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"No beer and no TV make Ivan something something."
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Location
Atlanta, GA
Yelping SinceAugust 2007
Things I Love Find Me InGrant Park or the Internets.
My HometownNeverwannagoback City, FL
When I'm Not Yelping...I'm criticizing things verbally.
Why You Should Read My Reviewsor not. That's for you to decide.
My Second Favorite Websitehttp://fark.com, http://digg.com, http://McSweeneys.net, slate, salon, http://xkcd.com
The Last Great Book I ReadBlankets by Craig Thompson (yep, it's a graphic novel)
My Last Meal On EarthI'll let you know on Aug. 27, 2063.
Don't Tell Anyone Else But...I need more Calgon. (If you get that joke, you're officially old.)
Current Crushmy wife
Date
"Bo Bo Garden."
"What the hell is that? A place where offensive coordinators go to die?"
"No, it's a Chinese restaurant."
"What's good there?"
"All sorts of stuff. They've got congee."
"What's that?"
"It's like a savory rice pudding, but with meats and stuff."
"That's a crappy description, dude."
"How about I describe what I did to your mom last night?"
"Too late. She already told me. She feels guilty charging you for the full hour since it only took you a minute and half."
"Quality over quantity, my friend. Anyway, they've got these rice casserole bowls too; basically it's your choice of meat or seafood served with rice in a hot clay pot. The rice forms this nice crust like on the bottom of a paella pan."
"Yeah, you just compared an obscure dish with another obscure dish."
"Obscure? They serve paella at La Fonda. That's like calling a quesadilla 'obscure.'"
"Or you a 'non-pretentious food douche.'"
"Rice casserole man! Don't discount it!"
"What else they got?"
"They have lots of seafood. Some lobster and crab dishes that I still need to try. The beef chow fun's good. The wife got some round-eye Chinese food and even that tasted better than the usual."
"All right, all right. We'll check it out..."
"Nice."
"...when I'm in the mood for Chinese."
"So then why did you ask about it?!"
"Because I wanted to see how long you'd talk about it."
"I thought Canadians were supposed to be polite."
"Yeah, those are the ones still in Canada. So, dinner at La Fonda then?"
"Screw you, I'm going to Bo Bo Garden."
"But you can get paella at La Fonda!"
"It's not the same....oh forget it."
"What the hell is that? A place where offensive coordinators go to die?"
"No, it's a Chinese restaurant."
"What's good there?"
"All sorts of stuff. They've got congee."
"What's that?"
"It's like a savory rice pudding, but with meats and stuff."
"That's a crappy description, dude."
"How about I describe what I did to your mom last night?"
"Too late. She already told me. She feels guilty charging you for the full hour since it only took you a minute and half."
"Quality over quantity, my friend. Anyway, they've got these rice casserole bowls too; basically it's your choice of meat or seafood served with rice in a hot clay pot. The rice forms this nice crust like on the bottom of a paella pan."
"Yeah, you just compared an obscure dish with another obscure dish."
"Obscure? They serve paella at La Fonda. That's like calling a quesadilla 'obscure.'"
"Or you a 'non-pretentious food douche.'"
"Rice casserole man! Don't discount it!"
"What else they got?"
"They have lots of seafood. Some lobster and crab dishes that I still need to try. The beef chow fun's good. The wife got some round-eye Chinese food and even that tasted better than the usual."
"All right, all right. We'll check it out..."
"Nice."
"...when I'm in the mood for Chinese."
"So then why did you ask about it?!"
"Because I wanted to see how long you'd talk about it."
"I thought Canadians were supposed to be polite."
"Yeah, those are the ones still in Canada. So, dinner at La Fonda then?"
"Screw you, I'm going to Bo Bo Garden."
"But you can get paella at La Fonda!"
"It's not the same....oh forget it."
P.O. Box 620035
Atlanta, GA 30362
(404) 409-2471
Atlanta, GA 30362
(404) 409-2471
NAAAP - Atlanta Chapter
Category: Community Service/Non-Profit
Many would be surprised that, despite what some would describe as a politically incorrect attitude regarding my ethnicity (or as I like to call it when talking to Asian Studies majors, my "Orientalness,"), I've actually got a history of Asian-American activism. Yeah, yeah, like "jumbo shrimp" and "Asian basketball player," "Asian activist" seems like an oxymoron. But hell, with Yao Ming in the picture, who's to say what's truth and what isn't?
Anyway, my flirtation with activism has led me to cross paths with NAAAP (or the National Association for Asian American Professionals) several times. I've joined, I've let my membership lapse; I join, lapse. I've gone to events, I've ignored events. Really, my tepid involvement has less to do with NAAAP and FAR more to do with my own innate laziness.
