Planet Panic

by Pam Pastor

  “Oh my god,” I whispered to her. “I think this is the final location.”

  At that point, it had become less about cronuts and more about the chase.

  Dominique was busy chatting with women who, I assume, do PR or marketing for him. They looked very happy, talking about website hits. Bakery employees walked up to their group laden with bags of cronuts and cookie shots. But the stuffed rabbit was nowhere to be found. And Dominique and his team were grabbing the bags and heading outside.

  We followed them.

  I sidled up to Dominique and asked confidently, “Is this the final location?”

  “Of what?” he asked, looking at me nervously, not unlike a twitchy rabbit.

  “The rabbit hunt?” I pressed.

  He smiled, still looking uneasy, and said, “We’re going there now.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “I can’t tell you,” he said, still smiling but clearly wondering who the hell this Asian Veruca Salt was.

  “But are you going to tweet it now?” I asked.

  He just smiled and started backing away from me. I don’t blame him, I really don’t.

  He walked up to the PR ladies who were still loading the cronuts and cookie shots into a black SUV. He hugged them, they said their goodbyes and when the car sped off to the final location, Dominique started walking back to the bakery entrance where Jill and I were still standing.

  Knowing it was too late to chase after cronuts and cookie shots, I walked up to Dominique again. “Can we please have a photo with you?” I asked, because yeah, I want proof of the day I scared Dominique Ansel.

  Despite the harassment, he was really nice. Jill took a photo of us and as Jill was taking a selfie with him, Janna popped out of the bakery and said, “Hey, I want a picture, too!”

  We thanked Dominique, walked back inside and found out that the cookie shots were sold out. Damn it.

  Then, Jill’s eyes widened again. “The stuffed rabbit!” she pointed to a bakery employee carrying it. She was right. It was the stuffed rabbit we had been trying to hunt down. Its orange balloon was bobbing in the air.

  But I was done. We drowned our sorrows in frozen s’mores and freshly baked madeleines.

  I was attacking my s’mores out in the bakery’s back garden when a group of Koreans tapped my shoulder. “What’s that?” they asked.

  “Frozen s’mores. You have to get some, they’re good.”

  Later that night, I found out that the last location was Bleecker Street. I had been right. I was just there at the wrong time.

  Damn you, cronuts.

  April 19, 2014

  Breadsticks

  The first mistake was eating at Sbarro.

  The second mistake was eating at the wrong Sbarro.

  But that’s what happens when you’re pressed for time and you’re rushing to drop off people at the Empire State Building and trying to catch your train.

  Jill ordered the ziti. No half orders, the surly guy behind the counter said, so you hollered over the din of the restaurant, “Let’s share!”

  Then you ordered a slice of pizza and a garlic breadstick. That was mistake number three. Jill’s ziti came with two garlic breadsticks and she’s not a garlic bread fan and even if you love it, you can only eat so much bread until you feel like your stomach is about to explode.

  And when it was time to throw out the trash that was formerly your lunch, you couldn’t bring yourself to toss out the breadsticks.

  “I’ll find someone to give them to,” you told them, even though they looked at you like you were being silly, even though you know most people in need would rather get a dollar than a lump of bread.

  You stuffed the aluminum foil-covered breadsticks into your backpack, saying a silent prayer for the stench of garlic not to cling to your things too much. You love the smell of garlic but not when it’s on your jacket.

  You walked out of Sbarro (good riddance, surly servers) and before you could turn a corner, you spot a homeless guy sitting on the sidewalk. He was tall, youngish, maybe your age, his long hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. There was a plastic cup with a sprinkling of coins in front of him, dirty pizza crusts and a half-empty cup of iced coffee beside him and a plastic bag of more sorry-looking food behind him. His eyes were half-closed, as if the wicked sun was assaulting them. He looked stoned. And a little scary.

  You walked past him. He did not look like he wanted bread.

  But Jill and Janna had spotted him, and Janna said, “There! Give the bread to him!”

  “Just ask if he wants them,” Jill said.

  So you marched back to where the guy was sitting, towering over him even though he could dwarf you if he stood up, and asked, with false confidence, “Do you want some bread?”

