketches and vibrant paintings painted by those slender pale hands and fingers? May never run his hands through those soft locks of ash and brown ever again? That's when Marco broke, he screamed and fell to the floor in a fetal position on the floor. His father looked at him with hurt in his own dark chocolate eyes, for him, his son and Jean's mother who was currently out looking for her only child as they speak. Don Bott rose from his leather chair and walked around the desk, kneeling in front of his son. He put his hand on his back and whispered a pained, "I'm sorry, Marco."

~10 Years Later (Present Day)~

Here he was, once again, at an underground auction. Mr. Bott hated these things, but he had no other choice, ever since Mrs. Kirstein passed away three years ago from a drunk driving accident, he hasn't been able to find someone who cleaned as well as she had. Every person he hired had an attitude or just didn't speak at all, always forgetting to dust the book shelves or take out the trash. So he relented and took up on Mr. Ackerman's suggestion to go to an auction. Getting there early to get a good seat, Mr. Bott, along with Mr. Ackerman, Mr. Braun and Mr. Hoover, the Dons of their respected parts of New York City, all sat down to converse while the auction for the…. Pleasure portion of the auction slowly came to a close. Mr. Bott cringed as the scum of New York bid money on these poor people just for the gratification of getting their dick in a hole.

"And now for our last and best prize of the night!" The auctioneer spoke as the Dons sighed in relief, none of them liked the idea of people being sold for pleasure as they themselves, tried for years to get it under control but never succeeding. "This one has been in the business for ten years, used and a bit rough looking, but this little beauty will be the best fuck you ever had. Clean and pliant, not a bad body either if I do say so myself. Number 54!" The announcer spoke as someone roughly shoved a young man out into the center of the room. The numbers flying from the crowd started pouring in left and right and it got the Dons wondering whom this "prize" was. "Three-thousand!" "Ten-thousand!" "Twenty Five-thousand!"

"Two hundred-thousand!" The crowd went quiet after hearing the deep booming voice coming from the front row.

"Two hundred-thousand! Going once! Going twice! Sold! To Do Bott!" The young man was then hauled out of the room to be prepped for leaving the facility.

--------------

"Dad! I'm home! Reiner, Bert, Mikasa, Eren and Armin are here too!" Marco called from the doorway as he and the others walked into the Manor. "Dad?!"

"In the living room son!" He heard his father call and the group walked towards the sound.

"What's up? We heard your voicemail and hauled ass here. What happened?" Marco asked as soon as he saw his father, eyes brimmed with tears and a small smile. The others in the room, specifically Dr. Yeager, looked at them, small sad but slightly happy smiles on their faces. "What's going on here?" The group looked at each other, confused and concern plastered on their faces. Once Mr. Bott moved to the side and gestured to the couch, it was then that the group realized what was happening. On the couch asleep, lay a thin pale man, dark circles under his eyes, bruises and scars and even some fresh wounds, now neatly stitched up thanks to Dr. Yeager, littering his almost naked form. Marco stared at the man laying on the pale green couch and tears flooded down his cheeks. "Jean?"

[isabellitah]

I DEMAND A FLUFFY KLAUS IMAGINE🤬🤬🤬

🤍 KLAUS x SIBLING

Title : safe place

Pairing : none but this focuses on Eightie's relationship with Klaus

Warning : a bit of angst at first and some cuss words

Request : I DEMAND A FLUFFY KLAUS IMAGINE🤬🤬🤬

Note : yOU WOULDN’T TELL ME IF YOU WANTED SIBLING FLUFF OR ROMANCE FLUFF SO SIBLING FLUFF IT IS AND- YOUR CAT IS ADORABLE HMPH HUGS AND KISSES FROM ME 🤧

you landed on your ass in a random alley at night on 1960 at Dallas alone

you heard a faint click from afar but ignored it

shaking your head from its daze, you stood up and left the alley- set on looking for your family

-

Klaus desperately tried to push back all his anxious thougts that immediately plagued him

Why was he here?

Where even was he?

Where were his siblings?

Luther?

Diego?

Allison?

Five?

Ben?

Vanya?

Eightie?

Oh God-

Eightie-

Wait are any of you even alive?

Was he the only one who made it?

What made him, of all people, deserving of life over his brothers and sisters?

What was he going to do now?

A sob broke out of Klaus. He- no one can help him. No- no one he knows is alive... He’s alone. Shit- he’s all alone.

-

About three days later, Klaus was starving. He hasn’t eaten anything but the leftover’s from the dumpsters and whatever people were willing to give him. He was so close to giving up- I mean- he can barely be sober; how is he meant to stop the apocalypse without any of you?

He stumbled out of the alley he came from- it’s been his home for the past few days- as he followed the familiar and enticing smell of diner food. Growing up going to Griddy’s with his siblings, Klaus knew the smell of a home-cooked style meal when he smelled one. And his stomach did too as it twisted into knots of starvation. Not bothering to think anything through, he flung open the door to the diner and dropped himself into a booth near the door. Aside from the bell on top of the door ringing, what caught nearly the entire diner’s attention were his clothes. Compared to the other inhabitants of the diner – the men’s nicely pressed trousers paired with comfortable overcoats and the women’s long skirts and petticoats – Klaus’s tattered and sleeveless army shirt, laced leather pants, shaggy hair, and dirt covered face instantly earned him the full attention of the diner.

Normally Klaus thrived off of receiving attention. But God he’s tired. He doesn’t have the energy to be happy or embarrassed- he honestly just wanted good food and his family. He was so tired that he didn’t even feel it when his eyes shut closed. The firmness of the booth chair and the cool air from the air conditioner were a nice change to a cold and unforgiving ground.

-

You’ve been here in the 60s for about two weeks now. You haven’t seen any of your siblings yet but you know they’re alive somewhere- it was a gut feeling and it was what pushed you to where you are now. Luckily you had a mini sling bag with you when you all time travelled so you had some money. And that some money which would’ve been moderate for your time, was a big amount in the 60s. You were comfortable enough to have rented a luxurious apartment and not need to work for a few years but you loved helping people. And so- you found a job here at Gladys’ Diner as ‘Tee’, and you rented a comfortable two-bedroom apartment not far from here; just in case you run into any of your siblings and they need a home. It was hard at first- making up lies on why you lived alone and how you got the money you have but- you made it. Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t hear a thing until you were called by your fellow co-worker, “Uhh, Tee?” resisting the urge to flinch, you turned to face her.

You turned to your normally happy co-worker and were immediately worried for she had a concerned look on her usually smiley face, “is somethig the matter?” In response, she discreetly pointed her pen towards the booth by the entrance. Following the pen’s direction you were immediately met with the sight of a man with dark hair and grimy skin leaning against the back of the bench with his legs stretched out across the booth under the table and eyes fallen shut. He looked oddly familiar but eh. It might be your wishful thinking once again. After all- you did imagine hearing Luther’s voice calling for Allison not that long ago- but upon looking out your window, it was just an old man so you didn’t bother. You did give that old man five dollars the next day though.

“You wanna switch for today?” you asked as she nodded in a way that instantly made you assume that she was thinking something along the lines of, ‘Better you than me.’ And so you took the notepad and pen from her and left her to cater to the counter.

Upon seeing you make your way towards the unknown man, most customers looked away while some - mostly men - continued looking just in case you needed help. Their wives did after all adore you as you had the optimism and smile of someone youthful thus bringing up this urge in them to protect you. You arrived beside the booth and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. He tensed at the contact before looking at you and once the dazed look disappeared, he stared at you in a horrified manner, “O- Oh God- Eightie- y-you’re d-” you were shocked yet elated to see your brother but you knew you had to calm him, “I’m not dead, Klausy,” you sat beside him and wrapped your arms around him as he buried his face in between your neck, “I’m right here with you, okay? I’m not leaving you any time soon.”

Seeing this, the customers looking at you looked away.

You slowly detached yourself from him- much to his displeasure, “now, Klausy, what do you wanna eat? Hmm?”

“Service water, please. And if you have any crackers, I’ll take those too, please.” you rose an eyebrow but knew arguing with him would lead to nowhere in the state he was in. Klaus started to shiver from one, the air conditioning, two his slightly wet clothes, and three, from the harsh wind that came from outside when a couple entered the diner. “coming right up, Klausy,” you felt your heart break at the state your brother was in. After returning to the kitchen to fill up a cup with water, you grabbed a pot of hot chocolate and poured some into a mug, along with a plate of buttered toast before returning to the table. Looking at your co-worker, you gave her ten dollars and upong seeing her bewildered look, you told her that this was one of your siblings who went missing a few weeks ago. Lookig at you with empathy, she gave you your five dollars back and said she’ll half with you. You tried to convince her otherwise but she was stubborn and told you to go and spend time with your brother, and that she was willing to take your shift for the remaining day. It was a calm day, after all, so it wouldn’t be much trouble. Taking off your apron, you thanked her and brought your tray to Klaus’ table.

Placing the tray down, you sat down across your brother who had his head in his hands, you said, “I put in an order for you as well. I hope you still like your eggs scrambled and with tomatoes and onions,”

“Nononono- I- Eightie I ca-” he struggled to say what he had in mind as he looked at you in panic, “Eightie- I can’t pay for this. I can’t pay for anything- I don’t have any money.”

“It’s okay, Klausy, I got you.” Y/N said with a reassuring smile.

“No Eightie. I don’t want to be anymore of a burden. I-I’m fine with some crackers,” he tried to argue, “I’m skinny, I don’t need a lot of food.” even though he knew arguing with you when it came to his health was futile.

“You’re my last customer before my shift is over, Klausy. It’s okay. Don’t worry about. You’re never a burden, okay? After this, we’re going to m- our place. You’ll shower and change clothes, I bought clothes in everyone’s sizes just in case, and we can talk- or rest. Whichever comes first.”

“... Okay,” a gentle smile fell over Klaus’s face. You talked as he ate and when he was done eating and drinking, you found your old Klausy back. Your conversation jumped from so many different topics that didn’t even relate to the other. It was chaotic- but it was fun. It was a safe place for Klaus. Being with you, that is. You’re his safe place. He remembers that now.s

-

You ended up travelling anywhere and everywhere you can with Klaus- and yes, he still ended up making his cult. It was a very... interesting thing to experience. Throughout their entire journey, they had each other as the other’s safe space. Where they could let out all their fears and worries and anxieties with no fear of being judged. The safe space where they knew they were genuinely loved for being themselves- flaws and all.

And one night, Klaus let out one of his biggest insecurities.

You were both seated in the fireplace of the mansion of one of his cult members just relaxing when he all of a sudden asked, “what’s my purpose in life?” thrown off, all that left your mouth was a “huh?”

Klaus’ chuckle had a tinged of sadness to it as he repeated his question. You thought hard on it before answering him, “you never really know, Klausy. Each decision we make leads to a different path- a different purpose each time and we can never actually guess where we’ll end up in. All we can do is try our best and hope for the best.”

It was silent as Klaus processed what you said. While he was thinking, you rested your head on Klaus’s shoulder to give him comfort.

