I’m Never Drinking Again…

Until this weekend anyway. Valentine’s Day was a total throwback to my yesteryears of junior high: i got stood up by a cute guy. I was pretty pissed off at the perp (I wish I could succumb to sour grapes here as I would feel instantly better), and I’ve since removed all traces of his number from my phone because I’d rather eat glass shards than see him again. Naturally, getting rejected was a humbling, albeit alien experience, dredging up those mortifying moments from adolescence when my face was wrapped in orthodontic shrapnel, my hairstyle was a deadringer for Joey Lawrence’s bowl cut circa 1985, and “psyche” was the operative word following invitations by some swoon-beast or crush to attend the latest school dance. The only therapy I could think of was drinking and dancing myself into a state of oblivion.

Which I did in mass quantities at Schileen’s Pub in Westville (http://www.schileenspub.com/). I mean, what better way to spend the shitty remainder of a romantic holiday getting pawed and grinded on by strange, not-always-hot guys. Of course I loved every second of being treated like a piece of meat! Schileen’s is actually a bad-ass little joint considering it appears to be somewhat of a hole-in-the-wall. The bartenders are fucking awesome and very generous with the alcohol. They lack that innate assininity to which many in their profession fall prey. They even take the time to remember names, faces, and corresponding drinks. One in particular is always so sweet and cute that I could eat him up with a spoon! Actually, that’s a PG cop-out considering what I really want to do to him, but I’ll leave the graphic details locked away in the spank bank.

Another thing I enjoy about Schileens, other than the bartenders and the intoxicating drinks they serve, is the fucking juke box. There is always some crazy “holy-shit-I-haven’t-heard-this-song-in-years” soundtrack throbbing away. The food is good’n cheap pub fare (I highly recommend their roast beef sandwich….mmm mmm greasy!), but avoid the menu like the hiv if your M.O. for the evening is achieving a state of debilitating drunkeness. If you get the irresistible urge to sha-sha-shake dat ass, wait until about 11 p.m. or so when the makeshift dancefloor clears of bystanders. Oh yeah, I failed to mention the phenomenal dance music on top of the hair metal classics.

On a side note, I felt instantly better venting to my Dad before I met up with my friends. I think his response was somewhere wedged between “asshole” and “his loss” and “do you need a hug from your old Dad?” Does a bear shit in the woods, Dad? Now I’m in pursuit of some matinee therapy, which means going to see the a.m. showing of “He’s Just Not That Into You” in spite of my busy schedule. Oh well, fuck it…my textbooks and assignments will still be waiting for me when I get home. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it….

V/r
viv

A Continental Act of Congress, et al…

That is nearly what it took for me to publish this post, the title of which is in good standing with Philadelphia’s legacy. I wish I could say the struggling economy has kept me indoors and under wraps, but that would be so far from the truth it would make Buddy Christ’s bobble-head spin faster than a dreidel at Channukah. Over the past four weeks, which is roughly when I last posted, I have frequented a variety of establishments, each of which I duly recommend. Without further ado, and to keep your yarmulkes on your heads, here are a few honorable mentions in no significant order:

The Continental (www.continentalmartinibar.com)
This places exudes chill to the chillest of chill degrees. Initially, I was skeptical when my dinner date for the evening suggested the joint because I am the anti-Martini girl. To the contrary, I am the pub-loving, beer-guzzling freakshow of a frat-boy stuck inside the rather attractive facade of a sweet, cultured, soft-spoken blonde. Eventually, I caved (my date being rather attractive and all). I tried it out (the Continental, not the guy) and I loved it to death. If you haven’t been there, this intimate little enclave is oriented like a modernized diner from the 1950s. The servers are super laidback, covered in trendy Sailor Jerry sleeve tats, and the menu is tres fusion. I recommend the Tuna tartare. I expected a sashimi-esque prep, but the fish was served more like a ceviche. Still, I ate it, and it was very edible (and spicy, and fresh tasting). As I was in a martini bar, I aptly ordered several Rum’n Cokes. Best of all, the barstaff is not stingy at all with the libations. The Continental may set you back a few bones, but the bill is worth every penny parted. This place reeks of absurdly good atmosphere and a prelude to naughty, naughty times.