  He lifted his head up slowly, a look of annoyance on his face, like you disturbed him while he was doing something important (and who says sitting quietly and having a silent fight with the sun isn’t?) and said to you, slowly, “No … I don’t want bread.”

  “Okay,” you said.

  You think he was saying something else but you’re not sure. You had started walking away, the bread feeling like bricks in your bag.

  And that is why you arrived in Pennsylvania with two garlic breadsticks still stuffed in your backpack.

  April 26, 2014

  This is a love letter to Katz’s Deli

  The last time we ate at Katz’s Deli, Jill and I made the mistake of ordering just one pastrami on rye and splitting it.

  Then I made the mistake of grabbing the pastrami pieces that had fallen out of her sandwich and onto our shared plate and popping them into my mouth. She wasn’t happy about that.

  “Akin ’yun eh!” she said, looking like a kid whose lollipop you had just swiped.

  So for months, in Manila, we had serious discussions about a deli that was thousands of miles away.

  “Next time, we get one whole sandwich each.”

  “Yes. And just one plate of fries.”

  “Yes! And no pickles.”

  “Yes. Should we mix the pastrami with corned beef?”

  “No.”

  Yesterday, we finally made it back to Katz’s Deli.

  “Don’t be afraid of the sandwich, let the sandwich be afraid of you,” hollered Katz’s hilarious doorman to nervous-looking tourists. I can’t blame them, Katz’s Deli can be intimidating for first-timers. Some of the guys there still scare me.

  We ordered one sandwich each—pastrami on rye with mayo for me, pastrami on rye with mayo for Jill, pastrami and corned beef on rye with mayo for Mamsy, pastrami on rye without mayo for Janna.

  We attacked our sandwiches while staring at cute babies and marveling at how fast the guys at the next table inhaled their sandwiches.

  No inhalation happened at our table—only an intense initial attack that petered out into little ladylike bites, a sure sign of fullness.

  I only managed to eat half my sandwich plus two bites of the other half. Jill ate half her sandwich. Her mom ate half a bread slice and half the pastrami. Janna ate half her sandwich plus one bite of the other half.

  And that is why I spent the rest of the day walking around with four sandwich halves in my backpack.

  “Tita Pam, your bag smells like pastrami!” Janna said, laughing behind me as we walked up the subway steps.

  It was a twisted gift from the deli gods. “You missed our pastrami? Here, smell it all day. Smell it on your bag. Smell it on your things. Smell it on you. Walk around smelling like a deli sandwich.”

  I’m having leftover pastrami for breakfast today.

  April 29, 2014

  Not everyone deserves fried chicken

  “Forget it, I’m gonna go!”

  I looked up from my plate to see a man storming out of Unidentified Flying Chickens.

  Our Korean waitress chased after him, telling him his food was almost ready.

  He returned to the counter, still angry. “I didn’t think it would take so long! I’ve been
here twenty minutes! It’s just four pieces!”

  “I’m sorry,” the waitress kept saying and I wanted to give her an award for her patience.

  He wouldn’t stop. “Twenty minutes is ridiculous!”

  But it really isn’t. Chicken takes twenty minutes at UFC because they only start cooking it after you order. They’re not a fast-food place, they don’t have food lying around ready to be thrown into a box. They fry their chicken wings once, remove it from the fryer and then fry it a second time. That is why the skin is perfectly crisp, that is why it takes so long. And then they cover the wings with their special soy garlic glaze before serving them super hot at your table.

  I know this because I’ve been eating at UFC for years, I know this because I’ve cooked chicken this way for my friends and family.

  UFC still serves the best Korean fried chicken I’ve ever had. I am happy to take a forty-minute subway ride to eat there, and I will gladly wait more than twenty minutes for their chicken.

  The man finally had his order in his hands but he was still all huffy. On his way out, he walked by our table, and I was tempted to grab his takeout bag.

  If you’re going to throw a bitch fit over fried chicken, maybe you don’t deserve to enjoy fried chicken at all.