“What if I’m in the wrong path now? What if- what if this is it for me? Like, I have a cult for me- what if that’s my only purpose in life?”

“You’re not. You know why? You found me- by accident, yes but you found me. Had you chose a different diner to enter, you wouldn’t have ever found me- we both would’ve been miserable. Also- just because you got to your goal, that doesn’t mean you’re at the destination you’re meant to be in. No matter what path you choose- I’ll always- always be here for you, okay, Klausy? I’m not leaving you anytime soon.”

With tears in his eyes, Klaus straightened his back and wrapped his arms around you, prompting you to sit on his lap. You wrapped your arms around him in return as he buried his neck into where you neck and shoulder met.

“Thank you, Eightie... for everything. For being there for me even when I couldn’t be sober to save my self. For being there when I was struggling to become and stay sober. And for being here now. Thank you for never giving up on me even when everyone else, including I, did.”

“You’re family, Klaus. And you forever will be. You’ll always be a part of my life. And just like what you told me not even a year ago, if you ever need me, I’ll be here for you. That’s what family is for.”

Klaus smiled as you continued brushing a hand through his hair.

[jessiewre]

Day 51

Mon 24th Feb

🎉 🎈 🥳 PHILS BIRTHDAY 🎁 🎂 🍰

As he’d warned, Phil woke up with the birthday demand that we head straight to the sea to be the first ones in. I slightly rolled my eyes as he woke me up from my slumber but it was his birthday. Then of course as you’d expect, it was actually awesome. There were only a few people milling around walking up the beach or opening up their businesses and the sunrise in the bay looked amazing. It was super quiet & calm, the perfect way to start the day.

As we walked back, we swung by the restaurant as they set up for breakfast and they gave us some hot milk with coffee sachets & mugs etc so we could have coffees on our balcony as the sun rose. ROMANTIC OR WHAAAT. Once back in the room, I offered to go and get more sachets - classic secret agent cover - and ran back to the restaurant to help Wendy set up the table as planned. She was collecting petals from the floor when I arrived and revealed she’d decorated the table once already but the fan had blown it all away. Nightmare 🌸🌺.

I helped prep and decided not to correct her spelling as she laid the petals on the table.

JES 💓 FIL

Another lady who worked there came over to see if she could help and saw me trying to prep the presents. My plan was to wrap them in napkins and hide them around the room, but I had stuffed them all into a small bag to hide them over the last week and this had resulted in some extreme creases. She looked at this pile of creased material and scrunched up her face

‘Are these Phil’s presents?’ she asked, clearly very unimpressed by my presentation. She insisted on taking them away to iron them for me and hey, who was I to argue.

I eventually completed by napkin-wrapped treasure hunt now with ironed goods 😏 and went back to the room with coffee sachets with a solid cover story.

‘You’re not gonna believe this, they had run out of coffee. Someone had to go get some from a nearby hotel’

I think he actually believed me too. It’s both impressive and worrying how good I am at lying and how easily Phil believes me when I do.

As we walked towards the restaurant, I got a phone out to film Phil’s reaction and he began to get really awkward and nervous as he imagined a group of dancers and singers were ready and waiting for him - but then he saw the table was the surprise and was really happy. Not as happy as Wendy though who was SO excited. I can appreciate that for many people, organising surprises is actually way better than receiving them yourself.

The 1st gift of the skittles were in a bowl on the table and the English mustard was proudly placed above a plate they had decorated with the words:

‘35th Happy Birthday Philly G’.

In that order.

Then Phil began his treasure hunt. Phil found presents in the plants, hanging out of windows, on chairs, behind lamps, all while awkwardly walking around the restaurant amongst other guests. I enjoyed it very much.

So, opening the presents. Crunch time. Well he absolutely LOVED the shorts and put the first pair on immediately. Knew that would happen. Then the bracelets went down an absolute treat too! He donned his Boy Bangle with great pride.

Now onto the shirt. I must admit I was sweating slightly when he opened the shirt. He made a bit of a Geraldine noise of ‘Mm hmm’ at first and I thought Uh ohh. Then he was like ‘Oooooh, wow!’ which again had a real McCusker-ness about it - but THEN he was like ‘Wow its really great!’.

I couldn’t believe it - he loved it. The mustard shirt was a win!

The head band was a winner too and his card was the ultimate the cherry on top - one night in a luxury Maasai lodge where we could do spear throwing and he could have a massage. PLUS it was booked for when his mate Chet would be visiting us for a week! He was SO happy and I had just completely won birthdays.

We enjoyed our breakfast and just when Phil was a really relaxed, the clinking of the cutlery started faintly in the distance. Phil looked at me with a face full of nerves and a bead of sweat trickled down his brow. I smiled like the evil genius I am.

The kitchen door opened and closed again as the staff assessed the room, god the anticipation was building, and then the good ol’ Kenyan conga began! The group of 10 or so staff included the gardeners, the waiting staff, the chefs and more and they sang for Phil like he was a close member of their family. One of them was carrying a huge cake decorated in green, orange and white (#IRELAND4EVA) with the Happy 35th Birthday Philly G message on and then when they sang happy birthday, some of them even said Philly G. It was hilarious 😂. There was a section where they sang How old are you now and Phil would chip in with ‘35’! It was so great.

After what seemed like a very long time, the performance stopped and Phil thanked everyone, cutting the cake up to share around the room with the other guests. We then went to the kitchen in the back to share it out with all the staff and make sure everyone got a piece.

It was a pretty fun packed morning and Phil was thrilled with it all while I was relieved to have my agent duties completed. We went to the pool where the good vibes continued, playing some sick games with the space hopper and doing a lot of handstands like the adults we are. Barry rocked up (it wouldn’t be a happy birthday without an special guest appearance from Barry) and he’d been shopping. Time for the full low down. He’d decided to get some gifts for friends back home but some chump tried to charge him $7 per sarong and Barry knew it should be $5 - so he weren’t ‘appy about that and he took his business elsewhere.

The good news is he found somewhere to buy his 5 sarongs for his hareem of women but the even better news was still to come when Phil asked him what else he got.

‘I got a kilo of turmeric for $4, half for me half for my mate’

Phil and I were slightly shocked by this announcement, but a little impressed too. Phil asked him what he was planning to do with it.

‘Juice in the morning. Yeah, you blend it, makes a hell of a mess of the blender though, stain wise, awful.’

You know what. At this moment, I decided I was going to really miss Barry.

We asked him why he had it and he said ‘Health init. I try. When it runs out I won’t bother though’.

Good old Barry and his turmeric juice. Good luck to the guy.

Phil chose the Swahili restaurant for his birthday lunch (minus Barry I’m afraid) and they kindly gave him a slice of cake as a starter to celebrate. Then as we left, they gave us ANOTHER slice of cake as well as 3 sweet donut balls! They realllly love a birthday in Kenya! Might start saying its Phil’s birthday a bit more often. We walked to the supermarket to get birthday beers and I gave a bit of cake to the grumpy supermarket till lady who very nearly smiled.

At 17:30 we were about to leave our room for a trip to the beach in the cooler evening sun when our room phone rang. Turned out Agatha on reception had made the dinner reservation I asked for the day before - but we were meant to be there at 17:30. Oops...we asked her to delayed it and went to the beach to enjoy a swim in the sea with a beer before heading off to get ready.

Phil’s mustard shirt made its premier appearance and it was then Phil noticed the pocket was a little skewiff. By skewiff, I mean it was practactically under his armpit. Oh well, he wore it anyway and we headed for dinner at Hemingways, the most luxury resort in the area, with Phil’s cash firmly safe in the depths of his armpit.

It was a beautiful setting. The food however was SO disappointing.

Phil went rogue and ordered crispy squid as a starter and the dish had far more tentacles than he was anticipating. My bruschetta starter was ok.

But the worst bit was our mains. Phil’s mushroom risotto was SUPER bland and my ravioli was so poor I didn’t finish it. The waiter asked if everything was ok and much to his surprise I told him No. We’d had a laugh with him up until that point so he went and got us two chocolate mousse desserts to apologise.

Well he shouldn’t have bothered, cos they tasted like cooking chocolate from the 90s mixed with a bit of Nutella. Phil took a giant spoonful and dared himself to eat it in one to avoid having to leave so much of it on the plate.

We asked the restaurant to sort us out a tuc tuc but then we refused to pay $3 for the one they offered out of principal as it was double what we’d paid to get there!) Then we ended up walking along the main road in the dark to find a tuc tuc. The joke of it all was that after paying $55 for the meal and it suddenly dawned on us that we were now sweating and walking for the sake of $1.50. We had to laugh about it.

Despite the dung food & tuc tuc fun, we had a great day and Phil went to bed a happy 35 year old, with the agreement that we would work out when we were leaving Watamu tomorrow...

[easyfoodnetwork]

What If Nothing But Chain Restaurants Survive? 

Ruth just wanted to eat somewhere — anywhere — that wasn’t a chain

Their vibe had been great on the app, but for their first date, the girl suggested the Garden, and Ruth almost ghosted. It was the newest location, the one on York Boulevard that got spray-painted with anti-gentrification graffiti saying things like, “GO BACK 2 UR SUBURB” a couple weeks back; after cleaning it off, the Garden had made a big show of installing a community fridge. Honestly, Ruth wouldn’t have agreed to go if she couldn’t have walked there from her house. On a Saturday night, York was busy, the outdoor parklet tables overflowing at Torchy’s Tacos and Shake Shack and True Food Kitchen; people with laptops were still hunched in the Go Get ’Em Tiger, and tired-looking parents hauled growlers of beer from the Golden Road pub, maybe with a six-pack of Bud under their arm.

The Garden was the street’s newest addition, its glass exterior covered in long green vines, looking disconcertingly hip and inviting next to the local chain Thai Town, huddled in a former barbershop. The girl, Sierra, was waiting inside, perusing the menu projected on the wall in old-school Italian-joint cursive. She was shorter than Ruth had expected, and the ponytail peeking out from her trucker hat was bright pink. She greeted Ruth with a huge smile, and Ruth tried to act normal; meeting someone after messaging back and forth always felt so unbearable, even worse if they were actually cute. Sierra was cute. They bantered back and forth about whether the cauliflower parm would be good or a disaster, and agreed they could not not get mozzarella sticks. After ordering at the counter, they sat down and a runner immediately brought out a basket of warm breadsticks, the only reminder of the chain that had spawned the Garden.

The breadsticks were the best thing, soft and salty and comforting. Ruth’s cauliflower parm was soggy on the bottom, and Sierra’s vegan alfredo was like slurping nutritional yeast. Their messaging over the app had been playful and cheekily uninformative; now Sierra explained she was a storyboard artist on a kids cartoon about girl superheroes, airing on Prime. Ruth used to lead with her now-defunct Instagram ice cream business, or even her old restaurant in New York, the one that closed. But the endless grind of first dates had sanded down her pride, so she stuck to honesty: She was a corporate chef at Alexa’s.