But even through my laziness, they trudge on. They expand their network, they open their arms to all, Asian and non-Asian alike. They educate their members, provide professional development workshops and, yes, they also go out to eat a lot too. Hell, they're a million times more productive than any professional/networking group I've seen and it's pretty quick return on the $25 annual membership.
NAAAP Atlanta is one of the most active chapters in the country. Considering Asian culture for most in Georgia pretty much starts and stops at P.F. Changs, that's a pretty impressive thing NAAP-Atlanta has accomplished. Sure, you've got overly earnest Asian studies majors mingling with FOBs just learning English mingling with the occasional creepy white guy suffering from an unmistakable case of Yellow Fever. But mostly NAAAP is people, professionals, just like anyone else who want to network and maybe meet some new folks to grab a beer with. Or be taller than.
I kid, I kid. Seriously though, here's to you, NAAAP Atlanta. Keep on doing what you're doing and keep on doing it well.
Anyway, my flirtation with activism has led me to cross paths with NAAAP (or the National Association for Asian American Professionals) several times. I've joined, I've let my membership lapse; I join, lapse. I've gone to events, I've ignored events. Really, my tepid involvement has less to do with NAAAP and FAR more to do with my own innate laziness.
But even through my laziness, they trudge on. They expand their network, they open their arms to all, Asian and non-Asian alike. They educate their members, provide professional development workshops and, yes, they also go out to eat a lot too. Hell, they're a million times more productive than any professional/networking group I've seen and it's pretty quick return on the $25 annual membership.
NAAAP Atlanta is one of the most active chapters in the country. Considering Asian culture for most in Georgia pretty much starts and stops at P.F. Changs, that's a pretty impressive thing NAAP-Atlanta has accomplished. Sure, you've got overly earnest Asian studies majors mingling with FOBs just learning English mingling with the occasional creepy white guy suffering from an unmistakable case of Yellow Fever. But mostly NAAAP is people, professionals, just like anyone else who want to network and maybe meet some new folks to grab a beer with. Or be taller than.
I kid, I kid. Seriously though, here's to you, NAAAP Atlanta. Keep on doing what you're doing and keep on doing it well.
500 10th St NE
Atlanta, GA 30309
(404) 249-0001
Atlanta, GA 30309
(404) 249-0001
Park Tavern
Categories: Venues & Event Spaces, American (Traditional)
Have I not written about Park Tavern? I thought I had. How could something so prominent, so well-known be in my blind spot? Well, now that I think about it, I can see why.
Park Tavern reminds me of Frank the Tank in the movie "Old School." It's an old building, sitting on the corner of 10th and Monroe; I remember the previous tenant "The Mill" fondly. Despite its history and the fact that it almost respectfully shares its space with Piedmont Park, Park Tavern also hosts well-attended events (both for profit and for charity) wherein hundreds gather to drink and mingle and drink and get shot down and drink and eventually find themselves wandering drunk in the dark near the Piedmont Park dog run. Ergo Frank the Tank. It's not really a pretty sight. And ironically, the Park Tavern has one of the prettiest views in Atlanta.
You might have already gathered that this isn't going to be the most positive of reviews. So why HAVE so many, many, many people visited The Park Tavern? Hell, why have I visited it so many times if I'm such a Grinchy McSourPuss about the entire deal? Three words:
Location, location, location.
First, the view. The view of Midtown's skyline rising above the trees is gratifying to this city mouse. During the day, the Piedmont Park meadow buzzes with activity of the mostly young, the attractive, throwing Frisbees, drinking beer, laughing and flirting and looking like an American Eagle print ad. By night, the crowd is replaced by emptiness and the glowing tops of nearby skyscrapers. And Park Tavern's patio overlooks all of this. This view is also the reason that I've been to, what, three weddings here? (Most of them were fine, as far as weddings go, but woe be unto the unfortunate wedding party who planned their festivities during an event.)
But that's it. You've got a view; you've got a location. If you arrive expecting good food or, strangely enough for a brewpub, good beer, you'll be sorely disappointed. The menu is all over the place. Wings. Burgers. BBQ. Chips and dip. Chicken tenders. Tuna Tartar? Southwestern egg roll? SUSHI? It's like the Cheesecake Factory, only without the restraint or the quality. (That last sentence is filled with irony for those who may not recognize it.)
The beer fares a tad better, but I expect better from a restaurant that brews its own beer. None of their brews has really impressed me, instead each tasting like a knock off version of something more popular. "Oh that?" a server will answer to my queries. "That's our lager. Tastes kind of like Samuel Adams."
"Kind of" is right.
