fussy

adj:  full of details, esp. in excess.

This past weekend my boyfriend and I treated ourselves to dinner at Le Virtu, a slightly schmancy Italian restaurant just moments away from his house in South Philly. The weather was gorgeous, I had just spent the day walking all over the city, and I was super jazzed about having a fine, homemade Italian feast. But, alas, the feast, it was not fine.

To begin, my patient boyfriend had arrived before me, and had secured a table in the far back of the dining room, right next to the tiny kitchen. After I arrived, ready to be treated to The Best Meal of My Life, we sat, unattended by anyone, for a solid 5 minutes. Harumph. Perhaps I should say now that I was once a waitress at a rather spectacular casual/fine dining Italian restaurant in New York City. Perhaps I should say that at this particular restaurant, which was easily four times the size of Le Virtu, with a wine list that could eat LV’s wine list for breakfast, the waitstaff was taught three super-important things: 1) make everyone feel special, 2) know the menus inside out and backwards, and 3) leave your psycho-drama at the door. I suppose my experience at Becco left me to expect certain things from other casual/fine dining establishments. Like a waiter, for instance. When ours finally showed up and asked if we were ready to order wine, he was scowling. Bored, perhaps, or annoyed by his role in life. Scowling waiter, strike 1. I ordered a bottle of white that I had selected during our 5 solid minutes of not being waited on. No sooner did I finish saying “we’d like the Trentino de blah blah,” Mr. Scowlypants asked for the number of the wine because he didn’t know the names. Gah. Fine, I gave him the number, they didn’ t have the bottle in stock. He leaned in to look at the wine list and make another suggestion, and selected the most expensive bottle of white on the page. Cheeky. I already had a second choice bottle in mind and ordered that instead.

Moving on to the appetizers. My boyfriend had tried the Scrippelle M’Busse soup at LV before and was anxious to order it again, so to offset the comfort-foody-ness of the chicken soup I ordered the antipasto misto plate. After we placed our orders a backwaiter (who smelled *exactly* like my high school prom date and made me giggle every time he walked by and I got a whiff) delivered complementary fried bread to the table. Two pieces plain, two puffs with mozzarella and thyme inside. Delicious. Within seconds he was back (I giggled) to deliver the soup and misto plate, which had about 10 yummy-looking, but somewhat un-recognizeable items on it. I asked for an explanation and was given one, but tsk tsk for LV not having their waitstaff explain the mystery food to guests when presenting the platter. Strike 2.

The appetizers were, I have to say, sublime. The misto had a nice assortment of goodies (though I wouldn’t have minded more cheese in addition to the one lonely piece of seasoned mozz on the plate) and the soup was indescribably awesome. Quite possibly the best soup I’ve ever eaten, actually. I wish I had stopped there and left with a glowing impression of LV’s food (I was just about full by then, anyway) instead of waiting for the entrees. My boyfriend had the Linguine Al Cartoccio, a “dry” (not freshly-made) pasta with calamari, clams, mussels and shrimp. It was brought to the table wrapped beautifully in a parchment paper coccoon, but the delicate food was ruined by heavy-handed seasoning and overcooked shrimp. My potato gnocchi in a tomato basil sauce smelled and tasted remarkably like Chef Boyardee. Completely forgettable. Steeeeer-ike 3.

In hopes of ending the evening on a high note, we ordered dessert. LV has panna cotta, an Italian custard, on their menu (minus half a strike for that) and it arrived drizzled with strawberry puree and homemade whipped cream. The whipped cream was superb, rich and vanilla-y. The panna cotta, sadly, was not. My boyfriend liked the mellow (ahem, flavorless)-ness of it, but I found it offensive. Oh well. As we were heading back home, my boyfriend pointed out that, for all its flaws, Le Virtu is still better than any other Italian restaurant in Philly. Can this be true? I think not. But I’m deterimined to find out. Suggestions, anyone?

settle

noun: to come to rest, as from flight

My my, how the time does fly when one isn’t blogging.  What have I been doing since my last post in mid-may?  Well, I’ll tell you:  I’ve been on a “business trip” to New York City; I spent a long weekend sightseeing. shopping, and eating my face off in Albany, NY, and a short weekend in the DC area for a graduation party;  I moved myself into a new apartment and moved Boyfriend Martin into his newly-acquired house, and played hostess to BFF Kiki, who was visiting for a few days from LA.  Phew.