“So we both work for Amazon,” Ruth said. “What are the odds?”

“Honestly, this isn’t the first time this happened on a date,” Sierra said. “Though you’re the first chef I’ve gone out with. And I brought you to a competitor!”

The Garden was not a competitor; Alexa’s did full table service, with good wines and produce pulled from the Whole Foods pipeline. Every dish was made by a person, at some point, from scratch. Ruth didn’t like how tightly she clung to this. “I appreciate Olive Garden’s way with breadsticks.”

“I was so pumped when this place opened in the neighborhood.”

“It’s not really my style?”

“Then on the next date, take me somewhere with better breadsticks.” She laughed, and Ruth decided she liked her.

Sierra came back to Ruth’s fixer-upper bungalow she’d run out of money to fixer-up, and they made out for a while. It was pleasantly awkward; neither quite knew why they liked the other yet, but what they stumbled onto was promising. Sierra said she’d be back for breakfast the next morning, a move Ruth honestly kind of appreciated because she’d worked a surprise double shift Friday and needed sleep. The next morning, Sierra let herself in with a bag of glossy chocolate Dunkin Donuts and sweet, milky coffee. Ruth asked if this was technically a second date, and Sierra slid her hands up Ruth’s loose T-shirt. The ice melted in the coffee by the time they got to it, but Ruth was glad for the doughnuts, even if they were a little stale.

Both she and Sierra worked 70-hour weeks — animating an empowering kids show was a real nightmare, it turned out — so they stole time together when they could. Mostly, they spent Sundays together, since Ruth was working Saturday nights again, the exact thing selling out was supposed to fix, but Alexa’s kept expanding and taking her chefs to open in Venice and Inglewood and Glassell Park and then she was stuck expediting again. Alexa’s was technically a New American restaurant, built around exclusive deals with farmers and Whole Foods’ zero-waste pledge (if a bunch of bruised peaches went from Whole Foods to Alexa’s house jam, everybody except the cooks who had to scramble to make jam was happy). The menu was shaped by algorithms that analyzed purchases and searches, or that’s what corporate claimed; Ruth would never have put Huli Huli chicken and a brown butter pasta on the same menu, but she had dutifully developed the recipes and watched them sell out night after night.

They were all too salty, fat-laden and yet flat, so perfectly calibrated to please so that they slid into pandering.

Ruth kept putting off taking Sierra out for old-school Italian all the way across town. Instead, on Sundays they’d spend most of the day in bed, ordering in Sweetgreen if they couldn’t remember the last time they had vegetables, or Domino’s if they didn’t need to feel virtuous (mostly, they didn’t). Occasionally, they’d walk down to York or head to Figueroa for brunch. At the Houston’s in a historic former hotel, they always split the spinach artichoke dip, and at the Taco Bell Cantina that opened in one of the many former Mexican restaurants that used to line the neighborhood, they drank shitty bright blue frozen cocktails under a local graffiti artist’s mural that was preserved alongside the Taco Bell logo. Ruth hadn’t gone out this much since moving to Los Angeles, and it felt gross, sometimes, eating nothing but chain food. They were all too salty, fat-laden and yet flat, so perfectly calibrated to please so that they slid into pandering. But it’s not like there was very much else, not anymore.

Late one Sunday morning while Sierra was listing off the usual brunch and delivery options, Ruth tried to express this to her, but all that came out was, “The thing is all these places kind of suck?”

Sierra stared at her phone. “I will not let you slander Domino’s in bed.” One of the characters on her show was obsessed with greasy pizza, and she had personally designed the cheese pull.

“Don’t you miss eating at mom and pops?”

“Taco Bell and the Garden are mom and pops. They’re all franchises.”

“We should make actual memories together.”

“Sharing breadsticks at the Garden is a real memory!”

Ruth took out her phone and started scrolling through Instagram. She found the image of pork belly drenched in a glossy red sauce she’d been thinking of and showed it to Sierra, saying they should try something authentic. So they put on pants and drove to Alhambra and went to this new Hunan restaurant every food person Ruth followed on Instagram was hyping up. When they opened their menus, Sierra let out a snort and pointed to the cute illustrated map of the restaurant’s 50 locations across China.

After that, Ruth’s thrashing about chain restaurants became a thing, mostly a cute joke. Sierra regaled her friends about her obsessive chef girlfriend dragging her to an old-school burger stand literally surrounded by a luxury apartment building (Shake Shack was taking over the lease) and a 7/11 secretly serving Sri Lankan food and a backyard barbacoa set-up, all of them requiring at least an hour in traffic, maybe more. Ironically, this kind of restaurant tourism wasn’t a thing Ruth had had time for when she had her own restaurant, but now that she had gone corporate, sometimes there was such a thing as a slow week, so she could check out other people’s restaurants. Actually, Sierra would continue, the barbacoa stand they’d spent all Sunday seeking out had been glorious, but it was also so sad — the city had raided it the next week. The cooks at Alexa’s told Ruth the city was raiding street vendors all over the city, not just on commercial strips, now that the big chains were lobbying the city to clean up “unsafe” competition.

For Sierra’s birthday, Ruth surprised her with tickets to a secret pop-up supper club high up in Montecito Heights, hosted on a terraced patio overlooking the hazy towers of downtown. It was run by two white, queer chefs, an impossibly attractive tattooed couple, who were maybe 10 or 15 years younger than Ruth; in New York she would have known them, but out here she was so disconnected. There was a land acknowledgment and prompt to send money to a local mutual aid fund, and then 15 small courses of pepino melons over glass noodles, blistered purple okra with popped buckwheat, and hot-smoked salmon collars with a yuzu-miso glaze, broken up by two “palate cleanser” courses: a Spam sando and tiny Magnum ice cream bars. The food wasn’t groundbreaking, but it was seasonal and playful, and Ruth had only a few quibbles over technique: The house sourdough was overproofed, and the popped buckwheat did nothing for the okra.

“So what’d you think?” Ruth said on the ride home.

“Great view,” Sierra said. “That whole house was insane.”

“I really loved the corn pudding, but I’m not so sure about that buckwheat on okra.”

“There were a lot of really pretentious courses, and then, like, tiny ice cream? I wish there’d been more stuff like the bread and butter.”

“Oh, I thought it was overproofed,” Ruth said, but Sierra wasn’t even listening.

“Maybe you’d hate your job less if you did pop-ups like this, too,” Sierra said.

“Who says I hate my job?”

“Ruth, you work for the biggest corporation in the world and you hate chain food.”

“I hate chains because they swept in and took up everyone’s leases after COVID and now no one can open a restaurant.”

“I guess this means you don’t want to go to McDonald’s right now.”

“Why don’t we try to find a taco truck?” But even along Figueroa, which used to be lined with trucks, their bright signs scrolling BIRRIA MULITAS ASADA in the night, no one was out. The Garden was still open, though; Ruth sat in the car as Sierra ran in to get breadsticks.

That week at work, Ruth’s job was to find a use for this new buttermilk the company had sourced. It was genuinely fermented buttermilk, and good quality; it was perfect for biscuits, and if she could find a recipe that worked at scale, Alexa’s could change this dairy farmer’s life. By the end of the week, she had a biscuit she thought worked, and she gave it to the pastry cooks to test for the next night’s service. She even texted Sierra to tell her to swing by early for dinner, the first time she’d invited her to work. Ruth grifted some company time making a fresh batch of the biscuits herself to bring down for Sierra; when she got to the kitchen, she saw the cooks unwrapping a huge frozen pallet of premade biscuits to lob in the oven, next to the batch the pastry cooks had left to rise.

“What the hell is this?”

“We’re A/B testing, apparently,” Alonzo, the new chef, said with a roll of his eyes. “Kyle said these really taste homemade.”

Ruth wasn’t sure what kind of masochism inspired her to bring Sierra a basket with one of the packaged biscuits and one she’d made herself.

Kyle was the efficiency officer sent down from Seattle to oversee what he called Alexa’s “workflow.” He’d already been asking a lot of questions about why there were pastry chefs working here when most desserts could be bought frozen, as if the whole point of Alexa’s hadn’t been to offer a premium restaurant experience.

Ruth wasn’t sure what kind of masochism inspired her to bring Sierra a basket with one of the packaged biscuits and one she’d made herself. Sierra was sitting at the wine bar drinking ginger ale; Ruth tried not to watch her too intently as she munched on first the packaged biscuit, and then Ruth’s.

“Which do you like better?” Ruth said.

“Is this a test?”

“Either you can tell me or let the cameras assessing your expressions take a guess.”

“Wait, are you serious?”

“The cameras are a staff rumor.” But they all wore fitness trackers that monitored the tone of their voices as they spoke to each other and to guests, and produced a rating on “harmony” and “service” at the end of shift. No one shouted in the kitchen. But the servers had learned that only the most obsequious tone of voice got them good customer interaction ratings.

Sierra broke off a piece of both biscuits and chewed thoughtfully. “To be honest, I wish you guys had breadsticks.” She said it with a little flirty smile, trying to deploy it as an inside joke.

“Clearly biscuits aren’t worth the trouble,” Ruth said, and took the basket back.

“So this was a test.”

“One of these is a recipe I’ve spent all week on, from a batch I made myself, for you. The other came frozen out of a box. If my own girlfriend can’t tell that my version is better, then there’s probably not much hope for me here.”

“Babe, I don’t even like biscuits that much —”

“When you get your check, be sure to leave your feedback about breadsticks.”

Sierra asked her to sit down; Ruth made excuses about having to work back in the kitchen, and then hid, taking up space and messing up people’s flow. Kyle would not have approved; the step tracker was probably wondering who was standing stock still during a busy service. At one point, she tried scrolling Instagram to distract herself, and there was a message from one of the pop-up chefs, asking if Ruth could get them a job at Alexa’s until they finished rounding up all their investors, you know? They were sure they’d find a space soon.

“You’ve never cooked for me before,” Sierra said on the car ride home. “Maybe if I’d had your cooking, I would have recognized it.”

“You don’t seem to care much about food, so I don’t see the point.”

“What the fuck, Ruth. I care about you.”

“I mean, the cooking doesn’t make me who I am, right? We used to have to remind each other of that all the time. That we’re more than a job.”

“I work for this huge company and make something I care about. Why can’t you try to too?”

They had the conversation they always had, about how Ruth should start a secret pop-up, and Sierra would do all the branding and promotion, and then she’d get rich investors and live her dream again. The next week, Ruth got her pay docked for rudeness, probably from when she’d snapped at Sierra about the biscuits. On Sunday, they went out to the Garden, and Ruth ate breadsticks until her mouth tasted of nothing but salt.