And yet the location. The many, many events. The promise of drunken dudes and dudettes. Like spawning salmon swimming upstream, it's enough to draw even the most reluctant back to The Park Tavern. Ah, but now I'm married. I'm no longer Sisyphus pushing that rock up the hill. I've pushed that rock up and over and, yes, it's all downhill from here. But at least, at the VERY least, I have no reason to come to the Park Tavern for an event ever again.
Park Tavern reminds me of Frank the Tank in the movie "Old School." It's an old building, sitting on the corner of 10th and Monroe; I remember the previous tenant "The Mill" fondly. Despite its history and the fact that it almost respectfully shares its space with Piedmont Park, Park Tavern also hosts well-attended events (both for profit and for charity) wherein hundreds gather to drink and mingle and drink and get shot down and drink and eventually find themselves wandering drunk in the dark near the Piedmont Park dog run. Ergo Frank the Tank. It's not really a pretty sight. And ironically, the Park Tavern has one of the prettiest views in Atlanta.
You might have already gathered that this isn't going to be the most positive of reviews. So why HAVE so many, many, many people visited The Park Tavern? Hell, why have I visited it so many times if I'm such a Grinchy McSourPuss about the entire deal? Three words:
Location, location, location.
First, the view. The view of Midtown's skyline rising above the trees is gratifying to this city mouse. During the day, the Piedmont Park meadow buzzes with activity of the mostly young, the attractive, throwing Frisbees, drinking beer, laughing and flirting and looking like an American Eagle print ad. By night, the crowd is replaced by emptiness and the glowing tops of nearby skyscrapers. And Park Tavern's patio overlooks all of this. This view is also the reason that I've been to, what, three weddings here? (Most of them were fine, as far as weddings go, but woe be unto the unfortunate wedding party who planned their festivities during an event.)
But that's it. You've got a view; you've got a location. If you arrive expecting good food or, strangely enough for a brewpub, good beer, you'll be sorely disappointed. The menu is all over the place. Wings. Burgers. BBQ. Chips and dip. Chicken tenders. Tuna Tartar? Southwestern egg roll? SUSHI? It's like the Cheesecake Factory, only without the restraint or the quality. (That last sentence is filled with irony for those who may not recognize it.)
The beer fares a tad better, but I expect better from a restaurant that brews its own beer. None of their brews has really impressed me, instead each tasting like a knock off version of something more popular. "Oh that?" a server will answer to my queries. "That's our lager. Tastes kind of like Samuel Adams."
"Kind of" is right.
And yet the location. The many, many events. The promise of drunken dudes and dudettes. Like spawning salmon swimming upstream, it's enough to draw even the most reluctant back to The Park Tavern. Ah, but now I'm married. I'm no longer Sisyphus pushing that rock up the hill. I've pushed that rock up and over and, yes, it's all downhill from here. But at least, at the VERY least, I have no reason to come to the Park Tavern for an event ever again.
Locals only. That's the vibe this little shack put forth and they do it well. Especially in this Gator-land, where Tebow is beloved, Meyer is venerated and Spurrier is still referred to in hushed tones. As a Gator, I appreciate that. (And for those who doubt my Gator cred, I actually remember when we celebrated becoming bowl eligible back in '89 only to watch Washington trounce us in the...Freedom Bowl? Seriously? The Freedom Bowl? Oh, such were the Bad Old Days.)
So yes, the Gator banner and associated gear was well-received by yours truly. Of course my friend pointed out that the owner's wife's non-reaction to my Burrito Brothers shirt indicated that she most likely never spent any time in Gainesville. "Either that," I said in her defense, "or people show up wearing a Burrito Brothers shirt every other day. It's not like we're THAT far away from Gainesville."
Anyway, 'twas lunch time and my friend called ahead to see if FA's fish tacos were served on corn, rather than flour tortillas. My wife's gluten allergy requires us to scout ahead. I coached my friend to ask if they have corn tortillas for the tacos. The male voice on the other end said, "Yes, we've got corn tortillas." Nearby competitor Beachcombers indicated they did not. Unfortunately when we arrived for lunch, we were told different. Corn tortillas are only available for nachos, not the tacos. This irked me, though knowing my friend's tendency toward selective hearing, I can't 100% say if he was lied to or if he went Marlee Matlin on the phone. That bet is kind of a push. I'll try not to knock FA based on this, but it didn't start me off in a good mood since we could have continued calling around for more gluten-free fare.
Took a while for us to be met, but it was a nice balmy Florida day and we were in no rush. I ordered the blackened fish tacos, a half pound of rock crab claws while my wife had black bean soup and a grilled shrimp skewer. My friend ordered a fish sandwich. Drinks were distributed first.