Here’s what I took away from all of that:  first of all, go treat yourself to a Broadway show and see Passing Strange.  It’s loud and unexpected and boisterous and simply a joy to behold (even the show’s website is fun!)   Secondly, if you ever find yourself in Albany and in need of good food or good company, you’ll certainly find both at Crisan bakery and edible art gallery.  Martin’s friends Claudia and Iggy are wonderful hosts and extremely talented artists, both in and out of the kitchen.   (Also, nearby Manchester, VT has amazing outlet shopping and beautiful mountains for post-shopping picnics!)  Thirdly, moving in the summertime is dreadful, but help from friends (and family) goes a long way.  Good Friend Kate was a rockstar and helped me pack up my entire apartment in one day, and Super Hero Dad and Martin (who is, of course, both a rockstar *and* a super hero) helped with heavy lifting.  I’ve been settling into my new Italian Market digs for a little over a month, and so far the neighborhood has been good to me.  Pictures of the apartment coming soon… my brother has informed me that I’m failing the sibling picto-posting rivalry, so perhaps this weekend I’ll find some time to remedy that. 

And speaking of my brother, T-minus TWELVE days until our Hawaii/Japan adventure begins!!! Happy Fourth of July, everybody…

(For the fake record, I spilled water all over my desk during the composition of this blog.)

bug

verb: to bother, annoy, pester

Okay, so the Claritin poster wasn’t a primo example of Philadelphia quirkiness, it was actually a sneaky ad from Zyrtec. Very clever indeed. Were I affected by pollen, ragweed, etc, that ad alone would sway me into trying Zyrtec over any other over-the-counter anti-histimine (that’s why I’m an excellent consumer) but since I’m apparently immune to such things, I’ll just go on thinking that it was a swell marketing campaign.

Though normal allergens don’t bother me, something I dread as the temperatures begin to climb are other airborne irritants, specifically those of the insect variety. I’m horribly allergic to mosquito bites, which is truly unfortunate since mosquitos and all other nibbling, blood-sucking insects seem to just LOVE me. I know I tend to speak in hyperbolic terms sometimes, but my reaction to insects is literally the worst case that most doctors have ever seen. Two years ago I went on a long weekend camping trip and got so chewed up that I made an appointment with a dermatologist, hoping to be given some kind of medication that would either a) make the itching stop, or b) make me invisible (or unappetizing) to bugs. The conversation went something like this:
Respectable Dermatologist: (alarmed) Those… aren’t bug bites.
Me: Oh, I know, it’s pretty awful.
RD: (still alarmed) You must have some kind of condition.
Me: …no, they’re bug bites. Can you give me anything for them?
RD: They can’t be. There’s too many.
Me: I know, I tried counting them but lost track when I got past 50. Maybe you could give me an ointment, or a pill, or something?
RD: That’s impossible. They can’t ALL be bug bites.
Me: Except that they are…
RD: No. They’re not.
Me: Hm. Okay, I went camping in the Pine Barrens and actually SAW the bugs biting me.
RD: No. Uh-uh. There’s no way.
Me: Um… Yes. Really.
RD: There aren’t that many mosquitos in New Jersey.
Me: …You’re not going to help me, are you?

Since this has been a problem that’s plagued me (and has only gotten increasingly worse) since childhood, I tend to dislike most insects, even the ones that don’t bite. To avoid a mess in my apartment I’ll try to catch some (moths, for example) and free them outside instead of squashing them. But if there’s a chance I’m going to end up being bitten, or if it’s a *cockroach* that I have to deal with, I’ll kill anything dead without a second thought. It’s not a girl thing, or an “eww, a bug!” thing, it’s a matter of my happiness, comfort, and, to an extreme degree, survival.