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Ruth just wanted to eat somewhere — anywhere — that wasn’t a chain

Their vibe had been great on the app, but for their first date, the girl suggested the Garden, and Ruth almost ghosted. It was the newest location, the one on York Boulevard that got spray-painted with anti-gentrification graffiti saying things like, “GO BACK 2 UR SUBURB” a couple weeks back; after cleaning it off, the Garden had made a big show of installing a community fridge. Honestly, Ruth wouldn’t have agreed to go if she couldn’t have walked there from her house. On a Saturday night, York was busy, the outdoor parklet tables overflowing at Torchy’s Tacos and Shake Shack and True Food Kitchen; people with laptops were still hunched in the Go Get ’Em Tiger, and tired-looking parents hauled growlers of beer from the Golden Road pub, maybe with a six-pack of Bud under their arm.

The Garden was the street’s newest addition, its glass exterior covered in long green vines, looking disconcertingly hip and inviting next to the local chain Thai Town, huddled in a former barbershop. The girl, Sierra, was waiting inside, perusing the menu projected on the wall in old-school Italian-joint cursive. She was shorter than Ruth had expected, and the ponytail peeking out from her trucker hat was bright pink. She greeted Ruth with a huge smile, and Ruth tried to act normal; meeting someone after messaging back and forth always felt so unbearable, even worse if they were actually cute. Sierra was cute. They bantered back and forth about whether the cauliflower parm would be good or a disaster, and agreed they could not not get mozzarella sticks. After ordering at the counter, they sat down and a runner immediately brought out a basket of warm breadsticks, the only reminder of the chain that had spawned the Garden.

The breadsticks were the best thing, soft and salty and comforting. Ruth’s cauliflower parm was soggy on the bottom, and Sierra’s vegan alfredo was like slurping nutritional yeast. Their messaging over the app had been playful and cheekily uninformative; now Sierra explained she was a storyboard artist on a kids cartoon about girl superheroes, airing on Prime. Ruth used to lead with her now-defunct Instagram ice cream business, or even her old restaurant in New York, the one that closed. But the endless grind of first dates had sanded down her pride, so she stuck to honesty: She was a corporate chef at Alexa’s.

“So we both work for Amazon,” Ruth said. “What are the odds?”

“Honestly, this isn’t the first time this happened on a date,” Sierra said. “Though you’re the first chef I’ve gone out with. And I brought you to a competitor!”

The Garden was not a competitor; Alexa’s did full table service, with good wines and produce pulled from the Whole Foods pipeline. Every dish was made by a person, at some point, from scratch. Ruth didn’t like how tightly she clung to this. “I appreciate Olive Garden’s way with breadsticks.”

“I was so pumped when this place opened in the neighborhood.”

“It’s not really my style?”

“Then on the next date, take me somewhere with better breadsticks.” She laughed, and Ruth decided she liked her.

Sierra came back to Ruth’s fixer-upper bungalow she’d run out of money to fixer-up, and they made out for a while. It was pleasantly awkward; neither quite knew why they liked the other yet, but what they stumbled onto was promising. Sierra said she’d be back for breakfast the next morning, a move Ruth honestly kind of appreciated because she’d worked a surprise double shift Friday and needed sleep. The next morning, Sierra let herself in with a bag of glossy chocolate Dunkin Donuts and sweet, milky coffee. Ruth asked if this was technically a second date, and Sierra slid her hands up Ruth’s loose T-shirt. The ice melted in the coffee by the time they got to it, but Ruth was glad for the doughnuts, even if they were a little stale.

Both she and Sierra worked 70-hour weeks — animating an empowering kids show was a real nightmare, it turned out — so they stole time together when they could. Mostly, they spent Sundays together, since Ruth was working Saturday nights again, the exact thing selling out was supposed to fix, but Alexa’s kept expanding and taking her chefs to open in Venice and Inglewood and Glassell Park and then she was stuck expediting again. Alexa’s was technically a New American restaurant, built around exclusive deals with farmers and Whole Foods’ zero-waste pledge (if a bunch of bruised peaches went from Whole Foods to Alexa’s house jam, everybody except the cooks who had to scramble to make jam was happy). The menu was shaped by algorithms that analyzed purchases and searches, or that’s what corporate claimed; Ruth would never have put Huli Huli chicken and a brown butter pasta on the same menu, but she had dutifully developed the recipes and watched them sell out night after night.

They were all too salty, fat-laden and yet flat, so perfectly calibrated to please so that they slid into pandering.

Ruth kept putting off taking Sierra out for old-school Italian all the way across town. Instead, on Sundays they’d spend most of the day in bed, ordering in Sweetgreen if they couldn’t remember the last time they had vegetables, or Domino’s if they didn’t need to feel virtuous (mostly, they didn’t). Occasionally, they’d walk down to York or head to Figueroa for brunch. At the Houston’s in a historic former hotel, they always split the spinach artichoke dip, and at the Taco Bell Cantina that opened in one of the many former Mexican restaurants that used to line the neighborhood, they drank shitty bright blue frozen cocktails under a local graffiti artist’s mural that was preserved alongside the Taco Bell logo. Ruth hadn’t gone out this much since moving to Los Angeles, and it felt gross, sometimes, eating nothing but chain food. They were all too salty, fat-laden and yet flat, so perfectly calibrated to please so that they slid into pandering. But it’s not like there was very much else, not anymore.

Late one Sunday morning while Sierra was listing off the usual brunch and delivery options, Ruth tried to express this to her, but all that came out was, “The thing is all these places kind of suck?”

Sierra stared at her phone. “I will not let you slander Domino’s in bed.” One of the characters on her show was obsessed with greasy pizza, and she had personally designed the cheese pull.

“Don’t you miss eating at mom and pops?”

“Taco Bell and the Garden are mom and pops. They’re all franchises.”

“We should make actual memories together.”

“Sharing breadsticks at the Garden is a real memory!”

Ruth took out her phone and started scrolling through Instagram. She found the image of pork belly drenched in a glossy red sauce she’d been thinking of and showed it to Sierra, saying they should try something authentic. So they put on pants and drove to Alhambra and went to this new Hunan restaurant every food person Ruth followed on Instagram was hyping up. When they opened their menus, Sierra let out a snort and pointed to the cute illustrated map of the restaurant’s 50 locations across China.

After that, Ruth’s thrashing about chain restaurants became a thing, mostly a cute joke. Sierra regaled her friends about her obsessive chef girlfriend dragging her to an old-school burger stand literally surrounded by a luxury apartment building (Shake Shack was taking over the lease) and a 7/11 secretly serving Sri Lankan food and a backyard barbacoa set-up, all of them requiring at least an hour in traffic, maybe more. Ironically, this kind of restaurant tourism wasn’t a thing Ruth had had time for when she had her own restaurant, but now that she had gone corporate, sometimes there was such a thing as a slow week, so she could check out other people’s restaurants. Actually, Sierra would continue, the barbacoa stand they’d spent all Sunday seeking out had been glorious, but it was also so sad — the city had raided it the next week. The cooks at Alexa’s told Ruth the city was raiding street vendors all over the city, not just on commercial strips, now that the big chains were lobbying the city to clean up “unsafe” competition.

For Sierra’s birthday, Ruth surprised her with tickets to a secret pop-up supper club high up in Montecito Heights, hosted on a terraced patio overlooking the hazy towers of downtown. It was run by two white, queer chefs, an impossibly attractive tattooed couple, who were maybe 10 or 15 years younger than Ruth; in New York she would have known them, but out here she was so disconnected. There was a land acknowledgment and prompt to send money to a local mutual aid fund, and then 15 small courses of pepino melons over glass noodles, blistered purple okra with popped buckwheat, and hot-smoked salmon collars with a yuzu-miso glaze, broken up by two “palate cleanser” courses: a Spam sando and tiny Magnum ice cream bars. The food wasn’t groundbreaking, but it was seasonal and playful, and Ruth had only a few quibbles over technique: The house sourdough was overproofed, and the popped buckwheat did nothing for the okra.

“So what’d you think?” Ruth said on the ride home.

“Great view,” Sierra said. “That whole house was insane.”

“I really loved the corn pudding, but I’m not so sure about that buckwheat on okra.”

“There were a lot of really pretentious courses, and then, like, tiny ice cream? I wish there’d been more stuff like the bread and butter.”

“Oh, I thought it was overproofed,” Ruth said, but Sierra wasn’t even listening.

“Maybe you’d hate your job less if you did pop-ups like this, too,” Sierra said.

“Who says I hate my job?”

“Ruth, you work for the biggest corporation in the world and you hate chain food.”

“I hate chains because they swept in and took up everyone’s leases after COVID and now no one can open a restaurant.”

“I guess this means you don’t want to go to McDonald’s right now.”

“Why don’t we try to find a taco truck?” But even along Figueroa, which used to be lined with trucks, their bright signs scrolling BIRRIA MULITAS ASADA in the night, no one was out. The Garden was still open, though; Ruth sat in the car as Sierra ran in to get breadsticks.

That week at work, Ruth’s job was to find a use for this new buttermilk the company had sourced. It was genuinely fermented buttermilk, and good quality; it was perfect for biscuits, and if she could find a recipe that worked at scale, Alexa’s could change this dairy farmer’s life. By the end of the week, she had a biscuit she thought worked, and she gave it to the pastry cooks to test for the next night’s service. She even texted Sierra to tell her to swing by early for dinner, the first time she’d invited her to work. Ruth grifted some company time making a fresh batch of the biscuits herself to bring down for Sierra; when she got to the kitchen, she saw the cooks unwrapping a huge frozen pallet of premade biscuits to lob in the oven, next to the batch the pastry cooks had left to rise.

“What the hell is this?”

“We’re A/B testing, apparently,” Alonzo, the new chef, said with a roll of his eyes. “Kyle said these really taste homemade.”

Ruth wasn’t sure what kind of masochism inspired her to bring Sierra a basket with one of the packaged biscuits and one she’d made herself.

Kyle was the efficiency officer sent down from Seattle to oversee what he called Alexa’s “workflow.” He’d already been asking a lot of questions about why there were pastry chefs working here when most desserts could be bought frozen, as if the whole point of Alexa’s hadn’t been to offer a premium restaurant experience.

Ruth wasn’t sure what kind of masochism inspired her to bring Sierra a basket with one of the packaged biscuits and one she’d made herself. Sierra was sitting at the wine bar drinking ginger ale; Ruth tried not to watch her too intently as she munched on first the packaged biscuit, and then Ruth’s.

“Which do you like better?” Ruth said.

“Is this a test?”

“Either you can tell me or let the cameras assessing your expressions take a guess.”

“Wait, are you serious?”

“The cameras are a staff rumor.” But they all wore fitness trackers that monitored the tone of their voices as they spoke to each other and to guests, and produced a rating on “harmony” and “service” at the end of shift. No one shouted in the kitchen. But the servers had learned that only the most obsequious tone of voice got them good customer interaction ratings.

Sierra broke off a piece of both biscuits and chewed thoughtfully. “To be honest, I wish you guys had breadsticks.” She said it with a little flirty smile, trying to deploy it as an inside joke.

“Clearly biscuits aren’t worth the trouble,” Ruth said, and took the basket back.

“So this was a test.”

“One of these is a recipe I’ve spent all week on, from a batch I made myself, for you. The other came frozen out of a box. If my own girlfriend can’t tell that my version is better, then there’s probably not much hope for me here.”