Sigh. Canned soda. Another pet peeve of mine. I believe it's my birthright as an American to get free refills from a fountain dispenser, even if I'm forced to drink, sigh again, Pepsi products (which is what they had.) And my wife's coffee? An abomination. Seriously, coffee shouldn't be beige until AFTER you put milk and/or cream into it. I've had earl grey tea stronger than that coffee. Stephen Hawking is stronger than that coffee. My canned Diet Pepsi was DEFINITELY stronger than that coffee. And now, I had to deal with a tired, coffee-less wife.
Anyway, the food was fine. I shouldn't have ordered the chipotle sauce for my tacos since the chipotle overwhelmed any other flavor. The rock crab claws were good as was the accompanying sauce. My wife and my friend enjoyed their meals, however. Now if it were up to me, I'd rate FA no greater than 2.5 stars, rounding down to 2. My tacos, while "fine," really weren't all the great. Buuuuuuut, the others in my party insisted that 1) they enjoyed their meals and 2) I'm being too hard on FA. Especially being fellow Gator fans.
In deference to my wife and my friend, I'll grant FA 3 stars.
So yes, the Gator banner and associated gear was well-received by yours truly. Of course my friend pointed out that the owner's wife's non-reaction to my Burrito Brothers shirt indicated that she most likely never spent any time in Gainesville. "Either that," I said in her defense, "or people show up wearing a Burrito Brothers shirt every other day. It's not like we're THAT far away from Gainesville."
Anyway, 'twas lunch time and my friend called ahead to see if FA's fish tacos were served on corn, rather than flour tortillas. My wife's gluten allergy requires us to scout ahead. I coached my friend to ask if they have corn tortillas for the tacos. The male voice on the other end said, "Yes, we've got corn tortillas." Nearby competitor Beachcombers indicated they did not. Unfortunately when we arrived for lunch, we were told different. Corn tortillas are only available for nachos, not the tacos. This irked me, though knowing my friend's tendency toward selective hearing, I can't 100% say if he was lied to or if he went Marlee Matlin on the phone. That bet is kind of a push. I'll try not to knock FA based on this, but it didn't start me off in a good mood since we could have continued calling around for more gluten-free fare.
Took a while for us to be met, but it was a nice balmy Florida day and we were in no rush. I ordered the blackened fish tacos, a half pound of rock crab claws while my wife had black bean soup and a grilled shrimp skewer. My friend ordered a fish sandwich. Drinks were distributed first.
Sigh. Canned soda. Another pet peeve of mine. I believe it's my birthright as an American to get free refills from a fountain dispenser, even if I'm forced to drink, sigh again, Pepsi products (which is what they had.) And my wife's coffee? An abomination. Seriously, coffee shouldn't be beige until AFTER you put milk and/or cream into it. I've had earl grey tea stronger than that coffee. Stephen Hawking is stronger than that coffee. My canned Diet Pepsi was DEFINITELY stronger than that coffee. And now, I had to deal with a tired, coffee-less wife.
Anyway, the food was fine. I shouldn't have ordered the chipotle sauce for my tacos since the chipotle overwhelmed any other flavor. The rock crab claws were good as was the accompanying sauce. My wife and my friend enjoyed their meals, however. Now if it were up to me, I'd rate FA no greater than 2.5 stars, rounding down to 2. My tacos, while "fine," really weren't all the great. Buuuuuuut, the others in my party insisted that 1) they enjoyed their meals and 2) I'm being too hard on FA. Especially being fellow Gator fans.
In deference to my wife and my friend, I'll grant FA 3 stars.
Couple of things since I wrote the last review:
First, they indeed have their liquor license now, so no BYOB. Sorry, folks.
Second, having eaten here many, many times now, I've got to say that every dish I've had is extremely flavorful. The curries are complex, spicy, but not painfully hot. The specials rarely let me down. It's still pricey compared to most Thai joints and, though the menu is tasty, it's still the usual cast of Thai menu characters. I'd like to see more variety.
Still, Spoon is still a solid 4.5.
First, they indeed have their liquor license now, so no BYOB. Sorry, folks.
Second, having eaten here many, many times now, I've got to say that every dish I've had is extremely flavorful. The curries are complex, spicy, but not painfully hot. The specials rarely let me down. It's still pricey compared to most Thai joints and, though the menu is tasty, it's still the usual cast of Thai menu characters. I'd like to see more variety.
Still, Spoon is still a solid 4.5.
1 Previous Review: Hide »
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4/17/2009
We down here in the SoPo (South of Ponce) are sorely lacking in Asian flair. Sure we've got Burger Win, but eating in lacks, um, atmosphere. And tables. And chairs. To fulfill my need for Asian cuisine, I've got to hike my lazy ass up to Buford Highway or hit Little Bangkok on Cheshire Bridge. I can have a veritable taco fiesta in EAV, but Asian food is relegated to that middling place on Flat Shoals. If you do the math on that (and, c'mon, I'm ASIAN), it's not quite fair.
