My sister, Michelle, who has been vieing for a position as guest poster on my site, got a “better” offer last week, from a company that could, apparently, pay her more handsomely than I would. In celebration, I met her, her husband Tracy, and a small group of her friends at the Farmer’s Market on 3rd for some tacos and shit.

It was colder out than I expected and so I pretty much made up my mind to dip the minute I ate my food. Nothing makes me less happy than being on the verge of a cold, in the cold, in a dress. 

Most people were smart enough to order tacos from Loteria, the Mexican joint at the Farmer’s Market that makes really good tacos. Three people didn’t.  One was pregnant and her cravings directed her otherwise. The other two were just stupid. I ordered the Nopalitos salad and immediately regreted it cause who the fuck wants cactus salad when everyone else got delicious beefy tacos? Tracy went to that gross Brazilian place where you are charged based on the weight of your food and ended up with 3lbs of shit I refused to look in the eye while I ate my cactus.

When the food first came out, my sister realized two of her tacos were as she expected but one was made of nopales, or cactus:

The minute she gave it to someone else to eat (cause again, who the fuck wants cactus when you can have beef), we realized they had misunderstood my nopalitos salad order and just sent me a taco. There goes my dinner.

After some confusion followed by some damage control, out came my nopalitos:

It was good but might have made a better appetizer. Seeing everyone else’s tacos made me crave meat:

Sharesies? Tradesies? Some cactus for a chicken taco? No?

Fine, I’m out. My ride’s waiting for me in the parking lot anyway:

Recently I had a post-workout breakfast up the street from my new favorite gym at King’s Road Cafe. As Caitlin and I were basically being escorted to our seat, her custom sage ferrari gym stalker popped outta nowhere and insisted the hostess “take care” of us. Uh, thanks Giovanni. Good thing you intercepted us being seated to make sure we got seated. You’ve really got pull.

P.S. This is King’s Road, not Mozza, we don’t need your help.

P.P.S. your custom “metallic sage” is totally gunmetal grey off the lot, and you know it.

P.P.P.S. it is my mission to get you a picture of the man, and the car, very soon. Sit tight.

We both ordered the mixed vegetable omelette as a scramble and added chicken cilantro sausage. I’m convinced chicken is the fastest way to make sausage boring. Add cilantro or sun dried tomatoes or apples if you like. It just feels like the friend you wish you didn’t invite to the party. You should’ve invited her more fun sisters, beef , turkey and even pork, cause they always know how to spice things up. You hate me, don’t you? I hate me, too. And actually I kinda hate pork, too.

The mixed veggie scramble contained zucchini, cremini mushrooms, roasted red peppers, basil, pesto, caramelized onions and tomato. add chicken sausage. side of fruit. for caitlin, cottage cheese instead of fruit.

Looks pretty good, right? Made me a teensy full and nauseous but I think that’s cause I can’t quite grasp that workout+sausage does not a happy tummy make.

Last week I had dinner with my buddies Sophie and Joy at an old favorite, Ita-cho. And by old favorite, I don’t mean, it’s been my favorite for a long time now (although that was true before we ate there). I mean, it used to be a favorite, but my new position is that it is fucking disgusting and does not ever, in this lifetime, deserve my patronage again.

Joining us were Rollergirl, aka Heather Graham, and some model chick:

I use the term “joining us” loosely since we don’t know rollergirl, or the model, and we didn’t sit together or anything. But for 8:30 on a Thursday night, this place was pretty vacant, hence me pretending we all came together:

My favorite is that they simply could not squeeze us in at 8, but could seat us at 7:45. Thanks for being so accomodating, we didn’t even notice you were FUCKING EMPTY you liars! It’s ok, I’m ok. No really, I’m fine. Thanks.

This is like when you get to a club at 9:30 and they make you wait in line for 30 minutes cause they’re at capacity but when you get inside it’s just you and the strobe light. Or so I hear.

Except add to that fishy fish, mayo where it shouldn’t be, and terrible service. yuck.