The Standard Tap (www.standardtap.com)
I did not particularly care for their fried oysters because they were watery and tasteless, but I suppose it takes a warped sense of logic to expect the kind of seafood found only in the Gulf of Texaco. Up until this point, I’d never met an oyster I didn’t like, even the ones that carry harmful diseases; especially the rotten ones because they are effective for weight loss. Not to be all gloom and doom, the Standard Tap serves a local Scrawny Dog Stoudt that rivals, and beats, Guinness in terms of smoothness. As a devout lover of all things Guinness, I never thought I’d say what I just said, but it’s the truth. This shit is off the hook — there is nothing bitter about this stoudt. Also, the ambience and decor of the Tap is easy on the eyes in that it’s fashioned in the Belgian and Low Countries tradition. Even crossing the road on my walk over, I was struck by the exterior. I felt like I was back in the Netherlands…only I was in Philadelphia, which is a close and comforting second.

Toscana’s (www.toscanacherryhill.com)
You won’t be disappointed when you visit this little Tuscan getaway within driving distance of Philly, tucked quietly against Marlton Township on Route 70. They make the best Lobster Bisque I’ve had since the Tapas Restaurant (tapasymas.nl) in Maastricht, NL. The last time I ate at Toscana’s, the soup was more Lobster than Bisque if you get my drift. The lighting is very low-key, the furnishings are provincially elegant and understated, and the prices moderate to quasi-expensive (15-35 USD per entree, approximately 7-10 USD for appetizers…). With Valentine’s Day around the corner, this is definitely the restaurant to take your favorite broad, especially if you want National Steak and Blow Job Day (15th Feb) to go off without a hitch. A note of caution: this restaurant, for all it’s glory and Italianate motif, is strictly BYOB. Yeah, it hurt my feelings a little, too….but the attractive maitre d’ guarding the door made up for my attack of sensibilities. Nothing beats a night out more than getting eye fucked by a hot Italian guy for free.

Cheesecake Factory (www.cheesecakefactory.com)
I don’t usually give commercialized vendors a shout-out, so let’s make believe this is more for the bartender than the shitty, pseudo-cultural food on the menu. I went out to Cheesecake Factory (of Cherry Hill) with some friends for drinks and tapas last weekend, at which point I committed an unforgivable sin by ordering two martinis of the asian pear persuasion, which turned out to be a real panty dropper. Holy Shit! I felt like I was drinking the elixir of life from the Holy Grail that just happened to be shaped like art deco stemware. I have never had such a strong drink that tasted so benign and unassuming. When I reported to the latrine, I nearly fell on my ass (and that’s after eating several heels of bread and appetizers). Actually, I nearly fell on my ass several times over (read: cute shoes, slick floor). So whoever that bartender is…I want my thong back!!

I’ve been to a few other places over the past several weeks and either they don’t warrant mention or I am just too lazy to write about those outings right now. Also, it would be in bad taste for me to describe visits to somebody’s private residence for dinner and entertainment, whatever the latter pursuit might entail. A lady never kisses and divulges.

And now I beg your pardon. I must return my attention to the mountains of reading and assignments as I have a Continental Army of deadlines to meet…

V/r
viv

The Not-So-Holy Trinity

I have been contemplating this post for over a week now. It’s worth writing if it’s worth seven days of deeply religious, inner reflection. Last Sunday, as the Eagles were kicking some Cowgirl ass, an unidentified guest, a 3-year old non-blogger, and I made it to Atlantic City for a fantastic day of outlet shopping. I realize AC is far removed from Center City, but current economics make daily ad hoc ventures a thing of the past; with that said, I’m extending myself a little bit of license.

After braving the damp, windy chill on the AC sidewalks for several plus hours, we hobbled up to the mall (the name escapes me) loaded with jet-set boutiques and nouveau riche eateries. Fortunately for us, their was a cheery little Irish Pub, open-face to the main rotunda, called the Trinity, and full of hot, young trendies. Unfortunately for us, we chose to eat there. The place oozed ambience, and the decor rivaled some of the pubs I’ve frequented in Ireland and the UK, most notably the Bull in Fairford, England. The lights were dimly lit and glimmered gently off the copper ceiling; the wooded booths were cozy and warm, adding to that authentic appeal, the bar was a traditional 25-foot thing of polished mahogany and brass beauty, and the fire crackling in the fireplace enshrouded by a brick hearth…need I say more? I was immediately sold.

The friendly hostess led us to our “warm, cozy wooded booth…” where we waited. And waited. And waited. After nearly twenty minutes of watching a 3-year old restlessly kick from one end of the bench to the other, the waiter made his debut. We finally received our drinks, and another ten minutes escaped before I got my hands on a pint of Guinness. Eventually we placed our orders with the waiter, and got our appetizers with a fairly impressive turnaround. The freshly made house chips (as in Lays), which came highly recommended by the waiter, left a little to be desired. They were cold, chewy, and tasteless, but the accompanying roquefort bechamel dip was pretty fucking tasty. The seafood chowder was an altogether different experience — the creamy bouillabaisse was too die for and loaded with muscles, deveined shrimp, and clams. There is no way that shit came out of a can!!

