Showing posts with label Smoked Meat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Smoked Meat. Show all posts

08 March 2016

Basement coffee, cosmetic bitches


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solid cafe, nice people

Finally, a chink saw another chink in a cafe. Although, predictably, a chink saw this (presumably) lesser chink in a downtown cafe: Cafe Myriade in the metcalfe Club Monaco.

First time a chink noticed it, a chink was headed to dunns for some smoked meat 
(yo, not the main my chink?hmmmmm)mmmmmm-

Usual third wave shit. You got your bistro floors, French salon flavor, turquoise single couch along the wall. It's actually a nice cozy little (EMPHASIZE LITTLE) thang, though. This chink is thinking a solid 7/10. What rubs a chunk the wrong way are the various copies of expensive "hipster" new age editions of popular young person books read mainly by strange white bros wearing tortoise shell glasses, lumberjack tuques, big beards (maybe Stan smiths) (apologies to simón, you know I still love you). 

Among the shelves backed by mirrors, 1Q84, second sex, 3 hundred dollar canvas portfolio books on the French Riviera, and 7 hardcover Hilton Als (New Yorker drama reviewer) books glare at a chink as a chink's like, I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond
      all this fiddle.
   Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
      discovers in
   it after all, a place for the genuine. 

hmmmm lolno 

 还是汉语  ;最美最纯。
 蒙牛蒙牛;蒙牛蒙牛
 跳过老外;哈哈呵呵


-坎耶韦斯特先生


People a chink saw n shit:
Botox belles
Blonde brutes
Butch bois
(of course)
Basic bItcHes

The place did get stuff ‘locally,’ well they supported local business. On the wall there’s a chalkish sign on a blackboard(?)(that probably costs as much as a chink's cousin's yearly salary) girded by a frame (that looks like a knockoff of one of those fancy french meuuuwzaaay frames(prob made by a chink toddler)) that says:
—LIVRES PAR—
“Drawn & Quarterly”
—PAINS PAR—
“HOF KELTSEN”
—EPICERIE—
• CAFÉ RHUBARBE
• SOCIÉTÉ-ORIGINAL
• St. LEON MAPLE SYRUP
So they’re conscious about local stuff and shit. It’s a good look/vibe/etc. this gets poor homie wei’s approval. But the problem

La question était en anglais et pis j'tais comme:
Well I was a babysitter when I was fourteen years old but I don't think that's any interest for you

is that it’s in the basement of a Club Monaco. But’s it’s nice and isolated

The Japanese are very like... Very good in their design

and the people around say funny things out loud in italics.
(of course in zee quaybaykooowaz accsaunt)

other lesser chink is gone, and a chink's like shit, again we in a place where everyone else is a white woman.

Yet, for all the women in the café, there’s an abject
lack of women authors on the shelves besides the second sex, be-
cause of course,
       let’s complain about there being
only white men in the canon, when we forget

                     About all the other women out there in the
world to read / besides the trite ones that anyone could cite
a chink himself, master misogynist, chinkonfucius women
oppressor
      got like probably more than a

      dozen women writers in the
books in his bag. A chink on most days mainly reads
women if anything else, like shit, all these bitch ass hoes
talking, and they don’t even know joyce carol oates from fucking
john updike

and shit or
      something, because all words said by
a man are sexist oppression PATRIARCHY
joan didion on celine, they Instagram her like bad bitch 
alert; / vogue Instagram that like mad rich alert.

BAD BITCHES ARE THE LINK UP
In all seriousness, you make what you wanna make. A chink made it to America. And yall just complaining about shit you've already got and shit. If you’re dumb and read what people tell you, don’t blame the system. Make your own shit. You can’t find your own books? Maybe you’re just stupid, like bruuuuhhhh. Chink from the fucking 陕北沙滩大山 can find these books. And you whining all day?—shit, code that language bruh—you gotta hide behind those gimmicks bruh?

Here:
Millay, moore, bishop, walker, didion, oates, morrison, hurston, hd. Read that, / Shit maybe you smart / you loyal / you’re grateful. Make some money. / Go buy some books. Shit. 

Dont hate the groove
If a bitch wanna choose gonna shake it loose


29 February 2016

North Korea, ATMs, Ouzo, The Main


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best pic i found on insta w/ #saintlaurent

For a time last semester, I would go to Midway on random weekdays until 3 and stretch it out until 5. Now it’s reading week and of course I fall back into the cycle. The way it worked last semester, I’d text Miranda and ask if she wanted to go to Midway at 2ish. Sometimes, she’d say no because she had an assignment the next day. Basically all the time, we’d just go. It was like a pointless game of chicken or some twisted, privileged drinking ritual, I guess. Doesn’t hurt that they have good drinks at Midway.

