Quiche, Grindhouse, and Gaijin at the Noodle Shop

There’s a little known law of science. It goes something like this:

If Rachael (when Rachael = a) cooks an elaborate meal (when Elaborate Meal = b) comes into direct contact with houseguests/moving objects (when Moving Object = H)
Then A multiplied by B divided by the speed of H = No Fucking Leftovers in my fridge.

Above mentioned visitors did bring a chocolate cream pie with them, of which half is still in the reefer. I won’t actually eat that though. Now if there were quiche left that would’ve served for another two night’s meals.
It was rich.
Bad for you.
In other words it came out perfectly. A full pound of cooked bacon. Lots of half and half. Gruyere, Swiss and Mozzarella. Sautéed mushrooms and onions. Flaky crust.
Yep. Good and good for you.

After consuming this feast we went over to Harrah’s for an hour or so then stopped at Blockbuster to rent Grindhouse, the Quentin Tarantino ‘drive-in double feature’ released last summer.

It was fun. Straight-ahead Tarantino fare. Lots of over the top violence and a perfect homage to the ’70’s fast cars/tits and ass/chock-full-o-violence B flicks.
I should know. My formative years were spent immersed in those films. Gah. I lived for (and at) B movies as a pre-teen and teen.

Both films were enjoyable fun and the first one, Planet Terror, had a zombie plot. It was directed by Robert Rodriguez (of Sin City).
You all know I have a soft spot in my heart (and brains) for Zombies.
As an added bonus what’s not to love about a peg-legged stripper heroine?

The second piece is Death Proof and was directed by Tarantino. Nice work by Kurt Russell playing a total psychopathic stuntman killer.
You see, there’s always that quirkiness that makes any Tarantino flick amusing.
Still…. There was the lingering feeling of ‘move along nothing (new) to see here.’

Damn Quentin. Enjoyed the movie but was hoping you’d push some new button, if not boundary.

This logically (in Reno) brings us to the eternal question of white people eating in Asian restaurants.
We visited a Vietnamese place for lunch. Just a little family run place.

I tasted something which sounds fairly vile but was actually quite tasty. This soup contained everything from tendon to tripe to brisket but I always try something new given a chance.
I ordered something that sounded quite tasty and was quite tasty.
The food was delicious.
The cleaning bill will be stupendous.

What is it about the inability of white people to eat Asian food in public?
Here’s a test I’ve devised. It’s called

Find the Gaijin!

FIRST: pick out an Asian restaurant. Any type will do. Korean, Vietnamese, Chinese, a Sushi Bar, whatever.
NEXT: put a bag over the head of all the patrons.
Sure they’ll struggle momentarily but explain it’s all for science. Or hit them over the the head with a Sapporo bottle.
Now you’re ready to play!

Q: How do you discern the white people in the crowd?
A: Count the number of noodle bits, soy sauce/rooster sauce blotches on their shirts.

I Guarantee you’ll Find The White People.

Fuck. I had actually left the house in a gray shirt as opposed to my requisite black. You know what happened don’t you.
This is why I wear black.
No. It’s not just a fashion thing.
It’s because I can’t use chopsticks or big-ass ceramic spoons for shit.

Thankfully this white girl cooks a mean quiche.

~Miss R

Currently listening:
Eyes Open
By: Snow Patrol
Release date: 09 May, 2006

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