Monday, January 29, 2007

Dave's Suntanned Picanha

I wasn’t as depressed as I thought I’d be this weekend, considering that Dave was basking on the beach in Hawaii and I was, well, not.

Dave earned a free trip for two to Hawaii, but I’ve taken off entirely way too many days from work to join him this time around. The catch was that he had to go on these specific dates. Otherwise, we would have postponed it.

When we were in Brazil, one of our friends from Rio was telling us a story about his exciting, new fat stomach (used to be in great shape but then drank way too much). He compared it to "Picanha"--one of the types of meat you get at Brazilian barbecues (you know the ones—the guys come around with long skewers and offer you an all-you-can-eat variety of meats). He says that to brown the Picanha better, it’s salted beforehand. So, whenever he goes to the beach, he dips into the ocean, salts his “Picanha” and tans his fat belly. Long story short, all I could think about was Dave and his lonely Picanha (he’s got a little stomach going himself) lounging on the beach all by themselves.
While I was busy feeling sorry for poor, impoverished Dave, his company sponsored a dinner at Pearl Harbor, where they ate on the U.S. Naval Battleship, "Mississippi." That's, like, totally a lot cooler than eating (or, rather, not eating) where I did...

I went to Mario Batali’s restaurant, Otto. I’ve been there a few times before and it’s great, inexpensive and continuously packed. I wasn’t surprised that there was an hour and fifteen minute wait, nor did I mind waiting. After all, there’s a full bar and apps. After two hours, however, I got pretty annoyed. The Skeeze went up to ask how long the wait would be and they waved him away without asking his name. “It’ll be soon.” Needless to say, we left.

Other than that, my weekend was spent working on a project I’ve been toying with for the past few months; debating on whether or not I want to move to Chicago (landing again on an affirmative “maybe,” although I’ll go even if I do love New York more than any other city in the world); dodging Paulo Coelho’s cousin’s stench; not working out and cooking dumplings.

Next weekend I’m going to see Dave. I've decided that I'll spend half my time there making him dumplings so that he can warm them up for lunch everyday and feed his tan Picanha while I’m not around to make him lunch. I’m totally his little housewife—2,000 miles removed.

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