Bitchin' at the Bistro

As some of you may know, complaining is an art form. And, like landscape painters and laundresses everywhere, I try to mix a little light in with the darks. First, my visit to Petit Robert Bistro in Boston's South End. Their smoked salmon on croissant was everything I dreamed of: light, fluffy, and tasty -- but it took 30 minutes to arrive at my table (in the slightly screechy children's ante room).
Parked in a time-sensitive zone, where a ticket is twice the price of a hardy lunch a deux, I simultaneously ate and kept a watchful eye out for traffic cops on the prowl. I was lucky not to get ticketed, but I wish the restaurant had warned me beforehand of their leisurely service.
In another category altogether is Arlington's Za, and Lexington's Lexx -- two eateries with names so irksome that I won't go near either one -- the former refers to slacker-speak for "pizza" and the latter refers to sex (or Lexus, or perhaps both). Ill-chosen, I think, almost as bad as the nom de Michael Bublé.*
*At press time, I learned that this is in fact an authentic name. I still think it sounds fake but will work on relinquishing my grudge against him and it.

Hannaford's is for Hermits

Whenever I'd see television commercials for Hannaford supermarkets I pondered, why don't we have one where I live? Unlike Star Market, Shaw's (and the grim Market Basket), Hannaford promised a romantic, new and different food shopping experience; one I imagined that would be more "of the people" than Whole Foods/Bread and Circus (known by me as Why Pay Less?). But there was not a Hannaford within 20 miles of me. So when I found myself in Tewksbury, MA recently to experience my first Wal-mart (risking the danger of being locked in overnight), I had to try Hannaford. Despite the fact that it was Saturday afternoon, the spacious aisles proudly displayed their wares; the fish, fruits and vegetables were fresh; and -- wonder of wonders -- the store was gloriously free of crowds. As some of you may know, my end-of-the-world dream fantasy involves shopping for comestibles sans humans.

Fine as Is

Who knew Ikea could teach you the secrets of inner peace? There's something to be said for savoring each golden moment. It may look like I'm hunched over an iPhone texting and a'searching, but I'm actually just reading the fine print of the store credit for some linens I'd returned. I learned my credit could not be used for a Swedish meatball lunch in the upstairs cafeteria. That was fine with me. Most people were too busy seeking deep discounts on used goods to notice this rather quiet spot, ripe for contemplation.

LoopY

Thanks to JoeY's do-it-yourself shortwave loop antenna I've been eavesdropping on China. I learned that pop stars in that country now face a $12,000 fine for lip-synching. It seems that, after the 2008 Beijing Olympics opening ceremony, China was so embarrassed after a little girl was revealed to have lip-synched (for a young song bird deemed not sufficiently pretty to sing for all the world to see) that all miming was banned in China. A bit harsh, no? Are they harking back to Chairman Mao rules? I'll file a full report as soon as I crack the code.

Puffs and Pans

Yesterday I took a trip to You-Do-It Electronics in Needham, MA, in search of 8 wire computer ribbon cable. When a fellow shopper showed me where it was, I was forced to admit I was only there in loco Global Design Director (who sought materials for his various classified projects). Later, in the lobby, I happily made small talk with salespeople about the relative virtues of the heat-seeking thermometers and laser levels they were hawking. I rounded out the day with a trip to Ikea in nearby Stoughton, where I discovered the world's best chocolate at fire-sale prices. There I bought a kitchen strainer and an industrial-sized teflon-coated sauté pan. Lately I've been a fan of Chef Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares (I prefer the gentler BBC version to the American edition with its manufactured crises and screechy music), hoping to turn my own kitchen nightmares into cucina dreams.

Risky Business Dept.

Let a smile be my Hazmat cover. The last thing I want to be reminded of when filling my tank, surrounded by petroleum vapors, is an accidental explosion. That's why I can't quite grok a Belmont, MA, gas station's decision to invoke the specter of dynamite in their business name. Did they think the image of a fiery blowup might appeal to customers bored with automotive safety? Let's hope T.N.T. stands for the initials of the owners (Tom 'n' Tillie, perhaps) and not Trinitrotoluene.

Party Lights

Party lights, I see the party lights,
They're red and blue and green.
Everybody in the crowd is there,
But you won't let me make the scene.
-"Party Lights," Claudine Clark (1962)

It seemed like a good idea at the time: a short drive to Northeastern University on Sunday afternoon to see America's first black president up close. Actually getting in was something else again. I risked a $50 ticket parking in an iffy spot. Acres of chilled hopefuls stood in lines that snaked 7 blocks long across Huntington Avenue. (I learned later than most of them were turned away after the venue had reached capacity.) I never got close to seeing Obama, but somehow I'm not mad about it. I figure that too many supporters is better than too few.

Book 'em, Danno

The other night I was about to grab a snack from the kitchen and sighted a mouse scuttling among the baseboards. I instantly lost my appetite. Perhaps, I mused, The Mouse Diet could be my new best-selling book? I could picture the reviews: "A stunningly comic debut by the daughter of the author of the best-selling No Time To Cook Book and the sister of the best-selling author of Good Girl and Girl Time.)

Okay, I admit America may not be ready for The Mouse Diet. But it did give me the opportunity to include another gratuitous Manhattan apartment photo.

B-School Beat

It's not a painting by Mondrian. It's the Harvard Graduate Student Housing building across the river from Cambridge, a structure that's fascinated me for some time now. Each window is slightly out of alignment with the others, and no two repeat the same pattern (at least not for several floors). I wonder if the asymmetry bothers the young student residents, or if they're glad to be marching to a different drummer, architecturally speaking.

A Day That Will Live in Infamy

Our more obsessive readers may wish to note that my sisters (aka Sisters2) celebrated their birthday on the 7th of December. Always up for a challenge, the renowned JoeYLabs™ took on the job of creating a hand made present that not only raises the bar of innovation but conforms to the Sgt. Patti mandate that any such offerings be exactly equal. Thus was born the Flea Market Combat Kit.

Inside each kit, the girls found strategic implements such as a battle map of NYC flea market locations, pocket calculators, tape measures, emergency flashlights, plus a full array of knives and cap pistols to equip them for retail warfare on any front. A set of high-power walkie-talkies complete the armament. Initial reports indicate that Manhattan's Saturday morning flea market scene may never be the same.