Posts Tagged ‘Falafel’

Previously: Brilliant was right. In the same way a 15 watt light bulb is brilliant. This was not going to end well.

And now: Little did any of us towering intellects know that we would soon be needing a mouthpiece sooner than later and not just for resisting arrest.

Pops was down with the lawyer idea. He thought it might bring some here-to-fore needed class the pizzeria sorely lacked. F. Lee Bailey, Alan Dershowitz, and Johnny Cochran could not have brought class to this place, but, hey, I’ve crushed enough of Pops’ dreams to say anything about it. So, unbelievably, the resisting arrest scam was working. Look, it’s New Jersey, anything is possible here. And things were quiet. No PETA protests, Doris Day was happy with her new dogs, Pops was selling pizza and juris medicine in the back. It was too quiet. But we take our gifts where we get ’em.

6327151234_bd3c0dbf8a Not the caliber of lawyer at O’Shea’s.

Now that all that was humming along nicely, the drama reduced to a low, barely-discernible moan, I could go visit O’Shea’s and watch Ahmed polish his new glass, and finally indulge in one of his falafels. Life was good. Yeah, for the moment. I know I told you about O’Shea’s before, but it does have the best falafel in town. Town being Newark. Newark is out there, hanging on in the dark by its fingernails to the border, right across the river from New York City wishing it wasn’t in New Jersey. It had pretensions once, but now it’s come to grips with itself. It even at one time had its own theatre district. Now why you ask am I mentioning that? Well, what remains of the old and decrepit theatre crowd of hangers-on and former wannabees like to come into O’Shea’s and reminisce over their falafels and gin and tonics. It’s a strange crowd. It’s like watching outtakes from the old Mel Brooks movie, The Producers. Usually, it’s a harmless and almost amusing group of farts. Usually.

Tonight, we’re about to experience an out-of-body event, but I’m not sure whose body. One of the old-timers, named Kippy Sewell, creeps up to the bar next to me and signals Ahmed to join us. Us? I’m just sitting there nursing my falafel. I didn’t ask to join this but it looks like I’m into it.

“Hehnnn… Ahmed. C’mere.” hisses Kippy. Hissing is about all Kippy can manage after Tranks and Barry shook him down, literally, for an unpaid debt of some forgotten nature. “Ahmed, c’mere.”

Ahmed is deep into polishing the glass and doesn’t want to be bothered especially by the likes of Kippy. But Kippy is that rare bird seldom found in O’Shea’s – he pays his tab, so Ahmed reluctantly wanders over, but not before slowly straightening every bottle on the shelf behind him. “OK, Kippy, whadisit? I got glasses to polish.”

“Ahmed, you’re going to love this. You too Fog. But you’ve got to keep it on the down low.” You gotta give Kippy this – he speaks really well, enunciating each word as if in a Shakespearean play, only with hissing sibilance. You can take the boy out of the theatre, but… well, you know the rest.

Neither Ahmed or I are particularly interested in this, but boredom seeps in quickly at O’Shea’s so we listen. “What is it this time, Kippy?”

“I’ve just come across the most unique and original script of a play that I’ve seen in a long time. It is guaranteed to bring live theatre musicals back to the top. I’m looking for backers and you two need to get in on the ground floor. You’ll get rich!”

8318342482_5eb31fdb56 Yeah, it is a Broadway musical, but it looks more like the PETA protest.

Ahmed looks around and realizes there are more bottles that need straightening and departs for his shelves, leaving me with Kippy. I have to decide whether to make an excuse and leave, not finishing my falafel. Nope, can’t do THAT. So, I stay and listen to what Kippy believes will make us all rich. Looking back, I realize I can get a falafel pretty much anytime, but too late.

“Fog, do you go to the movies? Do you like movies? Musicals? Dance numbers?” Kippy says. “This is important.”

“No, Kippy, not really. The last movie I saw didn’t have sound.” I really didn’t want to indulge him, so sarcasm was my only refuge.

“Fog, I know that’s not true. I remember seeing you removing Polly from a Dana Delaney film festival. So there.” he hehnned triumphantly.

“OK, Kippy, shoot. I can’t hide the truth from you any longer.”

“Fog,” he always starts each query with your name. “Remember that actress with the big lips, Angela… what was it? Not Lansbury. No, no. Angelina, Yes, yes, Angelina… Jolie. That’s her. remember her? She was married to that weird guy who tattooed her name on himself. Well he made a movie that I’ll never forget.”

Oh great. He’s made a few. Which one and why? “OK, I’ll bite..which one?”

“Fog, you know the one. The one where he mumbles all the time.. Hmgnnhh. Right. Well, this script is marvelous. It’s a musical version of Sling Blade!”

2788022437_7cf29e2035 Hey, he does sing. Maybe it could work!

Good grief, I wish I had a blade so I could cut myself out of this joke. But, Kippy was serious.

Fog Calamari.

Posted: January 28, 2013 in Animals, Food
Tags: , , , ,

From the previous post:                                                                                                         “Ahmed.” No need for words between us. Hell, he doesn’t know much more English than that anyway. He nods to a booth on the far wall. I look over. Damn, if it isn’t…

And now…

Yeah, the last thing I needed was to see that beast again. I thought when I dropped her off at The Pound, a bar for real dogs if you catch my drift, they would put her down once and for all. The only putting-down though that night were the rude but accurate comments on her clothing that she really didn’t deserve. After all, her clothes were fashionable – once, a long time ago, maybe two or three owners before. But, she survived and always landed on her feet. They say a cat has nine lives…who the hell loaned her another one?

3120368915_82a1127005 The girls from the Pound.

Since she saw me seeing her, I had to go over, and short of putting her in her place, the basement usually, and politely ask her to get the hell out of O’Shea’s. Nothing will ruin a good falafel more than an angry, poorly dressed, terminated house-keeper looking for a handout. But did she have to bring her bucket of cleaning crap with her? Really? To O’Shea’s? I glanced back at Ahmed and he quickly wiped that smirk off his face. Not that it was easy as the scars from a Tupperware party gone wild left it pretty much permanently in place. He knew the effect she would have on me. Look, it ain’t easy firing your mother. And that too is a story for another time.

“OK, Polly…what’s up? What dragged you away from your Ricki Lake show this time?”

She looked at me, snorted in her inimitable and loving motherly fashion, threw a smelly, wet sponge at me and walked out. Again. It’s always sponges. I’ve accumulated quite a collection over the years waiting for that one perfect moment in which I can bury her with them. At least they don’t hurt.

The last time I saw her was at the all-you-can-eat Hawaiian buffet at the bocce court. She would keep score for the old guys who made sure she always had an ample supply of poi. Finger food was all she was allowed as her dentist and the court had decided she was not permitted to be in possession of any sharp objects. That edict was handed down shortly after she was found while opening beer bottles with her teeth at the local PathMark prying off the lids of containers of Breakstone’s sour cream and sampling each one with a pocket knife, then slicing summer sausage and handing them out as samples. In her own screwed up way, she could be generous. And now she was back in my life. Why? Hell, if I know. But I did know she would show up again in the next day or so and all would be revealed, not that I really wanted to know. How she found me was easy. I need to find a different bar and falafel joint to hang out at. Maybe I’ll look next week.

In the meantime, her absence was all too short as she staggered back into O’Shea’s. “We need to talk, Foggy.” I hated that nickname more than my regular name. What the hell now?

TBC.