All that being said, there is also a type of insect that I’ve recently encountered that I simply don’t know what to do with. Too fast to spray with kitchen cleaner (which, I’ve learned, kills everything) too big to squash without making a mess, and far too heebie-jeebie to capture and set free on the fire escape… folks, I give you the Philadelphia Millipede:

Now, what on EARTH am I to do with that? I suppose could keep her as a pet and name her Phillie Millie. If that’s not a close enough shot for you, here’s the one I’m submitting to cuteoverload.com:

This is what I had to deal with upon arriving home this evening, after teetering home in three inch heels, after multiple glasses of wine, after schmoozing at a work dinner with some terribly impressive and influential people. So what did I do? I took the bug’s picture on my cell phone and half-heartedly aimed a spray bottle of kitchen cleaner at it while it scampered underneath the radiator. Very much alive.

I’ll be living in this apartment for exactly 16 more days. Any suggestions on what to do with my multi-legged roommate if we encounter each other again?

dwell

verb (used without an object):

1. to live or continue in a given condition or state
2. to linger over, emphasize, or ponder in thought, speech, or writing

As promised, more good news to share! First of all, news of the not-exactly-mine-to-share variety: Martin (boyfriend, of the totally awesome variety) bought a house! After a fairly painless search, he found a beautiful house in South Philly that’s more or less move-in ready, and he officially becomes a homeowner (with keys) in mid-June.

Now, for my own news: I found an apartment! It’s a delightfully bright (windows in every room, gah) and unusually enormous (an entire floor, gah twice) one bedroom on South 10th Street, right near the Italian Market. I move on June 1, which can’t come fast enough since today I was not only greeted at the front door of my current apartment by a giant cockroach, but I also found out from a neighbor (who was kind enough to provide bug spray for the offensive roach) that my building has been recently broken into… twice. So, yes, all the signs are there, and it’s time for me to leave. As much as I hate moving, I’m really looking forward to my new home. It’s big enough for all of the furniture that I had to put into storage when I moved into my (tiny, roach-infested, easy-to-break-into) Rittenhouse apartment, and I’ll finally be able to set up a sewing area after five years of wanting one, PLUS I’ll be able to host small parties. Oh, that’s right. Domesticity and I are going to get it ON.

Speaking of new homes, it’s time I expressed my growing fondness for my not-so-new home city. Even though we got off to a rough start, I can finally say that I’m glad to be a Philadelphian. Perhaps at some point I’ll be moved to make a detailed list of all things I love about this city, but for the moment I’ll just talk about my absolute favorite: the always surprising, never-disappointing quirkiness. Like this sign, for example:

spotted along South Street while walking to Martin’s apartment. Or the pumpkin helmet that someone carefully carved for the statue of the woman in the fountain in Rittenhouse Square around Halloween. Or the heavily inked and pierced bike messenger who yelled “God bless you” over his should to me when I sneezed while crossing Broad yesterday afternoon.

This city has always felt small to me, so it’s only right that the little things should matter most. New York will always be a wonderful place to visit old friends, but Philadelphia is finally what feels like home.

variable

start

verb: to begin or set out, as on a journey or activity

Hi, and welcome to my blog! I’m sure you have questions. To start, this isn’t a topical blog. It’s meant to serve as a writing outlet for me, in hopes of sparking other creative endeavors, and also as a way to share my life’s goings on, adventures, stories, tangents, etc., with folks who I don’t see regularly. But, being a public blog, total strangers are more than welcome to visit, and often!

Next, the name “falling up the stairs.” It speaks to my current life (and generational?) status: onward and upward, but with a few faceplants here and there. Cheesy, maybe, but… who doesn’t like cheese?

This introductory blog was bound to be lame, and so it is.

Check back soon for far more interesting posts!