“Babe, I don’t even like biscuits that much —”

“When you get your check, be sure to leave your feedback about breadsticks.”

Sierra asked her to sit down; Ruth made excuses about having to work back in the kitchen, and then hid, taking up space and messing up people’s flow. Kyle would not have approved; the step tracker was probably wondering who was standing stock still during a busy service. At one point, she tried scrolling Instagram to distract herself, and there was a message from one of the pop-up chefs, asking if Ruth could get them a job at Alexa’s until they finished rounding up all their investors, you know? They were sure they’d find a space soon.

“You’ve never cooked for me before,” Sierra said on the car ride home. “Maybe if I’d had your cooking, I would have recognized it.”

“You don’t seem to care much about food, so I don’t see the point.”

“What the fuck, Ruth. I care about you.”

“I mean, the cooking doesn’t make me who I am, right? We used to have to remind each other of that all the time. That we’re more than a job.”

“I work for this huge company and make something I care about. Why can’t you try to too?”

They had the conversation they always had, about how Ruth should start a secret pop-up, and Sierra would do all the branding and promotion, and then she’d get rich investors and live her dream again. The next week, Ruth got her pay docked for rudeness, probably from when she’d snapped at Sierra about the biscuits. On Sunday, they went out to the Garden, and Ruth ate breadsticks until her mouth tasted of nothing but salt.

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[youhaveadeal]

Tagged

This is my first thing! I got tagged by  @i-vote-crowley

Rules: Answer all questions, add one question of your own and tag as many people as there are questions.

1. Coke or Pepsi: I’d rather not, but if I had to chose, Coke

2. Disney or Dreamworks: Old School Disney

3. Coffee or Tea: Tea

4. Books or Movies: Both

5. Windows or Mac: Mac

6. DC or Marvel: this is a trap and i won’t fall for it

7. Xbox or Playstation: Playstation

8. Dragon Age or Mass Effect: Dragon Age, though I’ve only had any experiences with Inquisition. I’ve yet to play Mass Effect.

9. Night Owl or Early Rise: Afternoon Aardvark

10. Cards or Chess: I suck at both

11. Chocolate or Vanilla: Both, but right now I’m kind of craving Vanilla.

12. Vans or Converse: Converse

13. Lavellan, Trevelyan, Cadash or Adaar: Lavellan

14. Fluff or Angst: I really don’t have a preference, a good story needs both

15. Beach or Forest: Forest, by far.

16. Dogs or Cats: Doggos!  

17. Clear Skies or Rain: Overcast

18. Cooking or Eating Out: Everything I cook is a fire hazard, or a poison hazard.

19. Spicy Food or Mild Food: Mildly spicy, with a hint of sweet

20. Halloween/Samhain or Solstice/Yule/Christmas: Up until a few years ago, I would have gone with Christmas, but I haven’t really been into it for a while, and we don’t really celebrate Halloween that much over here.

21. Would you rather forever be a little too cold or a little too hot: I have no issue with the cold, and I can’t stand the heat, so I think I’d go with the former.

22. If you could have a superpower, what would it be?  Talking to small woodland creatures.

23. Animation or Live Action: Both.

24. Paragon or Renegade: I haven’t played Mass Effect, but I know it’s to do with alignment or morality or something, right? Other than that, no idea.

25. Baths or Showers: Showering until my skin peels off and i forget the taste of bread, the sound of trees etc.

26. Team Cap or Team Iron Man: Team Iron Man

27. Fantasy or Sci-Fi: Fantasy is my first love, sci-fi is my side ho.

28. Do you have three or four favourite quotes? If so, what are they: 

“Look, I am holding up my two hands, and between them is Leningrad. I am holding up my two hands and between them is a black space where Marya Morevna is not speaking. She would like to, because she thinks a story is like a treasure, and can belong to only one dragon. But I make her share; I will not let her have the whole thing. I have this power. I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone you do not make them tell war stories. A war story is a blank space. On the one side is before and on the other side is after, and what is inside belongs only to the dead.” (Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless)

“I’m sick to death of this particular self. I want another.” (Virginia Woolf, Orlando)

“It was so much easier to blame it on Them. It was bleakly depressing to think that They were Us. If it was Them, then nothing was anyone's fault. If it was us, what did that make Me? After all, I'm one of Us. I must be. I've certainly never thought of myself as one of Them. No one ever thinks of themselves as one of Them. We're always one of Us. It's Them that do the bad things.” (Terry Pratchett, Jingo)

29. YouTube or Netflix: Netflix

30. Harry Potter or Percy Jackson: *crotchety old lady voice* I remember it like it was yesterday, queueing at the stroke of midnight for the release of Order of the Phoenix, elbowing other children in the ribs to get my hands on the very last copy...

31. When You Feel Accomplished: When I feel like I’ve helped someone in any way or made someone’s day a little bit better

32. Star Wars or Star Trek: Trek

33. Paperback Books or Hardback Books: No preference, just having the book in a physical format feels like a luxury nowadays.

34. Handwriting or Typing: Handwriting, though you wouldn’t guess it by looking at the way i write

35. Velvet or Satin: Velvet makes my skin crawl, satin it is.

36. Video Games or Movies: Movies

37. Would you rather be the dragon or own the dragon? I am already a dragon, typing with talons is a real pain, let me tell you.

38. Sunrise or sunset: Sunrise, actually, mostly because I rarely get to see it.

39. What’s your favourite song? “Samson”, Regina Spektor, or anything by Regina, it links me to someone I loved dearly

40. Horror Movies yes or no:  Sometimes I’m just in the mood to scare myself shitless, so sure, on occasion and in good measure.

41. Long hair or short hair: I feel more comfortable with longer hair, it gives me a place to hide.

42. Opera or Theatre: Opera, though I haven’t been to either in a while

43. Assuming the multiverse theory is true and every story ever told has really happened somewhere, which one of the movie/book/tv show/game/etc worlds would you pick to travel to first? I’m going to be really cliché here and say Middle Earth. First Age. Then I’d go to the Supernatural verse and give Crowley the longest damn hug, and that would be what finally gets me killed.

44: If you had to eat only one thing for the rest of your life what would it be? Breaded cheese, with a side of mashed eggplant salad (what? that’s  legitimate food, the pinnacle of Romanian cuisine. don’t give me that look.)

 45: If you are stuck on an island..and you could be stuck with ONE celebrity..who would it be? Anish Kapoor, if we don’t make it at least i’d fulfil my dying wish of seeing Vantablack in action as he writes “help us”on the sand.

46: What is your special talent?  I’m particularly proficient at stumbling over my words and falling on my own sword, a craft I’ve been perfecting for most of my life. 

47: My question: What are 3 things that never fail to make you happy or lift your mood?

 tagging anyone who wants do to this, I’m not naming names, you know who you are 

[grizzlygreybeard]

20th October 2017

website

tripadvisor

(Graham’s words)(Tim’s words)

Ambience including decoration, seating, welcome

First, the bad: ” Life isn’t  about waiting for the rain to stop, it’s about learning to dance in the rain” – sign in the Gents. Who writes this crap?

This cafe is just like many other Farm Shop cafes – clean, freshly decorated in inoffensive colours but, in this instance, someone has had the good sense to space the tables generously and not try to cram in as many as possible just to make a few more quid.  The result is no eavesdropping, which, admittedly, can be amusing if one’s own chitchat is not, but which usually means Graham can’t hear what Tim is saying (is that a bad thing?).  And the acoustics are friendly too.

Of course, you exit through the gift/food shop and, after such a satisfying breakfast, feeling pleasantly full and at peace with the world – this, of course, is not at all true, but is simply a well known phrase or saying to indicate contentment – you can browse the shelves of tracklements and exotically flavoured vodkas before stepping out into the real world.

The decor is in the style of large housing estate show home with objects d’art hung loosely around contrasting wallpaper and paint (probably not Farrow & Ball!).  The wooden ducks were apparently a theme they had going – probably to distract attention from the suspended office-like ceiling.  Functional but lacking in any real atmosphere. 

Service, attitude, efficiency

Young people, polite and efficient, armed with iPads, took our orders and delivered the food efficiently and promptly.  But bringing all the hot food at once leaves one dish of two -for one – to grow cold.  To their credit we lingered a while and they did not hassle us at all. 

Menu

An extensive menu with lots of choice including Bambichino for 80p.  Tim assumes this is a child’s milky drink with chocolate sprinkles (not a pair of slacks for a fawn).  Happily we left before the first bambino snivelled and squirmed into it’s high chair.

Food

A good pot of Redbush arrived first (nice to be able to get 2-3 cups from a pot).  Then the food spaced easily around the large plate (no cramming or blow-outs here).  The ubiquitous tub of virtueless baked beans was duly ignored and the boiled slightly fried new potatoes were slightly under-cooked.  But the sausages were great as were the mushrooms, granary toast and scrambled eggs (not overcooked).  The soggy bacon was OK but a tad disappointing as the local origin of their ingredients is trumpeted in the front of the menu raising expectations.  Overall it was a good breakfast which could have been improved without the beans and with tomatoes and if the saute potatoes were a bit more saute.  The bacon could have also been more prominent tasty and crispy.

Graham could find nothing else to complain about.  His luxury porridge was just like he makes it at home – proper rolled oats, not stodgy, sweetened but not too much and decorated with raspberries, blueberries and strawberries.  Waiting patiently were two poached eggs on toast, which had, in truth, cooled just a little too much while Graham enjoyed his porridge.  The eggs were perfect: fresh, free range, large and tasty; the yolk oozed gently onto the toast with the merest prick of the fork.  The toast was well buttered granary.  And, to add to the pleasure, there was Stokes’ ketchup and brown sauce, the latter wonderful enough to be eaten on its own – allegedly!

Graham, who learns slowly these days, now orders the statutory flat white AFTER eating NOT before.  And, once again, he was not at all disappointed; good, strong enough, not drowning in badly frothed milk, served in a proper cup.  The only minor irritation? When brought to the table, it was too hot to drink.  So, the conversation continued to flow and patience was rewarded with a really satisfying beverage.

Pricing

£8.50 is at the higher end of the scale for a Full English and is not bad value for money when you add £2 for a pot of tea.  Neither is it great value for money.  I guess they are recouping the cost of the interior designer (between housing estates) and the wooden ducks.  The place filled up as the morning wore on and they were doing good drive-up trade which is usually a good sign.

Overall impression

Would Graham go back again? Absolutely.  Would he be more forgiving of the sign in the Gents?  Absolutely not.

Its’ a bit of a trek from Marshfield to Norton St Philip and you pass better haunts to get there,  So in the search for a great breakfast this does not quite make the cut into the top ten percent.  But its probably in the top quartile. 

Rating: 8 out of 12

Farleigh Road Farm Shop & Cafe, Norton St Philip 20th October 2017 website tripadvisor (Graham's words)(Tim's words) Ambience including decoration, seating, welcome First, the bad: " Life isn't  about waiting for the rain to stop, it's about learning to dance in the rain" - sign in the Gents.