We ordered spicy lotus root, shiso peppers and I think cold spinach with sesame sauce. Lotus root was fine. Hard to fuck up. Shiso peppers were fine, but could have been warmer. Spinach tasted like cold spinach with peanut butter. NOT cool. Lighting was bad so I don’t have pictures of everything since my camera is never ever coming and I’m doomed to use my iPhone forever (read: DIE www.closeoutgenius.com SCUM, DIE).

In keeping with Japanese tradition, they forced us to wait a good 45 minutes or so before we could order our next course. Sidenote, this is not Japanese tradition at all, and they should be ashamed.

We ordered one albacore sushi (Sophie) and two spicy albacore cutrolls, no mayo (Joy, me). Sophie also ordered Age Dashi Tofu, and she pronounced it with such conviction that I wish I could add a sound bite. The dish involves deep fried tofu cubes served in a “flavored” sauce, aka probably soy sauce.

Oh and we also ordered spicy tuna on crispy rice, which, if you’ve ever eaten at Izakaya, HOLLA, you know it’s the shit. Unless of course, you ordered that shit here and you essentially got what looks like your cat barfed up tuna on a piece of melba toast, add mayo. HATE.

Everything was just unappealing and lacking freshness. The service was not so much rude as it was confused and slow. Like, you mean, you want to eat HERE? So…I should take your order? and after that I should bring you a check? huh?

See my yelp review for one of my better metaphors yet. no wait, simile. See my yelp review for one of my better similes yet? that doesn’t sound right.

Last night, Caitlin and I met at the gym at 6, where our wildest dreams of belly dancing were supposed to come true but instead came crashing down when Mayatu, or whatever the instructor’s name is, flaked on the class. So we ellipticalled the shit out of each other, then her diesel boyfriend made us do situps no one should ever have to do without getting paid, and finally we made a break for Golden State.

Golden State is a simple new restaurant on Fairfax that serves burgers, hot dogs, sausage, beer, and, most importantly, Scoops ice cream. It is also home of the burger that I’m pretty sure Kamal, Caitlin’s boyfriend, eats every single day.

We grabbed some menus and sat at a booth. Naturally, I assumed they’d want to sit next to each other but Kamal sat opposite Caitlin and when I offered him the chance to share her side he said, “Oh, that’s ok, I’m this guy”:

What guy? Chicken guy? Ohhhhhhh. You let your elbows run wild while eating. got it.

Do you ever feel like you’re about to enjoy some really great chicken apple sausage, but…you’re being watched???

Scarecrows on the roof are not fun and surprising. They scared the shit out of me and I do NOT appreciate it. Frankly I’d rather see a bunch of crow and pigeon shit than children of the corn on your building.

Moving on. Caitlin and I each ordered chicken apple sausage, as I alluded to five seconds ago, with some sort of cucumber salad on the side. Hers came with saurkraut and some other shit. Mine was naked in all it’s glory:

Kamal, Caitlin’s other sausage, hates any form of sauce or condiment intruding upon his perfect burger. He ordered two cheeseburgers and the minute they were set down the look on his face changed from “happy to be here!” to “hold on just a minute what the fuck is this?!”:

Without even so much as a bun lift, Kamal knew something was wrong. Caitlin immediately tried to quell the situation, insisting there was no ketchup. Kamal’s no amateur though. While the quality of the pic isn’t great, you get the idea that he is making a serious ketchup accusation here, knowing before he even looked that some form of unwanted saucy condiment had crashed the party uninvited:

After some discussion and some disbelief, reality sets in…There IS ketchup. On both burgers. All over the place.

Now he has to be that guy that can’t just scrape it off and you KNOW he doesn’t want to ask them to start from scratch. I go through this all the time, pal, but with mayonnaise, and as long as you’re super nice about it, it’s no big deal. Besides, wouldn’t you rather have a loogie on your burger than a tomato product? me too.

p.s. pumping iron should not be followed by sausage, even if it’s chicken sausage. your body does not approve or appreciate it. it wants a protein shake or a big salad. Duh.