judy "taking names" p.'s Profile

I will fondly remember the day I came to Fahrenheit as the Day I Met 2 Emilys. The Emily here was Emily 1, and by far my favorite (don't tell Emily 2).

I hadn't had my hair cut in about a year, but Emily was very gentle with me and didn't make me feel the slightest bit uncultured or deformed for my hair negligence. She asked me what I wanted, and I really had no idea; I just wanted a haircut because they make me happy. She made suggestions, all of which I took, and worked carefully on my hair with no distractions. The end result was amazing. I have a frame for my face and hair that moves, which even looks great left in its natural wavy state. It's versatile, easy, fun, classy, and I can already tell that this cut is going to grow out amazingly well. Magic.

My friend at work recommended this salon, and I can see why she loves it here. The atmosphere is warm and soothing, the people are wonderful, and the stylists are incredibly skilled.

Go ride off a cliff.

Anyone who enjoys this restaurant has neither self-esteem nor taste buds.

Service took over 30 minutes for 3 simple dishes. The lamb samosas tasted like dry ground beef served in a defrosted puff pastry shell. The bangan bharta and chicken saag were both so watery and bland that given a blind taste test, I would be hard-pressed to differentiate between the two. Both were flavorless mush, the only difference being the 2 overcooked chunks of chicken in the chicken saag.

San Francisco, please try harder.

You're a bag of dicks.

People rely on you to get places. People pay because they need you to get them somewhere. My daily commute is now 5 hours a day because of a merger. Because of the N Judah, it is more often than not elongated to 5.5 or 6 hours a day. And now I'm late for work, because I had to wait for 50 minutes for the N to come this morning.

People need to get to work on time. Do you get it?

Are you kidding me? This is not Korean barbecue. Perhaps it was a cue from the universe that upon entering, there was not a single other Korean patron in sight. If you have been frequenting good Korean restaurants and know the decorum, you will not be satisfied here.

The meat was practically flavorless and strangely cut, the service was surly, and many elements I both enjoy and expect from Korean barbecue  were unapologetically, unabashedly stricken from the minds of both staff and food alike.

Maybe I've been spoiled by growing up in the South Bay and living in LA for 6 years, but the banchan sucked (crappy kimchi? come on!), the meat was weird, we had to ask for foil to roast our garlic in and even then it wasn't oiled, they gave us barely any raw garlic and jalapeno slices and were scary about it when we asked for more, and we had to endure people who could not even properly identify anchovies all around us throughout the meal. This all culminated in a total lack of desire to eat at all until the time came to grill our bones (my favorite part of kalbi). Strange that they wouldn't cook it for us, since they took the time to hack our meat into unrecognizable chunks before bringing it out.

It might the drink talking, since I had to imbibe heavily to endure the meal, but if you think this is good, you don't know shit about Korean food.

I'm not too weird about my hair, other than that I obsessively love it and look forward to haircuts more than getting laid. I've let everyone and their mother (and once, someone's brother) cut my hair. Now that I'm older, closer to death and thus more cautious, I'm a little choosier about who touches this most sacred part of me. So I Yelped hair salons in my 'hood and chose Stacy's by star evaluation.

Girlfriend works pretty late on weekdays (6 pm I think?), but not late enough to accommodate my wonky schedule. She was booked solid for the upcoming Saturday (I called on Thursday morning) and is closed Sundays, so I took the following Saturday.

I've been wearing my hair short for... I don't know, less than 6 months now, but it'd been growing out and losing shape in the back. I was explaining, "Longer in the front, layers in the back," because terrible things happen with my chin and neck when the hair around my face gets too short.

"Like a bob?" she inquired.

"More like an a-line," I replied, because Posh Spice is my moon-mother.

"Ok," she said, and set to work. Like, studiously. By the time she was done, I felt like she knew the epic history of every strand on my head. I also fell deeper and deeper in love with her with every snip of her scissors. She took such care and worked with such diligence that I could not help but appreciate her existence in this world for the magical mystery that it is. After I paid ($30 + gross overtipping) and left her salon, I felt as though I was walking away from a long and satisfying love affair. (I _really_ like haircuts. Don't judge.)