[billwells3]

Do Something Different this Year with our Holiday Gift Guide

browse www.transfs.com site for more advice on financing 

No reason to give the same boring gifts this year. Our holiday gift guide offers creative and inexpensive gift ideas that your friends and family will love.

Christmas is right around the corner. Do you have all of your gift shopping done yet?

If you’re anything like me, the answer is no. This isn’t because I’m a procrastinator, though. It’s because I would prefer to give a gift that’s unique and has meaning instead of some stereotypical consumer item that will probably wind up in the Goodwill pile at some point.

That’s why I’ve put together this list of ideas, so that you can change the way you give gifts this holiday season. Some will save you money, and some will be incredibly useful. Others will give you (and your recipient) a warm fuzzy feeling inside, which rivals that of any mug of hot cocoa.

Get out your gift-giving lists, and let’s get started!

Charitable Giving

There are some wonderful opportunities to do good while also giving to your friends and loved ones. Regardless of your budget, you can make charitable causes part of your family’s holiday season.

You can donate to one of your favorite causes, or one which aligns with the interests of the recipient. No matter which you choose, there are simple ways to make a doubly-impactful gift this holiday season.

Buy holiday cards that support your charity of choice

If you’re going to buy cards this year anyway, why not see if your favorite charity has anything to offer? Not only do you show your support, but you may find interesting, unique cards that stand out.

Children’s Art Project (from MD Anderson) offers various items, including holiday cards, that feature their young patients’ art. This gives kids a way to showcase their designs. And net proceeds from sales help to fund the hospital’s pediatric programs.

Holiday Card Center has a stunning array of cards in various designs. They partner up with a number of non-profit organizations, such as the American Humane Society. About 10% of the cost of each box goes to the charity.

The Make-A-Wish Foundation will actually personalize and mail cards out for you, if you wish to make a gift on someone else’s behalf. You can also order blank cards and send them yourself. Or send an e-card to let someone know you made a donation in their name.

The American Diabetes Association lets you personalize cards regardless of whether you are making a gift donation as well.

Buy gifts that provide a percentage to charity

Know someone who loves the water? Oceana has some really cool t-shirts and apparel. As much as 25% of the proceeds benefit their charity.

Sierra Club offers two gorgeous gift-boxed calendars, note card sets, and even books for the nature/scenery lover in your life.

The Make-A-Wish Foundation has a great offering of apparel, office accessories, and even water bottles that benefit the foundation. Between 35-50% of the purchase price goes to the cause.

UNICEF has a store full of interesting, international gifts, including candles, journals, and books.

A cancer survivor or supporter might enjoy jewelry, clothing, or a tote bag from the American Cancer Society Gift Shop.

Donate to charity as a gift

Oceana offers a holiday adopt-a-creature program. For $30, you can adopt a sea turtle, seal, or one of 16 other sea creatures. You’ll receive a cookie cutter in the shape of that creature and a special sugar cookie recipe. Spend a little more, and you’ll receive a cute plush of that animal, too. It’s a nice way to donate while still having a fun gift for the recipient to open and enjoy.

Oxfam America offers you the unique opportunity to present your friends and family with the donation of a sheep, goat, or even a toilet. Wait, what? With Oxfam, your funds help provide necessities to growing, impoverished communities worldwide. Then, choose from a number of humorous, fun cards to give to your recipient, telling them about the gift made in their honor. How else could you possibly gift wrap a camel?

Heifer International also donates livestock to countries in need. You can choose from a variety of animals, including a water buffalo for $250.

American Forests lets you plant trees in the name of a loved one for $1 a tree.

Alternative Gifts International offers truly impactful gifts of food, shelter, trees, gardens, and medicines to those in need around the world.

Not sure what charity would be most fitting? JustGive.org sells gift certificates recipients can redeem for any of 1,000,000 charities and nonprofit organizations.

Go Clutter-Free

Another unique holiday gift option if you want to avoid waste is to buy clutter-free gifts. These can be in the form of experiences or consumables. I usually opt to do both. In fact, in my family, we’ve opted to buy “experiences, not things” for our primary gifts to one another. Then we buy useful (consumable) items for stocking stuffers.

While experiences are great gifts that bring memories for years, consumables give you something to open and enjoy Christmas morning.

Eat, Drink, Be Merry

Unclutterer.com has some nice suggestions for theme-based consumable gift collections, such as bulbs and seeds for a gardener, spice collections for someone who enjoys cooking, and the always-popular bath sundries collection for anyone who enjoys self-pampering. There’s even a very utilitarian garage-themed collection idea with motor oil, work gloves, etc.

My tastes run a bit more colorful. I believe the holidays provide a great chance to give premium consumables, little luxuries life might not otherwise afford us.

My favorite food and drink gifts include:

Aged Balsamic Vinegar – It’s a surprisingly flexible gift, suitable for everything from salad dressings and bread dips (include some fresh loaves of bread for an irresistible gift basket), to marinades and even as a topping for ice cream. There are a range of prices and qualities available. You could even print out some relevant recipes and include them, too!

Wine–It’s even better when paired with a gift certificate to a BYOB restaurant and maybe a cute tote. But there’s so much you can do with wine gifts. Give a nice bottle you’ve tried and enjoyed, different vintages of the same wine, or a selection of bottles from a region with accompanying reading material on that region’s wines. These can all make a memorable gift. You can find nice, well-rated wines for less than $20 a bottle. Wine Club memberships are wonderful, too, if you have the budget.

Say Cheese!–Last year, one of the best gifts I got was a stylish, reusable tote filled with a variety of fine imported cheeses, candied nuts, and crackers. Food gifts made for sharing are perfect for holiday entertaining. Plenty of places out there sell pre-assembled gift baskets. But I think the best approach is to find a local cheese shop or market and try things out yourself. Add fresh or dried fruit and nuts, and you can make your own extravagant gift for much less than you’d pay at Harry and David or Williams-Sonoma.

Sweets–Who doesn’t love a little indulgence? Last year, I gave my father-in-law a set of dark chocolate bars made from cocoa beans from different countries, for a comparative tasting. Homemade cookies or cakes are always appreciated, and can provide a more economical gift alternative. I’m also partial to Dutch candy for a fun and inexpensive gift.

Citrus Fruit–Sweeter than candy, the juice from Temple oranges is a rare treat in the cold winter months. I order them now for delivery January through March from Nokomis Groves. You could make a fabulous gift basket around a citrus gift (think breakfast kit), or let its sunny glory stand alone.

Salumis, Seafood, and Special Meats–Salami, bacon, prosciutto, ham, smoked turkey, scallops, salmon… whether you spend a lot for a fine imported meat or seafood product or assemble your own basket from a local specialty shop, there’s much to choose from.

You may be seeking truffles from France or salumis from Italy. Either way, finding a great source is key. If you can’t find these imported items at a local market, you can find them at a markup at places like Dean & Deluca. You can also try your luck finding better deals and culinary rarities at sites like eFood Depot, Gustiamo (Italian), La Tienda (Spanish), and French Feast.

Amazon has a great collection of gift baskets worth checking out. You can also take a look at Food411’s Holiday Picks or browse Sur la Table for more inspired gift ideas.

Spoil Someone

If food isn’t your ideal gift (or you’re unsure whether the recipient has dietary concerns), you can always opt to pamper them.

Soap and Bath Products–Soaps make for a great gift basket but are easily used up, so they don’t contribute to clutter. One of my friends makes her own fantastic-smelling, all-natural olive oil soap and bath products. She had a home show this year where I bought soaps for just about everyone I know. I tried to select scents each individual will love. It should be fun to see how accurate I was predicting their fragrance preferences. And anything I don’t give away, I’ll just use up myself.

Massages, Pedicures, and Spa Treatments–Beauty supplies are a clear winner when combined with gift certificates for massages, pedicures, facials, and other spa treatments. In my book, there’s no such thing as too many massages, and it’s nice to look forward to some luxury. Pick a local spa, or visit SpaWish.com for a gift certificate good at over 1,000 day spas across the nation.

eSubscriptions, Media, and Content–With all the interesting videos, music, games, and books available via iTunes, it’s hard to imagine anyone not appreciating an iTunes Gift Card. I’ve heard great things about Audible.com, as well. Their electronic book and programming subscriptions start as low as $7.49 a month for the first three months with the AudibleListener program.

The Gift of More Time–Take a page from Tim Ferriss’ book The Four Hour Workweek and help someone “outsource” time-consuming or unpleasant tasks. Whether you supply a bevy of homemade frozen meals or set up a running engagement with a personal chef, your gift will directly benefit the recipient’s quality of life. Maid service, child care, and gardening or landscaping services are gifts they’ll remember all year. Plus, they can be accomplished by hiring out or (more economically) by helping out and doing it yourself.

Make Something With Love

Homemade gifts can be so much more than the sum of their parts, which makes them a great frugal gift option. They are redolent of effort, of “I thought of you all year and worked on this for you.” This is a nice contrast to “I realized I needed a gift for you ten minutes ago and picked this up as I was driving here.”

MoneySavingMom has an extensive collection of frugal gift ideas. Some of my favorite homemade gifts from her list include:

Homemade baking mixes

Embroidered pillowcases

Hand-stamped notecards

Personalized CDs (with music, family photos, etc.)

Custom-made photo calendars (every grandparent I know adores these)

Homemade food, including freezer-ready quick meals and baked goods (I am seriously asking my mother-in-law for a giant vat of her famous tomato soup for the holidays this year)

Canned vegetables, jam, pickles, etc.

Scarves, sweaters, and other knitted/crocheted goodies

Fleece throw blankets

Homegrown organic dried herbs (in a charming little jar, what could be better?)

I’ve been blessed with some very creative friends, so in the past I’ve received amazing scarves, jewelry, gorgeous embroidered pillowcases, and even original artwork. This year, one of my good friends knitted me some very chic, pure-white cashmere gloves.

My own talents are more culinary than crafty. So this year, I’m giving out tins of several varieties of homemade cookies and a few premade freezer meals, like lasagna, for those in my life who don’t enjoy cooking as much as I do. If you’re not inclined to create gifts yourself, you can buy amazing and unique handmade gifts of all sorts at Etsy.com.

From the Heart

This ties in a bit with the last section. But the ultimate “handmade” gift may not be a thing at all but, instead, a service. I love the concept of lending your personal services to someone else, especially in this age of so little free time.

If you’re good at sewing, what about giving certificates for mending and tailoring clothing? Or giving proofreading or resume help to someone still in school? Know someone who travels a lot? A few certificates for rides to and from the airport could be just the thing. Or create a scrapbook or photo album for someone with lots of memories and no time to compile them. Babysitting, yard cleanup, etc. are all gifts that cost little except your time.

What are the best gifts you’ve ever received (or given) that weren’t “typical” or even store-bought? Can you think of any other unique holiday gift ideas? Share them below!