Along comes Spoon-Eastside. Now I've eaten at the original Spoon and had a very decent dinner. Now having eaten here a few times, I'm glad to say that that original experience wasn't a fluke. Though a little higher priced than your typical Thai hole-in-the-wall, the food tastes better too. The layering of flavor is there and the plating--they plate a beauty of a dish here. Now my first go around at Spoon, I forgot to ask for my normal "Thai Hot." That was a fortunate mistake in that their "normal" hot is spicy enough. I like my food spicy and they're not shy about helping you with that. So show off that wannabe iron tongue if you want and order "thai hot," but don't say you weren't warned.
For now until they get their liquor license, it's BYOB. That made for a fairly inexpensive group outing with my friends since we avoided the upcharge on the several bottles of wine we consumed. To make up for that, we ordered several appetizers which I enjoyed. (Except for the fried spring roll which tasted fishy for some reason.) I just wish they had my favorite app, nam sod, as an option which I know is a fairly regional dish and is probably the equivalent of complaining about the lack of grits in a New England chowder shop. Still, I need my nam sod and that's what's keeping Spoon away from 5 stars.
So until then, goodnight stars. Goodnight moon. Goodnight Yelpers. And goodnight Spoon.
"Hole in the Wall." It's such a cliché really. I tread lightly on clichés because my writing is questionable as it is; I don't need it to suck anymore. Besides, nothing good tends to come from holes-in-the-walls and that INCLUDES gloryholes.
Still, clichés are clichés for a reason. Some places truly ARE nothing more than holes-in-walls and Northern China Eatery counts as one. More specifically (and more literally), it's actually an out-of-the-way, spartanly decorated basement space that, well, serves some kick-ass Chinese food.
When I told yelper Pam L. that we ate there, she laughed and said, "So, have they hired anybody who speaks English there?" Uh, not really. I mean it was me, James H., my Vietnamese by way of South Carolina friend Cindy and Anna. Though three out of the four of us were Asian, that meant that between us, we only had English, a pathetic amount of Tagalog, a smattering of Vietnamese and just enough Mandarin to make James' parents regret moving to Miami. So don't fear, Round Eyes, you can get away with pointing and gesticulating like a crazy person. They're used to it apparently.
As I mentioned, the location is hidden, almost painfully so if you're not sure what to look for. Fortunately you're on Yelp now so you can scroll up and down for clues, but absent that, you might as well be Cortex searching for a golden meth lab manned by leprechauns and unicorns. So turn into that parking lot. Nope, not that one, the other one. No, the one with the Chinese-looking writing. Nope, the other one. Near the foot massage place. No, the other one. Yeah, that one. It's down the hill and you enter in the side. No, the other side. Aw screw it. Let's go to Cheesecake Factory.
But persevere my friends. You'll be richly rewarded. We ordered the leek dumplings, scallion pancakes, the pork pie and the soup dumplings. Oh and potstickers. And something else that I seem to be forgetting. The leek dumplings were suitably herby. The pork pie, meaty. The soup dumplings...soupy. (Though I agree that the membrane was a little thicker than they ought to be.) Everything was tasty. The total was $35. For the four of us. Awesome. When the temperature drops a little more, I'm coming back for some hot pot.
Instead of continuing to beat this dead horse, let me just stop there. There are no frills to the Northern China Eatery. This was made pretty obvious when half of our meals were served to us on Christmas-themed dishes...in October. So let me stop dressing up this review and grant four and a half stars.
Still, clichés are clichés for a reason. Some places truly ARE nothing more than holes-in-walls and Northern China Eatery counts as one. More specifically (and more literally), it's actually an out-of-the-way, spartanly decorated basement space that, well, serves some kick-ass Chinese food.
When I told yelper Pam L. that we ate there, she laughed and said, "So, have they hired anybody who speaks English there?" Uh, not really. I mean it was me, James H., my Vietnamese by way of South Carolina friend Cindy and Anna. Though three out of the four of us were Asian, that meant that between us, we only had English, a pathetic amount of Tagalog, a smattering of Vietnamese and just enough Mandarin to make James' parents regret moving to Miami. So don't fear, Round Eyes, you can get away with pointing and gesticulating like a crazy person. They're used to it apparently.