Re: my haircut - love it. Style it, don't style it. Still lookin' foxy any which way. (I actually think it's a tad too cropped, but I'mma give it a week to settle. As much as I love haircuts, I don't get them all that often. My favorite look is the growing-out stage. Hair's gotta get a little lived-in, if you ask me.)

This place is unfuckingbelievable. I'm so furious that I'm laboriously typing this out on my blackberry, so forgive any typing/formatting errors.

I've been here about 3-4 times. Every time, the workers have been flippant and apathetic, but it's the closest UPS location to my work, so I kept coming. I've been cheerful and nice even in the face of their obviously skewed work ethic. Today, however, the greasy, ugly, curly-haired man launched an unbidden tirade on me for not making pick-up time, demanding where I worked and that I tell my boss not to come past pick-up.

He also yelled that they used to close at 6 until UPS made them stay open until 6:30, and that he didn't have room to keep the boxes I had dropped off. The time was about 5:30, an hour until their closing time. By the end, he was flat-out shouting at me, totally unprovoked.

Look, douche. I'm sorry that my boxes are taking up your jack-off space and that UPS is trying to cater to customers' needs, but do your fucking job and take my goddamn boxes. If I could stomach seeing your ugly ass again, I would come every day with packages to drop off at 6:20 pm, just to make you hate me more for actually asking you to do your job during your designated work hours. As it is, I realize you saw me as an easy target, what with my being a young lady with a pleasant demeanor and cheerful smile, but I will fuck your face with my fist if you speak to me that way again.

Seriously unprofessional, unreliable, and just dirtbags in general.

Overheard at this location: "So have you shaved your tits today?" Insert screeching of brakes here.

I am going to STALK this Peet's until I run into the speaker again, and next time I'll be ready with a recording device.

The drinks are good too. Except for the Gingerbread Latte, which tasted like Santa had hit the bottle and yakked into my cup. Also, the dude taking my order said "Awesome!" or "Cool!" (or both!) after every question of his that I answered. Awesome.

This place is super saucy (in a way that makes you want to lick your plate), and when it comes to sauce, I like it hot. The hot sauce here--while forreal flavorful--was not that hot, so don't be scared to try it. I ordered the two-way combo with beef and chicken and was in no way any match for the mountainous plate that came my way. I tried my darndest, though, and I think I did my eating buddy proud. The meat is more like a vehicle for the sauce to get in your mouth.

Each dinner comes with two sides along with either corn or wheat bread. Obvs I opted for cornbread, along with yams and greens. The yams were almost too sweet for consumption, but the greens were lovely.

The food might not be ALL THAT, but I'd certainly make the trek out here for bbq, if only to avoid Memphis Minnie's. Not to mention the warm, genuine, slightly sassy service that came with my meal here.

I used to hang in this plaza all the time in high school, but there was no Yogurtland back then. If there had been, I would have missed a lot more Physics.

I perfected my soft serve swirl back at the dining halls in college, so I delight in the self serve M.O. they've got going on. I revel in it. I secretly compete with others in line with me to see who swirls the best. It also comes with the added bonus of being able to choose how much of each flavor you want without pissing off any counter-chained employees.

If the fro-yo is the rainbow (and with their variety of flavors, I'd argue that it is), then the cornucopic (shut up; I know it's not a word) offering of toppings is its conclusive pot of gold. Even though it's only thirty cents an ounce, I try to hold back on heavy substances like mochi balls, though it's hard to convince myself not to get condensed milk. This is because the condensed milk looks like drizzled jizz, and I'm not the kind of person who can pass jizz stylings up. I don't even know if I'm allowed to say "jizz" here. JIZZ. Also it's delicious. The condensed milk, I mean.

ILU, Yogurtland. I wish your lines weren't so long in the summer, but nothing is more perfect on a hot summer night than sitting out on the plaza's patio tables with a jizz-coated cup of self-served fro-yo.