[sachaferrier]

THE GREAT MANGO ROBBERY

As a small boy the trip to Gateway food store with mum was a lifeless chore of dolour, Cavendish Square Swindon 1976 wasn’t the greatest of shopping experiences, but unfortunately, back before caring, it was all we had. Amongst its sparse but rich selection was Dewhurst, spilling the sweet sickly stench of death, permeated into the sawdust footprints of its patrons. Devon Savouries, where in summertime I would stand mesmerised, watching the freightage of industrious ants, transferring sugary debris back and fourth from the lavish display and of course a cycle repair shop, where gleaming wrought iron grifters sat ready to be purchased. There were the usual splattering of newsagents, hair salons and public houses around its many alcoves, one in particular the Cock Robin pub, where kids would have their heads ruthlessly shaved for the price of a pint, as their fathers watched on whilst enjoying a pale ale…or two.

Central to this Utopia of consumer habits, stood, proud as brass, the Gateway supermarket. Nothing in comparison to the labyrinth style supermarkets of today, the Gateway boasted three isles, two checkouts and half a dozen trolleys. The entrance was grand, well it was to me, huge double glass doors, one pane boarded up, due to the previous evenings drunken debauchery. Above these aluminium framed doors proudly hung the sign, a motif, a symbol of power and safety, a sturdy green image of two towers, a portcullis and the words Gateway in bold Helvetica. The first time I walked beneath this daunting symbol my aspirations of what lay in wait were somewhat shattered, no knights in shining armour, jousting or jesters, what greeted every customer was a rusty trolley dragged from the brook, and a frumpy looking employee, cigarette in mouth named ‘Iris’, carefully stacking tins of a certain product, claiming to contain no lumps of fat or gristle……GUARANTEED!! 

Shopping for food when I was a kid seemed a painful exercise with no rewards, the shelves a palate of dull pastel colours, all shouting false claims of exotic luxury and adventure. I’d watch as mum piled in the smash, dried vesta curry for dad and of course the 3 lit container of vegetable oil, an essential ingredient needed to top up the aways warm chip pan. The oil selection of today with its Pantone of glorious golds and greens, virgin press and blends, are a far cry from the wall of ‘crisp n dry’ we had back then. The chilled section, with its tantalising ‘Ski’ yoghurt range, which was in fact a special treat and of course ‘Spam’ and ‘Brains’ faggots, which, alternated their way into most mealtimes. I didn’t know any better, the food on offer for my social demographic, was to me, all there was, and on the rare occasions when a ‘Fray Bentos’ was served, I literally had died and gone to heaven. Unfortunately my taste buds and interest in food had all but dried up or to be true never really started, following years of over salted and dull miserable looking concoctions, all served on translucent pyrex plates, but all this was about to change

At fifteen I took a position at the Wiltshire Hotel Swindon as banqueting waiter, hours and pay of no concern, in fact I never turned down a shift or questioned my earnings. Once a week I joined the queue along with the rest of the waiters, chefs, doormen, housekeepers, outside the accounts office, in order to receive my small brown envelope, stuffed with a few greens a blue and some coppers, this weekly task had become my new ‘Fray Bentos’. Following the end of a function, it was my responsibility to carefully salvage any gateaux’s, trifle and butter, reassemble pieces and portions, in order to form a whole new serving ready for the next day. I would often sneak a spoonful of the thick birds custard and dessert topping, but this came at a risk, as being caught by the chef, would result, not only in public humiliation but a thump or two, so the indulgence was very rare. However it was the fridge which changed my knowledge of food, experience and appreciation.

One evening when placing the newly rejuvenated desserts back into the walk-in fridge, I noticed a strange looking box. It wasn’t like the other fruit crates of slatted wood, but an artistic version, brightly coloured, alluring and more importantly closed. This pandora’s box had limited wording on the side “Mangoes” and a country of origin, of where, the location I couldn’t even begin to imagine was. Each time I returned to the fridge my bravery took me closer and closer to peer inside. I’d heard of mangoes, in fact seen them, but never actually tried one. As my shift ended I through caution to the wind, and with the stealth of a ninja opened the box to reveal the plump orangery green fruits lying inside, like strange jewels.  At this point I heard the chef calling, followed by the sound of his wooden clogs. In panic, I grabbed a fruit, tucked it into my jacket and ran for the door, bidding farewell to my comrades.

The walk home was a few miles, dark and often wet. I dreaded this passage, as its path took me through some unsavoury areas, however on this occasion, I had lost all fear, for within my grasp safety stowed away was the stolen mango. I walked with added spring that night, eager to leave behind the hotel so as to find somewhere quiet and alone in order to inspect my wares. I don’t for one minute condone this behaviour, as I had stolen, for which I felt terrible, but at the same time I couldn’t wait to sample this exotic treasure. Once I considered my position to be one of safety, I reached in and pulled out the plump fruit, which was now not only stolen, but like my brow, dripping with condensation, having been so abruptly transferred from fridge to pocket in this daring robbery. Lifting to my nose Idrew in the aroma, it was unlike any other scent I had experienced, even better than a cherry ski. I had no training or previous knowledge into how this fruit should be approached, and so with confidence and excitement, bit straight into it’s flesh skin and all. Juice flooded my mouth, the sweet juicy perfumed flesh tasted delicious, although I felt the skin maybe not as easy to digest. Working around the skin, discovering the odd shaped stone inside, my journey home had become an adventure, I was a young boy experiencing something new, exploring the world through a fruit, stolen from a fridge in Swindon, Gateway was now a distant memory.

My exploration didn’t end there, each shift became a new experience, I had become a professional thief, stealing to feed my first for new tastes. The Kiwi was next, which again taught me that sometimes skins are best removed, the papaya with its black bitter seeds, different oranges, olives, asparagus stems, which are actually quite good raw and fresh cooked beetroot, of which to date I had only tasted pickled, sat upon a pile of hot steaming smash. Before I had exhausted the fridge, the final fruit to fall into my possession was the avocado with its rich glossy emerald jacket. I had delayed my theft of this item due to it’s boringness. I had tried pears many a time and wasn’t a great fan. My youth only ever saw one type, bruised over ripe and at times sour. The flesh was grainy and once down to the core never held its shape, unlike an apple which leaves you with the perfect cartoon core. What could be any different from the pears I knew and the avocado I didn’t? That night the same stealth ridden theft took place, I then headed for home. Had I learned nothing??? Taking my bite through the skin I waited for the sweet grainy pear flesh but instead was greeted with an almost tasteless milky paste finished and a slice of what seemed like a conker, I thought I’d been duped, was this real, was it off, was it ripe?? I didn’t have a clue. The remains of the avocado and the mouthful I’d taken ended up over someones garden wall, I had tried this stolen fruit, offered it a fair hearing, but in the end decided and for many years after that the humble Persea Americana was not for me.

My adventures with food were short lived, slowly as time passed the excitement in taste tapered to a point where it became very rare to find a fruit or flavour of which I hadn’t already experienced. Now at 47 I feel I have exhausted all but a few items, and of those which are left, serve no real interest. Don’t misunderstand, there are cooked dishes of which I enjoy discovering, but it’s the fascination of those raw ingredients which are missed, the child like exploration and excitement of awakening taste buds for the first time, have given way to bitter black caffeine and the thick smog of Philip Morris.

As a father my voyage of discovery is now shared, albeit as more of a spectator. I envy my son, I once had his wide eyes and impatient fixity to explore further than he can reach. I delight in watching his senses mature, revel as he discovers that chocolate, is not the only nectar(Although hard to beat), those fruits I stole at risk of being beaten are now staple ingredients, readily available. They may have lost their shine to most, but introducing these fruits at a steady pace without fear of reprimand to a yet untarnished palette is as exciting now as it was back then.

It wasn’t until I took up photography that something did reignite my own guileless interest towards these basic and often overlooked ingredients. When looking through a camera what you see is yours to frame, to determine the angle and at what point the composition is aesthetically pleasing to your own eye. The German Philosopher Walter Benjamin wrote about the optical unconscious, stating that the camera and cinema have the ability to record aspects of reality that do not fit into the natural optics, namely because they are too quick, small or disperse. We see these details but do not perceive them as information. When taking photographs of what I considered as fairly mundane vegetables and fruits, brought this notion of the unseen to life. The more you stare through the lens at subjects the more you see, the apple with its blemishes, beautifully shaded exterior and perfectly formed stalk reaching from its core to the sky, the fissures naturally occurring between each cabbage leaf, made even more alluring by the rippled fleshy leaves. As I stare I often recall the great mango theft, the fervour now of my experiences are explored through the lens, not dissimilar from the stolen tastings all those years ago, the only difference, it is now the eyes that are rewarded. All of a sudden the normality of food has once again taken centre stage, I see so much more, appreciate the absolute genius in that something so simple, has grown from nothing. 

With the supermarkets offering so much choice I feel we have become numb and oblivious to what not so long ago was classed as exotic, it drives me insane to see vest clad men rummaging through the sprouts at Christmas, tossing to one side rejects which have failed to make their grade… Sometimes we should all stop, hold the object in our hands and explore, examine its form, admire its colour and imperfections. I have realised with the help of a lens, that there is still so much more to see and explore, objects all to familiar do in fact have so much more to offer, hidden beyond our initial perception, further than what we first see, a return to childhood, a chance to regain an inquisitive nature…If only we look harder.

[easyfoodnetwork]