This time, I got the upper hand early on. By 2:30, it seemed like I was winning, or at least on the verge of getting her to quit. Then, she plays the trump card and suggests The Main and ouzo. Didn’t see that coming. I wasn’t about to bitch out and let her win, so, by 2:50, I was standing outside the Main with a water bottle full of ouzo. Just the way it goes. Pride before prudence. She got there a couple minutes later and we go inside.

I also wasn’t about to drop twenty on a dinner after I’d already eaten so I just let her buy something. She can’t finish a full meal, which means that I basically get the fries, coleslaw pickles, as much smoked meat that, honestly, I want to take. Oh, she’s on Lent. I got the cherry cola as well. So, I essentially got a full meal from this. I chalk this up as a net win for me even if this went on for another three hours.

In The Main, there’s always this really nice woman who serves us. This night, we didn’t see her at first and an elderly lady served us. It seemed like she was ready to close up and go to bed. Maybe, we shouldn’t drink there if this lady is about ninety and clearly too tired for this kind of shit. But, out comes the middle aged one and all order is restored. Everytime she’s served us, we’ve drank ouzo. Tradition is tradition. We always tip well.

I hadn’t seen Miranda for a while, so there was a lot to talk about, but I’d spent a lot of time with other people recently, so I wasn’t too much into talking. Instead, we watched wack reporting courtesy of CNN. Interestingly, it was a Haier TV. Reminds me of my grandmother’s. HA. There was a story about some American guy detained by North Korea. Goof-ass clown. Keep flaunting your privilege and go watch some poverty porn in North Korea. Straight up: WHITES, STAY HOME. North Korea has every right to detain some overprivileged college bro who goes to their country to fetishize their depravity and steal a flag as a trophy. Frankly, the guy was the worst actor I’ve ever seen. The speech sounded like a thirteen-year-old prepubescent boy who was trying to read a shitty script in drama class. Whatever.

So, during CNN and smoked meat, the boss comes by and tells us that they’re closing. Alarms start sounding, in my head, and I pour the ouzo into our glasses of water. The guy had a pretty stern tone. I guess he either hoped that no one would be there at 3 on Sunday night/ Monday morning, or he was pissed I didn’t order. And of course, as soon as I poured the ouzo and the water turned cloudy, the nice server comes and gets us to pay. It was an awkward exchange. I kept staring at the white kid’s theatrics on CNN, hoping to avoid eye contact. We then drink about a glass each of ouzo split with water and we’re on our way. Everyone said goodbye to us and wished us a good morning. Ahhhhh

First stop on the ATM tour of lower plateau: Banque Nationale at Saint-Cuthbert and Saint-Laurent. It was pretty mediocre at that point since we barely had that much to drink. We got in and passed around my beautiful PVC Nalgene bottle and just kind of sat there for a bit. I probably threw some jabs at Miranda. Lighting wasn’t the greatest. Neither was the privacy. About ten minutes in, a Quebecois voice blares out the intercom: “Est-ce que je peux vous aider?” It’s hard to render the effect in print.

Next stop, Banque Laurentienne around Roy and Saint-Lo. This one I think I remembered from before. Sure enough, five minutes in an alarm sounded. I was reminded of elementary school fire drills. We probably got in a couple sips.

So we kept walking and we end up at the B & Y grocery store. Luckily, I had no milk or garlic or cilantro. So I bought my groceries and we got to about half way down the bottle. We walked around for a bit and a man seemed like he was following us. Oh, there’s a CIBC ATM in the grocery store.

Now a double feature. On Prince-Arthur and SL, a TD and a Scotia gave the night some much needed anglo flair. At least I hoped they would. TD had a preemptive alarm before I even put my hand on the door, and Scotia was closed.

Final Destination: Banque Nationale. Dos. We got to about three quarters done and then the disembodied Quebecois man returned. I guess the only way to describe it this time would be to equate myself to Moses. I felt like my Jews, the various ATMs, Egyptian tyrants, the droplets of ice rain outside, and my God, the Quebecois voice. What a glorious time.  Hold up. Moses was imaginary, so no harm done.

I am a stranger in a stranger land.