Got some culture over the past couple of weeks. Brother and sis-in-law were in town, and we embarked on an epic dining adventure spanning a full 6 days.
One of the dining experiences was at Commis, a Michelin starred restaurant. Don't get me wrong - the food was good. But it wasn't $85/person (after gratuity, turn that into an easy $100) for 8 courses, served over 2.5 hours. Also, the portion sizes were ... small. Since this is my second experience dining at these types of places (first being Corazon del Tierra, Valle de Guadalupe, Baja California, Mexico), I think that I just don't really gush over these. The platings were fabulous, some of the courses were excellent, as in, please give me 10 more of these. And the service was like watching synchronized swimming. But really, if I pay $100 and want to go eat tacos afterwards because I'm still hungry, I'm a bit disappointed.
The hit of the trip was Tuba, a low-key Moroccan place tucked away on 23rd x Guerrero. Interspersed with a lot of oysters. I mean, A LOT.
Also, went to the De Young museum to see the David Hockney exhibit, which was fantastic. A lot of mixed media, including a series of paintings that he'd done on his ipad. Seriously awesome stuff. His watercolors were great, and one of the "cubist" video series that is on display is great. As a plus, Bulgari has an exhibit w/ a lot of Elizabeth Taylor's collection, a lot of which was purchased back by Bulgari after her death. Ostentatious, and quite gaudy, but who doesn't like staring at baubles?
Tuesday, November 05, 2013
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Life Reflections
My grandmother passed away in December, 2012. She was just slightly over 100 years old. As I reflect on her life, I think that she was among the most remarkable women I have ever known. She was born in the plantations of Maui, married, was widowed, married again, and raised 7 daughters. She opened a supermarket after the end of WWII with her 2nd husband, whom she remained with until his death.
She had 19 grandchildren, all of whom loved her to pieces. All of us would like to think that each of us, individually, was her favorite. That's how she was. She made all of us feel special. For me, I loved her stories. They were like little time capsules for me, told in the pidgin-english patois that we speak here, even stronger than normal, and all the more colorful by the strange Chinese/Japanese//Spanish/Filipino words picked up by a childhood spent in the plantation life on Maui.
I remember stories of the supermarket, where my grandpa painted the weekly specials on the window. And the stories of the wartime, when my mom was an infant, and she got my grandpa a job on the plantation, and then convinced him to start doing block printing on linoleum tiles with the world's first paint roller (made of clothes hanger and hose pipe). Or the tales of looking for grandpa's book on Sunday for his weekly radio reading (and finding them in the wood pile).
It's hard to believe that she's been gone for nearly a year. I went home recently to visit my parents, and her room was empty. Devoid of her, and her things, the house didn't feel right. It felt cavernous and empty, lonely and quiet. I caught myself walking into her room nearly every day to tell her hello - only to find an empty bed, and no reclining chair.
I miss you, Grandma.
She had 19 grandchildren, all of whom loved her to pieces. All of us would like to think that each of us, individually, was her favorite. That's how she was. She made all of us feel special. For me, I loved her stories. They were like little time capsules for me, told in the pidgin-english patois that we speak here, even stronger than normal, and all the more colorful by the strange Chinese/Japanese//Spanish/Filipino words picked up by a childhood spent in the plantation life on Maui.
I remember stories of the supermarket, where my grandpa painted the weekly specials on the window. And the stories of the wartime, when my mom was an infant, and she got my grandpa a job on the plantation, and then convinced him to start doing block printing on linoleum tiles with the world's first paint roller (made of clothes hanger and hose pipe). Or the tales of looking for grandpa's book on Sunday for his weekly radio reading (and finding them in the wood pile).
It's hard to believe that she's been gone for nearly a year. I went home recently to visit my parents, and her room was empty. Devoid of her, and her things, the house didn't feel right. It felt cavernous and empty, lonely and quiet. I caught myself walking into her room nearly every day to tell her hello - only to find an empty bed, and no reclining chair.
I miss you, Grandma.
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