Ruth just wanted to eat somewhere — anywhere — that wasn’t a chain Their vibe had been great on the app, but for their first date, the girl suggested the Garden, and Ruth almost ghosted. It was the newest location, the one on York Boulevard that got spray-painted with anti-gentrification graffiti saying things like, “GO BACK 2 UR SUBURB” a couple weeks back; after cleaning it off, the Garden had made a big show of installing a community fridge. Honestly, Ruth wouldn’t have agreed to go if she couldn’t have walked there from her house. On a Saturday night, York was busy, the outdoor parklet tables overflowing at Torchy’s Tacos and Shake Shack and True Food Kitchen; people with laptops were still hunched in the Go Get ’Em Tiger, and tired-looking parents hauled growlers of beer from the Golden Road pub, maybe with a six-pack of Bud under their arm. The Garden was the street’s newest addition, its glass exterior covered in long green vines, looking disconcertingly hip and inviting next to the local chain Thai Town, huddled in a former barbershop. The girl, Sierra, was waiting inside, perusing the menu projected on the wall in old-school Italian-joint cursive. She was shorter than Ruth had expected, and the ponytail peeking out from her trucker hat was bright pink. She greeted Ruth with a huge smile, and Ruth tried to act normal; meeting someone after messaging back and forth always felt so unbearable, even worse if they were actually cute. Sierra was cute. They bantered back and forth about whether the cauliflower parm would be good or a disaster, and agreed they could not not get mozzarella sticks. After ordering at the counter, they sat down and a runner immediately brought out a basket of warm breadsticks, the only reminder of the chain that had spawned the Garden. The breadsticks were the best thing, soft and salty and comforting. Ruth’s cauliflower parm was soggy on the bottom, and Sierra’s vegan alfredo was like slurping nutritional yeast. Their messaging over the app had been playful and cheekily uninformative; now Sierra explained she was a storyboard artist on a kids cartoon about girl superheroes, airing on Prime. Ruth used to lead with her now-defunct Instagram ice cream business, or even her old restaurant in New York, the one that closed. But the endless grind of first dates had sanded down her pride, so she stuck to honesty: She was a corporate chef at Alexa’s. “So we both work for Amazon,” Ruth said. “What are the odds?” “Honestly, this isn’t the first time this happened on a date,” Sierra said. “Though you’re the first chef I’ve gone out with. And I brought you to a competitor!” The Garden was not a competitor; Alexa’s did full table service, with good wines and produce pulled from the Whole Foods pipeline. Every dish was made by a person, at some point, from scratch. Ruth didn’t like how tightly she clung to this. “I appreciate Olive Garden’s way with breadsticks.” “I was so pumped when this place opened in the neighborhood.” “It’s not really my style?” “Then on the next date, take me somewhere with better breadsticks.” She laughed, and Ruth decided she liked her. Sierra came back to Ruth’s fixer-upper bungalow she’d run out of money to fixer-up, and they made out for a while. It was pleasantly awkward; neither quite knew why they liked the other yet, but what they stumbled onto was promising. Sierra said she’d be back for breakfast the next morning, a move Ruth honestly kind of appreciated because she’d worked a surprise double shift Friday and needed sleep. The next morning, Sierra let herself in with a bag of glossy chocolate Dunkin Donuts and sweet, milky coffee. Ruth asked if this was technically a second date, and Sierra slid her hands up Ruth’s loose T-shirt. The ice melted in the coffee by the time they got to it, but Ruth was glad for the doughnuts, even if they were a little stale. Both she and Sierra worked 70-hour weeks — animating an empowering kids show was a real nightmare, it turned out — so they stole time together when they could. Mostly, they spent Sundays together, since Ruth was working Saturday nights again, the exact thing selling out was supposed to fix, but Alexa’s kept expanding and taking her chefs to open in Venice and Inglewood and Glassell Park and then she was stuck expediting again. Alexa’s was technically a New American restaurant, built around exclusive deals with farmers and Whole Foods’ zero-waste pledge (if a bunch of bruised peaches went from Whole Foods to Alexa’s house jam, everybody except the cooks who had to scramble to make jam was happy). The menu was shaped by algorithms that analyzed purchases and searches, or that’s what corporate claimed; Ruth would never have put Huli Huli chicken and a brown butter pasta on the same menu, but she had dutifully developed the recipes and watched them sell out night after night. They were all too salty, fat-laden and yet flat, so perfectly calibrated to please so that they slid into pandering. Ruth kept putting off taking Sierra out for old-school Italian all the way across town. Instead, on Sundays they’d spend most of the day in bed, ordering in Sweetgreen if they couldn’t remember the last time they had vegetables, or Domino’s if they didn’t need to feel virtuous (mostly, they didn’t). Occasionally, they’d walk down to York or head to Figueroa for brunch. At the Houston’s in a historic former hotel, they always split the spinach artichoke dip, and at the Taco Bell Cantina that opened in one of the many former Mexican restaurants that used to line the neighborhood, they drank shitty bright blue frozen cocktails under a local graffiti artist’s mural that was preserved alongside the Taco Bell logo. Ruth hadn’t gone out this much since moving to Los Angeles, and it felt gross, sometimes, eating nothing but chain food. They were all too salty, fat-laden and yet flat, so perfectly calibrated to please so that they slid into pandering. But it’s not like there was very much else, not anymore. Late one Sunday morning while Sierra was listing off the usual brunch and delivery options, Ruth tried to express this to her, but all that came out was, “The thing is all these places kind of suck?” Sierra stared at her phone. “I will not let you slander Domino’s in bed.” One of the characters on her show was obsessed with greasy pizza, and she had personally designed the cheese pull. “Don’t you miss eating at mom and pops?” “Taco Bell and the Garden are mom and pops. They’re all franchises.” “We should make actual memories together.” “Sharing breadsticks at the Garden is a real memory!” Ruth took out her phone and started scrolling through Instagram. She found the image of pork belly drenched in a glossy red sauce she’d been thinking of and showed it to Sierra, saying they should try something authentic. So they put on pants and drove to Alhambra and went to this new Hunan restaurant every food person Ruth followed on Instagram was hyping up. When they opened their menus, Sierra let out a snort and pointed to the cute illustrated map of the restaurant’s 50 locations across China. After that, Ruth’s thrashing about chain restaurants became a thing, mostly a cute joke. Sierra regaled her friends about her obsessive chef girlfriend dragging her to an old-school burger stand literally surrounded by a luxury apartment building (Shake Shack was taking over the lease) and a 7/11 secretly serving Sri Lankan food and a backyard barbacoa set-up, all of them requiring at least an hour in traffic, maybe more. Ironically, this kind of restaurant tourism wasn’t a thing Ruth had had time for when she had her own restaurant, but now that she had gone corporate, sometimes there was such a thing as a slow week, so she could check out other people’s restaurants. Actually, Sierra would continue, the barbacoa stand they’d spent all Sunday seeking out had been glorious, but it was also so sad — the city had raided it the next week. The cooks at Alexa’s told Ruth the city was raiding street vendors all over the city, not just on commercial strips, now that the big chains were lobbying the city to clean up “unsafe” competition. For Sierra’s birthday, Ruth surprised her with tickets to a secret pop-up supper club high up in Montecito Heights, hosted on a terraced patio overlooking the hazy towers of downtown. It was run by two white, queer chefs, an impossibly attractive tattooed couple, who were maybe 10 or 15 years younger than Ruth; in New York she would have known them, but out here she was so disconnected. There was a land acknowledgment and prompt to send money to a local mutual aid fund, and then 15 small courses of pepino melons over glass noodles, blistered purple okra with popped buckwheat, and hot-smoked salmon collars with a yuzu-miso glaze, broken up by two “palate cleanser” courses: a Spam sando and tiny Magnum ice cream bars. The food wasn’t groundbreaking, but it was seasonal and playful, and Ruth had only a few quibbles over technique: The house sourdough was overproofed, and the popped buckwheat did nothing for the okra. “So what’d you think?” Ruth said on the ride home. “Great view,” Sierra said. “That whole house was insane.” “I really loved the corn pudding, but I’m not so sure about that buckwheat on okra.” “There were a lot of really pretentious courses, and then, like, tiny ice cream? I wish there’d been more stuff like the bread and butter.” “Oh, I thought it was overproofed,” Ruth said, but Sierra wasn’t even listening. “Maybe you’d hate your job less if you did pop-ups like this, too,” Sierra said. “Who says I hate my job?” “Ruth, you work for the biggest corporation in the world and you hate chain food.” “I hate chains because they swept in and took up everyone’s leases after COVID and now no one can open a restaurant.” “I guess this means you don’t want to go to McDonald’s right now.” “Why don’t we try to find a taco truck?” But even along Figueroa, which used to be lined with trucks, their bright signs scrolling BIRRIA MULITAS ASADA in the night, no one was out. The Garden was still open, though; Ruth sat in the car as Sierra ran in to get breadsticks. That week at work, Ruth’s job was to find a use for this new buttermilk the company had sourced. It was genuinely fermented buttermilk, and good quality; it was perfect for biscuits, and if she could find a recipe that worked at scale, Alexa’s could change this dairy farmer’s life. By the end of the week, she had a biscuit she thought worked, and she gave it to the pastry cooks to test for the next night’s service. She even texted Sierra to tell her to swing by early for dinner, the first time she’d invited her to work. Ruth grifted some company time making a fresh batch of the biscuits herself to bring down for Sierra; when she got to the kitchen, she saw the cooks unwrapping a huge frozen pallet of premade biscuits to lob in the oven, next to the batch the pastry cooks had left to rise. “What the hell is this?” “We’re A/B testing, apparently,” Alonzo, the new chef, said with a roll of his eyes. “Kyle said these really taste homemade.” Ruth wasn’t sure what kind of masochism inspired her to bring Sierra a basket with one of the packaged biscuits and one she’d made herself. Kyle was the efficiency officer sent down from Seattle to oversee what he called Alexa’s “workflow.” He’d already been asking a lot of questions about why there were pastry chefs working here when most desserts could be bought frozen, as if the whole point of Alexa’s hadn’t been to offer a premium restaurant experience. Ruth wasn’t sure what kind of masochism inspired her to bring Sierra a basket with one of the packaged biscuits and one she’d made herself. Sierra was sitting at the wine bar drinking ginger ale; Ruth tried not to watch her too intently as she munched on first the packaged biscuit, and then Ruth’s. “Which do you like better?” Ruth said. “Is this a test?” “Either you can tell me or let the cameras assessing your expressions take a guess.” “Wait, are you serious?” “The cameras are a staff rumor.” But they all wore fitness trackers that monitored the tone of their voices as they spoke to each other and to guests, and produced a rating on “harmony” and “service” at the end of shift. No one shouted in the kitchen. But the servers had learned that only the most obsequious tone of voice got them good customer interaction ratings. Sierra broke off a piece of both biscuits and chewed thoughtfully. “To be honest, I wish you guys had breadsticks.” She said it with a little flirty smile, trying to deploy it as an inside joke. “Clearly biscuits aren’t worth the trouble,” Ruth said, and took the basket back. “So this was a test.” “One of these is a recipe I’ve spent all week on, from a batch I made myself, for you. The other came frozen out of a box. If my own girlfriend can’t tell that my version is better, then there’s probably not much hope for me here.” “Babe, I don’t even like biscuits that much —” “When you get your check, be sure to leave your feedback about breadsticks.” Sierra asked her to sit down; Ruth made excuses about having to work back in the kitchen, and then hid, taking up space and messing up people’s flow. Kyle would not have approved; the step tracker was probably wondering who was standing stock still during a busy service. At one point, she tried scrolling Instagram to distract herself, and there was a message from one of the pop-up chefs, asking if Ruth could get them a job at Alexa’s until they finished rounding up all their investors, you know? They were sure they’d find a space soon. “You’ve never cooked for me before,” Sierra said on the car ride home. “Maybe if I’d had your cooking, I would have recognized it.” “You don’t seem to care much about food, so I don’t see the point.” “What the fuck, Ruth. I care about you.” “I mean, the cooking doesn’t make me who I am, right? We used to have to remind each other of that all the time. That we’re more than a job.” “I work for this huge company and make something I care about. Why can’t you try to too?” They had the conversation they always had, about how Ruth should start a secret pop-up, and Sierra would do all the branding and promotion, and then she’d get rich investors and live her dream again. The next week, Ruth got her pay docked for rudeness, probably from when she’d snapped at Sierra about the biscuits. On Sunday, they went out to the Garden, and Ruth ate breadsticks until her mouth tasted of nothing but salt. from Eater - All https://ift.tt/34UCH3U

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