July 4th: Fried Chicken, Independence, and a Bachelor Party of Sorts

Tamara serving up one of many, many platefuls of really good fried chicken. It’s the same fried chicken we always make now. There just happens to be an article about Edna Lewis, the very woman behind this very recipe, in today’s New York Times.



Then at the end, Ali did his magic and took the fried chicken, poked holes in it, and spread spicy garlic butter and raw garlic on top. This was then finished in the oven.


I begin reading of the Declaration of Independences. All the S’s looked like F’s.


“When in the course of human events...” Miss Robins is no doubt very proud of me.


Some rable rousers at our party then started lighting fireworks in the street. I and my fingers stayed a very safe distance away, despite Tamara’s very explicit linking of firework handling and manhood.


About this time Ali mentioned that he was going to go and smoke some sheesha. That’s when I declared, in my best imitation of some B-movie line, “Bachelor Party!” Yes, a bachelor party of mint tea and sheesha. Wild indeed.

Karl at first said, and I quote: “I can't go. I have to help Tamara clean up.” Speaking of manhood and lack thereof... Eventually he came to his senses and all six men left at the party piled in Ali’s van.


Deluxe it ain’t. But as a former Con Ed van, it does have a yellow mars light on the top. When I have borrowed the van, Ali has (for good reason) refused to tell me where the switch is. But on this ride, Ali turned it on, in honor of the wedding. I still don't know where the switch is.


This particular sheesha joint (there are many here) feels very authentic with tented over astro-turf backyard and a box of kleenex on every table.



Secure in my manhood, I ordered apple flavor.


Jim, ever doubting, went with the manly straight stuff.


Narguila technology. There are many parts.


Somehow, and not surprisingly, Ali served himself and all of us.





Caffeinated and tobacconated, went proceeded to the private Slovak social club across the streets where Ali is a regular. Ali is not Slovakian.


Two pigs heads appeared. Oink. Oink.





Zora’s father, Patrick, taking an aggressive bite.





Ali is more tender...


I drink. Jim wanted to pay the bill. Somehow the check for 5 of us drinking heavily for four hours came to $59.74. I think Ali beat him to the punch.





Like any good bachelor, I was ordered to get on the bar.


If only it weren’t for the low ceiling.


We left around 4 and I got home around 5. After riding Patrick back to Zora’s old place where he was staying, I had to “ghost” a bike with a flat rear tire back to my place, about 2 miles away. There are more fun things to do after a night of drinking. But all was well. Zora woke up when I got back and didn't get any more sleep, poor thing. I slept till noon.

Orange juice

It's sights like this that makes me know Zora is the woman for me.

Shake man makes the New York Times

From a story about the gentrification of the South Bronx

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/06/24/nyregion/24bronx.html

"As he has been doing for 16 years, Angel Villalona, a Dominican immigrant, still sells papayas, coconuts and mangoes from the side of a truck, as well as batidas - fruit milkshakes that he prepares by yanking the cord on his sidewalk generator, which feeds electricity to an Osterizer blender. But now one of his customers is as likely to be a sculptor who has just moved from Williamsburg as a longtime resident like Charles Bachelor, a truck driver who immigrated from Antigua."

A tri-borough kind of day

Sunday started with a ride over the Triborough Bridge, location of my last year’s fall. Details of this are on my other blog.

Riding through the Bronx on 138th St. I was cursing the Yankees and their no big bags and no plastic bottles rule. I was thirsty and wanted something to drink. I saw a man selling all the fruit of the Caribbean out of his van. I stopped and ordered a pineapple juice in Spanish. He took a container of cut pineapple and placed it in the blender. Then he added sweetened condensed milk (brilliant!). Then he added some ice. Now pay attention, because here’s where it gets good: he cranks up his generator and the blender whizzes to life. After about 15 seconds, he cut off the generator and my drink is done.


That’s a sugar-cane juicer on the left. I wish I liked sugar cane more.

Meanwhile, in Yankee stadium, here’s the view from the cheap seats. As cheap seats go, they were pretty good. I’ve always liked right behind home plate, no matter how high you go.


Yankee Stadium is no Wrigley Field (but then what is?). But I still see any ball field and think, “green… pretty.”

He’s not going to hit the ball.


The Cubs lost. The game was cheerless (for a Cubs’ fan). And there were four generally obnoxious guys setting next to us. But we were still happy. That’s (from right to left) Alan, Aaron, and Karine. Aaron and Karine were rooting for the Yankees.



Meanwhile, back in Astoria (I went via Manhattan, thus completing my tri-borough day), there was a little dinner at Tamara’s. Karl bought me a Greasy Pete's t-shirt.


We cooked:
sausage


venison


garlic shoots

The fire looks better without the flash, but the greens are blurry.



and shrimps


Tamara made a peach pie!



And my friends John and Rain were in from Boston.


John is doing much better with his handlebar moustache than I ever did with my failed attempt about a year-and-a-half ago.

I just took this picture to get a good shot of Tamara’s neighbor. He’s a very sweet Greek man. Landed on the beach on D-day, among other things.



The night ended at home with some of the absinthe I bought for John in Amsterdam. Needless to say, things get a little hazy around then. I remember blue-flamed sugar and visions of green ferries.

It was strange to wake up this morning and find money in my pocket. Now that’s a change from the usual empty wallet after a night of heavy drinking. There was $80 in my pocket! I couldn’t account for it at first, but it was payment for the absinthe.

Somewhere over Long Island.