Todd Gehman

Nice to find a reputable tile company in the neighborhood. After visiting a few tile joints that left me uninspired, it was a relief to find a place that I liked right off the bat. I just kinda wanted to give them my business, which was not an experience I had anywhere else. As a bonus, every time I visit, their neighbors remind me of cherished, gritty old Ballard. Even as condos and upscale boutiques take over, we remain a neighborhood where the plasma center has a liquor store next to it. And that’s saying something.

This is the best-named place in the history of named places.

Mexico City seems to inspire passionate debate from residents and tourists alike. I’d heard traveled, trustworthy people say everything from “it’s the sexiest, most exuberant place I’ve ever been” to “the cops will steal your wallet”. I got to visit for a few days in May and I definitely landed on the positive side of the debate. It was my first non-European travel experience and I was a sucker for the old-world charm of the funky little retail stores, the crazy blend of architectural styles, the color and vibrance of the physical spaces, the amazing street life day and night, the sheer scope and energy of the place. I was surprised at how few people spoke any English, and how little Spanish I’d remembered from school. The people – when they are not driving their cars like madmen – are what make the place so alive and welcoming, and not being able to engage them in substantial conversation was the biggest downside to the trip. I’m definitely returning to el D.F. after I brush up on my Spanish a bit, and I can’t wait to explore more.

A curious but common experience in Cusco is having a local gesture in the general direction of Cristo Blanco – the big white Jesus gesturing atop a Cusco hillside – and ask, in what sounds like perfectly clear English, “Have you seen sexy woman?” No, they don’t take Catholicism quite that far. They refer to this complex of Inca ruins on the next hillside. Interesting construction, partly fashioned from impossibly large boulders, partly deconstructed ages ago to build Spanish churches in town. It’s a visually stimulating place to wander about and it affords excellent views of Cusco and the valley. Very worth the hike up from San Blas (or the cab ride for the lazy and the altitude-sick).

This restaurant is called Silence-Heart-Nest. That is its actual name. The food at this restaurant – deliciously vegetarian even to an omnivore – is served to you by women in saris who follow the teachings of the Swami whose face litters the walls. These Swami-littered walls are ruffled with gold prayer cloth and painted sky blue. I can’t remember if there are happy white clouds painted on these walls, but there ought to be. I’m a cynical east-coast bastard so what I’ve described to you approximates the first level of hell, yet I am totally becoming a regular here for brunch. It’s damned tasty.

Bummer. Three days after learning that The Man is constructing a four star hotel across the street from Hattie’s Hat, rumors abound that the best rock club in Seattle is closing. Boo two.

P.S. In totally unrelated news, soft-rock songster Dan Fogelberg died. Clearly, the end is nigh.

I got two words for you: Cajun Blackened Salmon Sandwich.

There are nine million cheeseball Irish pubs in Gramercy, which might make you think cheeseballitude is mandated by neighborhood law. But Molly’s is exceptional, straying so far from the Irish pub standard that they are widely known to employ and attract actual Irish people. It’s amazing they can get away with it.

$6.00 for a weak whiskey soda? Hrm. My friend raved about the burger he noshed, and Yo La Tengo waltzed in after their excellent Town Hall show, so I’ll give this place thumbs up on the basis of late night cow eating slash star gazing.

I adore this little neighborhood pub. I like the bartenders and the nice patrons and the jukebox played at conversational volume. It’s low key and no-nonsense and I make a point of stopping in every time I’m in New York. I’ve always remembered it as “the place across from that obnoxious pub where Dylan Thomas drank himself to death” until last week, when I found out it has a name, and that name comes from a Midwest radio station fondly remembered by the owner. I was not surprised. Somewhat more surprising was reading a web review stating that “No tourist has ever been known to set foot in WXOU Radio. That’s why we like it.” Oops.