Food & Cocktails

My dad was a bit concerned with my excursion to the hospital (Sick Sense, November 6 entry), so he advised me to go malling last weekend. I went malling, alright...and more.

Saturday, 12 noon

A guy friend and I had a Burgoo lunch. I'm a regular visitor of the restaurant, and although they serve a variety of sumptuous dishes, I have only tried the pizza and pasta recipes. We had garden fresh pizza (his choice) and baked macaroni (mine), both in regular sizes. Despite their being regular, the servings were hefty so both dishes were meant for sharing. In fact, all of their dishes are meant for sharing. That's how goodish the servings are.

Anyway, the food. What I really love about Burgoo pizzas are their very tasty dough. I notice that some people don't eat the end crust of the pizza, and I don't blame them for wasting away food. Some pizzas merely rely on their toppings for tastiness that the end crusts aren't given much attention. Not so with Burgoo. Whenever I eat pizza at this restaurant, I cut the end crust and save it for later. This part of the pizza is so delicious, you can eat it solo. The garden fresh pizza kind of reminded me of Shakey's veggie version; only the former's vegetables aren't that baked into the bread, so you can still taste their freshness. Although there are toppings you cannot make me eat - green peas, mushroom and black olives - I did enjoy the pizza. True to its name, the cheesy baked macaroni was really cheesy; there were bits of baked cheese oozing out from the pasta's holes. It was tasty too, although I could do with a little more salt.

My latest visit to Burgoo did not change my impression of the place. I frequent the branch located at SM North's The Block. The crew are still exceptionally friendly and the service still superb. What's unique about Burgoo is the doodling while waiting for the orders. The table is covered with white paper and the customers are given crayons to doodle with. One question though: Are the pieces of paper recyclable? After Burgoo, we checked out Beowulf. Although I didn't get to watch it in 3-D, it's the nastiest performance capture film. Ever.

8 in the evening

I met my closest friends at Mr. Kabab's for dinner. I'm not a fan of Meditteranean food, but for this restaurant, I'm making an exception. It's located along Quezon Avenue corner West Avenue, and was first introduced by an old friend, who, knowing my propensity to shun new dishes, insisted I try the restaurant's Keema. I fell in love with it. Whenever I visit the place, I always order Keema, a dish made of ground beef and spices. So it came as no surprise when I ordered Keema for dinner that night. My cousin loves their chicken recipes; she got one for herself. Their fruit shakes are the best...brings to mind that song by Kelis.

When you visit the place though, I suggest you take the cab because of the scarcity of parking spaces. The restaurant is packed on a gimik night too, so if you're an impatient person, this isn't the place for you. A word to the wise: Wait a bit more because it's worth it. Seriously.

10 in the evening

After dinner, my friends wanted to have a few drinks. I was a bit tired, so I wanted to bail out because 'a few drinks', in my friends' lingo, meant 'drinks until the wee hours of the morning'. I was right. We retired from the place at around 3. The place was Pacific Islander, located along Timog Avenue. I'm not into bar-hopping so I have no idea how the rates of cocktails go, but after looking at the menu, my friends declared the prices to be reasonably cheap. Their word is the law. The drinks may be cheap but they were delicious; the place is decent even, none of those rowdy people. The atmosphere is just right for a bar: Not too dark, not too bright. I had fun, I have to admit. I plan to bring my cousins there on my second visit.

I must mention a certain incident about Pacific Islander regarding its valet service. 10 minutes after we ordered, my friend realized that she didn't have her cellphone with her. Racking her brains, she remembered she left it on the passenger's seat of my car. True enough, there it was lying where she remembered it would be. I have to commend the guy who serviced my car; unfortunately, we didn't get his name. Such honest service deserves only the highest praise.

Sunday, 3 in the afternoon

Another guy friend and I went to Trinoma for an afternoon of pizza. Yes, pizza. This time, I opted for Yellow Cab, one of my favorite pizza establishments. If you're in a large company, this is the place to go because of their huge, and I mean huge, pizzas. It's not just the size though; this establishment can boast of yummy pizzas with generous toppings. My favorite from their range of flavors is the New York Classic - it's pepperoni heaven!

I wonder where I'll go next weekend?

Sick Sense

I hate hospitals. Nothing on doctors, though; it's just the hospitals I hate. Their antiseptic smell has death written all over my nostrils. I don't know why I have this abomination of hospitals. I have not seen anyone die in a hospital; neither do I have any real-life emergency drama, ER style, that has anything to do with hospitals. In fact, I don't remember any instance why I should feel traumatize with hospitals. Half of my family members belong to health-related services, with four more on the way. I can count with my one hand the number of times I have been in a hospital and those instances were merely due to my parents' insistence that I have a check-up. Better safe than sorry seems to be their motto when it comes to health. And those check-ups aren't life-threatening either. Maybe it's just one of those things you grow up to hate, like peanut butter sandwiches.

I find it really funny though, my hatred of hospitals. Up until high school, my greatest ambition was to become a doctor, a neurosurgeon, even. The reason why I took up Law, which is at the other end of the professional spectrum, and gave up my kiddie ambition of becoming a doctor altogether, was because the University where I passed my pre-medical course was too stifling. Meanwhile, the University where I passed my pre-Law course was too spacious - I had to ride a jeepney to get from one building to the other. Lousy way to choose a career, I know. Oh well, I knew I'd suck at being a doctor anyway.