As I mentioned, the location is hidden, almost painfully so if you're not sure what to look for. Fortunately you're on Yelp now so you can scroll up and down for clues, but absent that, you might as well be Cortex searching for a golden meth lab manned by leprechauns and unicorns. So turn into that parking lot. Nope, not that one, the other one. No, the one with the Chinese-looking writing. Nope, the other one. Near the foot massage place. No, the other one. Yeah, that one. It's down the hill and you enter in the side. No, the other side. Aw screw it. Let's go to Cheesecake Factory.
But persevere my friends. You'll be richly rewarded. We ordered the leek dumplings, scallion pancakes, the pork pie and the soup dumplings. Oh and potstickers. And something else that I seem to be forgetting. The leek dumplings were suitably herby. The pork pie, meaty. The soup dumplings...soupy. (Though I agree that the membrane was a little thicker than they ought to be.) Everything was tasty. The total was $35. For the four of us. Awesome. When the temperature drops a little more, I'm coming back for some hot pot.
Instead of continuing to beat this dead horse, let me just stop there. There are no frills to the Northern China Eatery. This was made pretty obvious when half of our meals were served to us on Christmas-themed dishes...in October. So let me stop dressing up this review and grant four and a half stars.
I have an extraordinarily low opinion of Atlanta cabbies and Atlanta cab companies by extension. You call, you wait, they're rarely on time, and they rarely know where they're going. Even completely blotto, I've had to navigate on their behalf.
"Ish might be **hic** better ifsh you take Ponsh de Leon at thish time of night. **hic**"
Even with GPS, woe be unto out-of-towners who expect timely and efficient travel to their destinations.
So, no, don't like taking cabs unless I HAVE to. Despite this, here's a five star review. Why? Honesty and showing extra effort. Let me start with the short (for me) version.
Idiot man returns from a business trip and leaves a bag of semi-important stuff in cab. Idiot man doesn't realize it until an hour later. Idiot man calls cab company. Fortunately Idiot Man is lucky and, for once, asked the cabbie to fill out his receipt while Idiot Man got his stuff together (which Idiot Man apparently didn't do a good job of.) Therefore, Idiot Man had the cab number as reference.
Idiot Man asks the dispatcher to contact said cab. Dispatcher replies, "Huh, he's not answering. Try back later. Until then, call the Lost and Found." Idiot Man calls the Lost and Found number he was given, but nothing has been dropped off. Idiot Man tries back later and gets bounced from dispatcher to dispatcher until someone has the smart idea of giving Idiot Man the number to the business office.
Once Idiot Man reaches business office, he and cabbie are connected. Cabbie says, "Mr. IVAN! I've been looking all over for you. I even drove back to your house!"
Unfortunately, at this point Idiot Man was across town eating Korean tacos. Idiot Man asks where he can meet nice cabbie. Cabbie says to be at Idiot Man's house in ten minutes. After ten minutes, cabbie gives Grateful, yet still Idiotic Man his stuff back. Idiot Man tips cabbie $20 and says, "If you wait right here, I can go up and get another 20." Cabbie smiles and says, "No, Mr. Ivan, this is enough. Thank you!"
"You sure? My place is just right here. It'll be just a second."
"No, Mr. Ivan. This is already too much."
Cabbie drives off and Mr. Idiot Ivan actually is impressed by humanity. And so his heart grew threes sizes that day.
OK, not really, but I AM willing to give Rapid Taxi five stars based on the actions of Jamal, of Cab #1344. Thanks Jamal. (However, Rapid Taxi, your dispatchers, though they mean well, still need a little work.)
"Ish might be **hic** better ifsh you take Ponsh de Leon at thish time of night. **hic**"
Even with GPS, woe be unto out-of-towners who expect timely and efficient travel to their destinations.
So, no, don't like taking cabs unless I HAVE to. Despite this, here's a five star review. Why? Honesty and showing extra effort. Let me start with the short (for me) version.
Idiot man returns from a business trip and leaves a bag of semi-important stuff in cab. Idiot man doesn't realize it until an hour later. Idiot man calls cab company. Fortunately Idiot Man is lucky and, for once, asked the cabbie to fill out his receipt while Idiot Man got his stuff together (which Idiot Man apparently didn't do a good job of.) Therefore, Idiot Man had the cab number as reference.
Idiot Man asks the dispatcher to contact said cab. Dispatcher replies, "Huh, he's not answering. Try back later. Until then, call the Lost and Found." Idiot Man calls the Lost and Found number he was given, but nothing has been dropped off. Idiot Man tries back later and gets bounced from dispatcher to dispatcher until someone has the smart idea of giving Idiot Man the number to the business office.
Once Idiot Man reaches business office, he and cabbie are connected. Cabbie says, "Mr. IVAN! I've been looking all over for you. I even drove back to your house!"