After the initial fanfare heralded by the appetizers, the wait ensued, but not for a terrible length of time. The entrees, priced from $9-30 USD, were served. I had ordered rosemary encrusted boneless leg of lamb with mash and grilled asparagus, but I’m pretty sure I was served a tasteless leather shoe covered in a putrid mint jelly glaze. I couldn’t take more than two bites. It was disgusting, and that’s putting it mildly. I didn’t know it was even possible to prepare a mutton dish, especially lamb, that was anything short of tender. That was probably the most disgusting piece of meat I’ve ever put in my mouth. Okay, so maybe I’ve put more disgusting things in my mouth if you believe everything your read in the bathroom stall…On the other hand, my dinner guest thought her meal (of hamburger and chips as in French fries) was perfectly fine. And the 3-year old? He thoroughly enjoyed his chicken strips. Or at least I think he did.

We apparently had to wait for the second coming of Christ in order to get our checks. I’m not sure why our service was peppered with long, inconsistent periods of waiting. Case in point, my second Guinness took nearly twenty minutes to pour, and it wasn’t that noteworthy a pour either, and the bar and pub were only mildly to moderately packed in proportion to the waitstaff. Who knows, maybe the waiter was catching tidbits of the game in the kitchen. Overall, I wasn’t terribly impressed by the Trinity’s quality of food, with exception to the seafood chowder (in itself a meal), however the atmosphere is very chill and reminiscent of a traditional pub if you don’t mind the protracted periods of waiting to be waited on.

I’ll never eat there again, but I would go there to get shit-faced in a hot minute!!

P.S. — AC has THE absolute best stateside H&M I’ve ever been to. This H&M boasts some of the European trends and retail sold abroad.

An Offer I Could Not Refuse…

A friend of a friend, as the story so often goes, recently propositioned me to star in a pornographic film of the fettish variety. Nothing at all to do with bestiality, mind you; far more straight-laced than you could ever imagine….ah, but I digress.

I was pretty hungover the morning following said party, and stumbled down to the Bus Stop Music Cafe for a dose or two of hangover helper. Located in the bedroom community of Pitman, the Cafe’s atmosphere is very chill, ecclectic by virtue of that urbane, South Street feel, and very affordable. The Cafe was also an attractive alternative to Starbucks, which entails a 10-minute drive and, therefore, not a conducive means of achieving any nausea abatement plan.

Although Pitman is not the ribald palace of debauchery for which I usually aim, the Bus Stop Music Cafe, adjacent the Pitman Municipal Building on Broadway, does a pretty thorough job of entertaining the restless souls of the world. Live bands are constantly playing the venue in spite of the township’s famously squeaky clean, family-oriented image; and the lounge-style eating area makes it a perfect place to socialize, listen to the music, or type away on a laptop (did I mention they offer free wi-fi?). The usual suspects range from teens to middle somethings, making the Cafe an ideal place for people watching. If you get bored with the band or your friends (my condolences, if the later is the case), then make your way to the back of the store and check out the extensive music collection displays.

Be not worried if you show up hungry. The Cafe boasts a progressive, organic, and modestly fusion menu at very comparable prices. The grilled paninis average about $4 and are accompanied by a dill spear and kettle chips; the soup is prepared fresh daily; and the service is bar none. The employees are all very laidback, relaxed, and in the groove — they fade naturally into the bluesy atmosphere. They don’t fluster, bristle, or preen, and they certainly leave their customers to their own devices, which is great on a day when I’d rather be draped over the toilet bowl than balled up in the fetal position in one of the Cafe’s over-stuffed chairs. In fact, the only drawback to the Bus Stop Music Cafe is its location — Pitman is the one place on Earth you won’t be able to get a little of the hair of the dog that bit you the night before because it is a dry town. I know full well how detrimental this factor can be to post-party recovery.

Speaking of hangovers and the parties and chicanery that lead to them, there was a certain offer I mentioned earlier in this post. For those inquiring minds who want to be in the know, the fettish was of the foot variety. This friend of a friend wanted me to stimulate his genitalia with my foot while being filmed for an amateur pornography contest. I have no aversions to this really. My face would not be on camera thereby maintaining my anonymity, my mores certainly do not contradict participation, and the winning contestant would receive a monetary reward, which the producer offered to allot me in full. Long story short, I had to decline this proposition because “this friend of a friend” was originally turned down during the initial casting call by his wife. There is always a catch.