For one, I'm terrified of hospitals, for reasons I cannot fathom. Second, I get queasy with the sight of blood, even my own. There was this one time, well, two times actually, when I had to have my blood taken for tests - one for hyperthyroidism, the other for anemia - I cried...both times. And I was in my late twenties already. Third, I realized that the only reason the medical profession appealed to me before was the starkly white doctor's hospital suit.

I had an emergency room experience today because of chest pains my mom made a big deal about. The process I had to go through was not at all pleasant. I had to share sections with men. Thank goodness for that really considerate intern or nurse, I don't really know the difference, he transferred me to the end of the room where I had a section all by myself. And better too, because the ECG involved sticking whatever to areas near my breast. I don't mind getting nude for doctors (it's an occupational hazard on their part), but getting nude for other patients is a whole different story. Anyway, there's nothing wrong with me except for an inflammation due to stress. Nothing that a nice warm bath and a relaxing vacation can't fix.

I still hate hospitals but I like watching television series pertaining to the medical field. That's probably the extent of my fascination for ERs, or ORs, or whatever else acronyms the health department come up with. But I have a huge respect for doctors, and there are times when I would still imagine myself in those white coat with a stethoscope hanging around my neck. When I meet doctors in hospitals, I cannot stop myself from gazing at them. They seem so...white. Only I prefer power suits and briefcases now. Much more colorful.

The Sweet Month of November

As of press time (hahaha!), I'm back to the stress and the city. It has been a wonderful vacation of doing nothing.

The month of October has been a good month, blog-speaking. I've managed to write reviews of movies and books. But the most wonderful thing that has happened to my blog is the makeover. Months have it been since my first entry in July and the look of my blog then was a bore. I still can't figure out how to paste pictures in my blog entries but I'm way, way satisfied with how my blog looks now.

As to the real world, still waiting for that job I applied for. I'm thinking of working on a transition job, as I like to call it, while waiting for the go ahead on the other job. Gives me something to do, and some dough to spend, in the meantime.

I've Got Mail

My parents and their friends were playing mah jong one night, so I had to retire to my room early. Since I only had a few more pages of Amy Tan's The Bonesetter's Daughter, I was through in a jiffy. I went to my brother's room (I used to share rooms with him, so some of my stuff's still there) in search of a book to reread. Instead, I found myself opening the dresser drawer and lo and behold! Stacks of letters saved from high school! I emptied the drawer of its contents, sought the privacy of my room, and was immediately consumed by a nostalgic air.

I once proclaimed myself to be the worst correspondent ever. I got relatives living and working abroad but I don't recall having written them letters. I might have sent them cards on occasions. But the letters I found in the drawer - from friends and relatives - is evidence that I was once a very diligent letter writer, at least to my high school friends. I would not have gotten so many missives if I had not written back. Why did the communication end? Who stopped writing to whom?

I recall that I was pretty excited when I received mails from those I left behind in the province; I couldn't wait to write back. I guess my excitement just waned, and the hassle of having to go to the post office added to the decline. While I was going through each letter, I regretted not having continued the communication, or opened it on my end if it had been their side who stopped. Even with the advent of email, there was silence on both our ends. Sure, I receive emails from friends, college and law school; a few from high school. But 'communication' has gone down to emails forwarded from whoever to whoever and which just happened to land in your inbox if you managed to be in somebody's contacts. One may argue that at least messages are being forwarded to me. Thank goodness for small blessings! Yeah, I meant that sarcastically.

There's still something different and profound in receiving a note written in longhand and mailed the good old-fashioned way; as if a lot of thought is put into the letter, into you as recipient.

I want to share a letter from a college friend. I don't remember the exact reason why she wrote me this note though. I might have whined to her about this guy I really liked who, unfortunately for him, did not like me back. Anyway, the letter:

My mother likes to tell me that a Bachelor's Degree in Political Science means very little when facing the real world. Much as I'd like to disagree with her (after all, who wants to hear that four years of frying in the fires of the UP academe amounts to nothing?), I have to admit that at the end of the day, she is right.

For example: One of the things UP never taught us was how to fall in love safely. Safe sex is easy and cheap, to be bought for the price of a condom or a packet of pills. But safe love is an anomaly, an oxymoron. There is no such things as a risk-less love; and even if there were, I'm pretty sure they didn't tell us about it while we were studying Rousseau and the Social Contract.

There are certain things we'd like to believe about love: That there is one person designed especially for us, that we will know beyond all doubt when we meet that person, and that all our troubles will melt away like ice on a hot Philippine summer day when we fall in love. We like to believe in bells ringing when we kiss, in theme songs, in moonlight romances and deep voices crooning everlasting love to the mellow strumming of a guitar.

But one thing UP taught us was how to be practical, and how to face reality. And this is reality:

There are no soul mates, no white knights, and no ideal men. There are no ringing bells, no perfectly-fulfilled fantasies, and no escape routes via the love boat. There is no man who will ever be able to live up to your ideal. No one man can be all you hope and dream of, all you want and need.

But there are men who are willing to try. These are the men you are looking for.

You are a beautiful friend, inside and out. In and of yourself, you are complete, and need look no longer for your 'other half'. There is no other half, only you, and you are sufficient. This is what the man who loves you will have to learn and admire about you.

Enjoy your single life to the fullest. Life as another person's 'significant other' will come soon enough.