Unfortunately, at this point Idiot Man was across town eating Korean tacos. Idiot Man asks where he can meet nice cabbie. Cabbie says to be at Idiot Man's house in ten minutes. After ten minutes, cabbie gives Grateful, yet still Idiotic Man his stuff back. Idiot Man tips cabbie $20 and says, "If you wait right here, I can go up and get another 20." Cabbie smiles and says, "No, Mr. Ivan, this is enough. Thank you!"
"You sure? My place is just right here. It'll be just a second."
"No, Mr. Ivan. This is already too much."
Cabbie drives off and Mr. Idiot Ivan actually is impressed by humanity. And so his heart grew threes sizes that day.
OK, not really, but I AM willing to give Rapid Taxi five stars based on the actions of Jamal, of Cab #1344. Thanks Jamal. (However, Rapid Taxi, your dispatchers, though they mean well, still need a little work.)
659 Auburn Ave.
Atlanta, GA 30312
(404) 577-2460
Atlanta, GA 30312
(404) 577-2460
Christine Legnon - Massage Therapist
Category: Massage
Although I like being massaged, I generally don't like massages. Contradiction, I know. I just find the thought of a stranger laying hands on my gelatinous torso disconcerting is all. Yes, it's their job and they've probably seen worse, but hey, it's my body and I'll cry if I want to.
I also think I dislike massages because when I relax, I like to fart. Push down on my abdomen at your own risk, my friends. Massaging hands create external pressure leading to internal pressure and there's nary a release valve in sight. Oy. I don't find that too relaxing to be quite honest. I guess I could just let one rip, but then I'd have to tip at least 90% and I don't think I could afford that. Oh the winds of change, they are a-breakin'.
However, once in a while my wife tires of massaging my shoulders and shouldering my farts and she buys me a gift certificate to her massage therapist, Christine Legnon. Despite my earlier protestations, I like my Christine massages. She has a supernatural sense of where to push, where to rub, how strong and how much. And I get by the farting part simply by falling asleep half the time. Yes, Christine's magical hands manage to keep even the crankiest of digestive tracks at bay. In fact, Allure Magazine agrees with me (with Christine being awesome, not my gassiness), blurbing Christine in a recent issue. (See the pic.)
Christine will talk if you want, but since I'm not a talker during massages, she respects that. That's cool. I hate talkative masseuses. As if I don't have enough going on in my head, gassy and nearly naked on a stranger's table, I've got to come up with small talk? So if you're a massage therapist and happen to be reading this review, please keep the chit chat to a minimum. Just let the candles soothe and the Enya play on. Speaking of which, I've not actually had a massage at Christine's new place, but I have seen it. Pretty, cozy and Studioplexy. This is the only reason I'm reviewing Christine separately from Aviary Organic Beauty Collective.
Now let's review what we've learned today. 1) Christine is a fantastic massage therapist. (And for you Mythbuster fans, I think she bears a striking resemblance to Kari B.) 2) Nothing is worse than a chatty massage therapist. 3) I'm gassier than the love child of John Madden and the Hindenburg.
Five stars.
I also think I dislike massages because when I relax, I like to fart. Push down on my abdomen at your own risk, my friends. Massaging hands create external pressure leading to internal pressure and there's nary a release valve in sight. Oy. I don't find that too relaxing to be quite honest. I guess I could just let one rip, but then I'd have to tip at least 90% and I don't think I could afford that. Oh the winds of change, they are a-breakin'.
However, once in a while my wife tires of massaging my shoulders and shouldering my farts and she buys me a gift certificate to her massage therapist, Christine Legnon. Despite my earlier protestations, I like my Christine massages. She has a supernatural sense of where to push, where to rub, how strong and how much. And I get by the farting part simply by falling asleep half the time. Yes, Christine's magical hands manage to keep even the crankiest of digestive tracks at bay. In fact, Allure Magazine agrees with me (with Christine being awesome, not my gassiness), blurbing Christine in a recent issue. (See the pic.)
Christine will talk if you want, but since I'm not a talker during massages, she respects that. That's cool. I hate talkative masseuses. As if I don't have enough going on in my head, gassy and nearly naked on a stranger's table, I've got to come up with small talk? So if you're a massage therapist and happen to be reading this review, please keep the chit chat to a minimum. Just let the candles soothe and the Enya play on. Speaking of which, I've not actually had a massage at Christine's new place, but I have seen it. Pretty, cozy and Studioplexy. This is the only reason I'm reviewing Christine separately from Aviary Organic Beauty Collective.
Now let's review what we've learned today. 1) Christine is a fantastic massage therapist. (And for you Mythbuster fans, I think she bears a striking resemblance to Kari B.) 2) Nothing is worse than a chatty massage therapist. 3) I'm gassier than the love child of John Madden and the Hindenburg.
