Spoiler Alert
You may wish to not read this if any of the following categories of my Real-Life offends, sickens, motivates you to UN-Friend me, or compels you to report me to the authorities.
In general and in unspecific order those categories might include…
* Scatological mentions, (humorous or otherwise).
* Adult in nature (typically humorous only where I am concerned; for you it’s always tragic.
* Critical, Satirical, and Angry outbursts… just being myself…
If, on the other hand, you find this blog to your liking, well, that makes you an even better person than your Mom told you that you were/are your entire life.
Ok then, please don’t say I didn’t warn you…
Later that evening (after crashing the New York Chinatown food tour), where I got my dumpling fix in spades, turns out that I became a hungry man after several hours of traipsing the streets of NYC without constant caloric intake.
The Mid-Town West area near our hotel isn’t known for excellent Chinese food, and yes, believe it or not, even though we ate Chinese food earlier in the day, that’s what we were feeling like again later that evening. So, we consulted many online sources and decided upon a place called Szechuan Gourmet, within walking distance, that conjured-up dishes using the tongue-numbing Szechuan peppers we had been jonesing for.
Oh, allow me to back-up a bit. The next day we were planning on going to Williamsburg in Brooklyn for their hipper-than-thou, hotter-than-hell, and extremely jam-packed foodie festival. We were both looking forward to this event for quite some time. However, there were some signs that hinted (a pre-destiny of sorts?) of things to come.
We’d be going there with our dear sweet friend Elissa, who made her way to New York from Philly just to spend some time with us. She’d lived in New York City for several years prior to moving to Philly, (just a small note for those of you keeping score). That said, you’d think she’d know her way around the city, right? Bless her heart.
Well, we’d meet in Mid-Town and make our way to the East Side Ferry (because Brooklyn is to the EAST of Manhattan – that’s where it is, really, across the East River) and enjoy a pleasurable and gustatory delight this festival promised to deliver.
We hopped aboard a cross-town bus to get to the East River to catch aforementioned ferry, but guess what? We hopped aboard the wrong freaking cross-town bus and went all the way WEST, to the Hudson. Big fail. I looked at Elissa with my best WTF?!? glare, then laughed it off, and playfully goofed on Elissa for her positively blonde {directionally-challenging} moment regarding NYC navigation. No biggie, we’d get there eventually, is what we said.
Ok, so, back to the previous night’s dinner at Szechuan Gourmet. Or should I say our apres-repast? The dishes we ordered, eggplant in garlic sauce, a prawn this-or-that, and a beef with mushrooms each hit the spot… at the moment. I mean, there were no bodies writhing about on the dining room floor or anything like that. So we dug-in and, for the most part (aside from my usual quietly-critical remarks like, “needs more sugar and ginger” or “the beef’s kinda chewy, wouldn’t you agree?”) everything was as good as expected.
But then, not long after, upon arrival back to our relatively close hotel, Lin bee-lined for the loo and, had a brief moment, alone, with her body’s personal reaction to Szechuan Gourmet. Poor dear.
All things pass… eventually. We went to sleep rather early to prepare for our epic food journey the following morning. But whatever upset Lin’s tummy the previous night manifested itself inside me in ways I can’t even begin to explain. But I’ll try…
I awakened distended, perturbed, painfully-gassy, and about to `splode like Mount Saint Matthew. A shit storm was a-brewin’ and I was beginning my day in Hell’s sewer. (Nowhere near Hell’s Kitchen, where I got a bloody shave and a haircut, almost needing to visit the E.R. afterwards). Clearly, that’s another story.
Stumbling to the toilet, I’d tough it out, no biggie, I’d been there before (we all have…don’t judge me!), but after the first hour or two embracing the porcelain shrine, I decided that I’d live up to my promise and do my best to make the Brooklyn food festival.
I’d just load up on Pepto pills and some other binding agent (and a spare roll of T.P.) and I should be fine, just fine, right?
But that wasn’t the case.
If you’re still reading this, you know the feeling when you just MUST sit down or something terribly dramatic will happen. And it usually does, after a short while, at least. But normally, it’s in-private.
I was whining on the ferry ride over to Brooklyn, and wouldn’t you know it, their bathrooms were out of order. Unusable. I couldn’t even pick the lock on the door.
So, we arrive in Brooklyn, finally, on a terribly hot and humid day, jam-packed and surrounded by all humanity (or so it seemed), not unlike a typical day in Calcutta. Not the best place to find a location to relax in, never mind a toilet, which I, dear God, needed so much.
Meanwhile, all through my gastric distress, hunched-over like Quasimodo, all Elissa could do was describe, in detail, how one of her friends got sick, really sick, at the Passover Seder she had once gone to.
That did the trick. I shat myself.
It was horrible, and terribly embarrassing. Lin began to sprint around Williamsburg to find a toilet for me, while Elissa giggled up a storm at how peculiar this all was. I mean, really, how could it be this was happening to her again so soon?
I saw the Port-a-Pottie area outside the gates and, with a full payload in my pants, tried waiting my turn for the next available stall.
I decided to try using one of the “Vendors Only” stalls and actually found one that was open. What happened for the next twenty or so minutes was just plain horrific. Some may leave their hearts in San Francisco, but what I left behind in Williamsburg wasn’t something you’d give to your worst enemy. That place, I’m confident, has been condemned by now.
Embarrassed, battered, bruised, and without undergarments, one of the girls suggested I shop for pants. All I could muster up was, “let’s just find a fucking place to sit down, hopefully outside.”
My dream of an all-day-long taste-gasm was not to be. Never even got inside the food festival. I shit you not.
What follows is Lin’s post on Trip Advisor about the restaurant that “allegedly” got me sick. I find it quite hilarious… now, that is…
Lin’s Review of the Chinese Place
Next stop, Barcelona…