Five stars.
758 Ponce De Leon Ave NE
Atlanta, GA 30306
(404) 873-5002
Atlanta, GA 30306
(404) 873-5002
The Local
Category: Bars
Neighborhood: Poncey-Highland
Oh Smocal, I love you, but after years of visiting, I'm afraid that my lungs look like those of a coal miner's. The canary in my chest died moons ago. But alas, after years of lobbying, kvetching, whining, mocking--after years where I've appealed to emotion and also used a series of business cases to appeal to the cold eye of reason, it's finally happened.
TWO NEW SMOKE EATERS.
Praise Jebus. Now will these two scrubbers be enough to hold back the hipster hordes with their expertly tousled bedhead and their love of Flavor Country? I don't know yet. Wednesday night trivia seemed fine, but the front door was also open all night. I'm also not expecting crisp, mountain air either. Just looking for a little, um, breathing room. Proprietor Daniel Mayne insists that the smoke eater in the game room does wonders. I may return on Saturday to see for myself. Til then, Local, my home away from home, I wait with bated breath.
TWO NEW SMOKE EATERS.
Praise Jebus. Now will these two scrubbers be enough to hold back the hipster hordes with their expertly tousled bedhead and their love of Flavor Country? I don't know yet. Wednesday night trivia seemed fine, but the front door was also open all night. I'm also not expecting crisp, mountain air either. Just looking for a little, um, breathing room. Proprietor Daniel Mayne insists that the smoke eater in the game room does wonders. I may return on Saturday to see for myself. Til then, Local, my home away from home, I wait with bated breath.
1 Previous Review: Hide »
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2/19/2008
Many have called The Local a hipster's Cheers--a place where not only everyone knows your name, but they also know the latest Pitchfork Top Ten, and they've probably friended you on the FaceSpace.
The people who say that would be right.
Contrary to popular belief, The Local HAS changed over the years, going from one room to two and installing porch booths after the wrought-iron tablesets mysteriously disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle of a pre-gentrified Ponce de Leon. But some things at The Local do remain a constant: the cheap, cheap drinks, the better than average bar food (best wings in Atlanta), and the great staff. The bartenders are usually quick and efficient, even when women are constantly trying to get Kenyon's attention. To maximize your efficiency, order beer and single liquor drinks. Martinis will be made begrudgingly. Cosmopolitans are barely tolerated and you may incur the wrath of the rest of the bar. (I mentioned the wings, first smoked and then fried. They really are the best in Atlanta, a bold move being across from Dugan's. The BBQ and ribs aren't bad either. Yes, the Belgian fries get all the attention, but try the meats. The Local is also one of the few places in town where you can get a real South Cackalacky mustard sauce for your BBQ.)
Tortilla's used to watch over The Local, like a benign, alcoholic uncle until the day that Tortilla's took flight and left The Local to fend for itself. Ah, but The Local was never by itself. It's close proximity to MJQ created a unique hipster symbiosis between the two bars that makes for a full night of drinking, emoting and wanting to dance, but not quite getting to it.
The only downsides? Parking is fine as long as you stay out of Marco's Pita, who will tow you quicker than you can say "tuna fish pita, organic chips and a smart water, please." And there's the smoke. Unfortunately, the cigarette is as much a part of the emo uniform as skinny jeans and an ironic t-shrt. As the hoodie goes, so does the secondhand smoke. It's not nearly as bad in the warm months as most stay on the porch and it's not really enough to keep my asthmatic self away. Just be prepared. And bring your inhaler.
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Whatever, B. Hey, YOU called ME.
But then Yelp came along and allowed me to channel all of my opinions into wordy, esoteric essays littered with dick jokes. So I typed and people began to follow. Slowly at first. And then, well, it's always been pretty slow and lately, people are unfollowing, but hey, never let facts get in the way of a good narrative. Still, people began to follow and before long, I found my wordy, dick-joke filled behavior reinforced with Skinnerian precision.
So I dedicate my 400th review to you, my anonymous fan(s.) You, who follow me, no questions asked. You, who thought so well of me to go that extra mile and click "Follow this Reviewer" to fulfill your quota of dick jokes, bad puns, and curmudgeoness. Sure, I'll never have as many fans as Scott K. (who imports them from Seattle by the way) or our Yelmpress Kathleen M. And this review is in no way a blatant attempt to try to pump up my fan numbers through transparent ego stroking because I have far too much respect for your intelligence, Dear Fan or Potential Fan. Some one as canny, as astute as you are would never fall for such a ploy. Indeed, let you wear these five stars that I bestow upon you as a sign of your inestimable breeding and good taste. Kudos to you all! And happy 400.