  May 8, 2014

  I ate my way through Brooklyn Flea

  The problem with having Brooklyn Flea favorites is you never get to try new things. So this time, I skipped the lobster roll, even though I knew I might regret it.

  I joined Jill at Porchetta where the girl behind the counter was trying to convince Joel to buy a sandwich. The guy beside her was chopping a slab of roast pork into tiny, tiny pieces and it smelled so good that I said, “Fine, I’ll get one, too.”

  “It’s the best job in the world,” Porchetta girl said. “I’m like a good drug dealer. Everyone’s happy, they come back and tell me, ‘I need more!’ Then we run out and we go home at 3 p.m. I’ve never had a more rewarding job. The vibe is just good. It sells itself. I don’t have to do anything.”

  Porchetta guy looked up from the pile of meat in front of him and said, “Yeah, I reign in silence.”

  He stuffed four rolls with generous servings of pork. I grabbed mine, took a bite and closed my eyes. It was good. The porchetta was tender, fragrant and flavorful, the skin, crispy and salty. The bread was a little tough—pandesal would have been better but that’s the Pinoy in me talking—but the girl was right. I wanted more.

  But I resisted because there were other things to eat. Like our favorite elote—corn on the cob prepared the Mexican way: lightly coated with mayo, rolled in cotija cheese and sprinkled with cayenne pepper.

  My elote looked so good that as I walked back to our spot, a man stopped me. “Excuse me, where did you get that?”

  Ver said she liked her Takumi Taco taco so I got one, too. She ordered the Japanese curry beef (curry beef, cotija cheese, Napa cabbage, Japanese mustard, wasabi crema), but I went for the spicy shrimp (chilled poached shrimp, spicy yuzu kosho aioli, avocado, corn salsa). It was good, too. It was light in both size and taste.

  I was done eating. It was time to shop.

  My favorite Brooklyn Flea vendor is Dan’s Parents’ House. Dan is so popular, and he has so much stuff that he occupies two booths. He sells things that you can dig up in your parents’ basement or attic—old Happy Meal collectibles, vintage keys, toys from the seventies, eighties and nineties, Garbage Pail Kids stickers, trading cards (he even has New Kids On The Block and 90210 packs), patches, all kinds of cool stuff.

  “I can’t believe you have a whole tin of these,” a guy told Dan, after seeing a pile of little plastic beige soldiers. He sounded so excited.

  “Oh yeah, they’re my second favorite toy,” Dan said.

  “How much for these?” a tiny voice said and Dan looked down to see an adorable little girl wearing an Elsa costume. She was holding up two plastic Pumbaas.

  Dan grinned and said, “Two for each, so four dollars.”

  The little girl was so cute that if I were Dan, I would have said, “It’s free! What else do you want?” But that’s why Dan is a businessman and I’m not.

  I saw a pile of Girl Scout badges and asked the guy assisting Dan how much they were. “Let me ask Dan, it’s my first day here,” he said, sheepishly.

  Then he noticed my Dr. Martens. “Hey! Cool boots! Hieronymus Bosch?”

  “Yup, this is supposed to be Hell.”

  “Yeah, I’m very familiar with his work. Heaven is not as cool as that one.”

  I wanted to buy old letters. Dan usually has piles of them (a number of them love letters sent during the war) but I was surprised to find out that he no longer had them. “Email me and I’ll find you some,” he said.

  But I quickly forgot about the letters. Because I spotted a big bin of trolls.

  Over twenty years after my obsession led to “The Great Troll Inferno,” (see p. 6) I still have a thing for Russ trolls. When I saw Dan’s pile, I squealed and started digging.

  Only a handful of them were from Russ though—most of them were just creepy trolls (yes, there’s a difference). I knew instantly that I wanted the Russ troll with aqua hair. And the small troll pin.

  No one is burning these babies.

  On one visit, the guy running the Wrecords By Monkey booth gave me a free vinyl cuff. “Don’t ask and you shall receive,” he said, after asking me to choose a bracelet I wanted.

  That same day, a couple of cool grandpas were selling vintage Garbage Pail Kids stickers at 10 for $5. I spent my childhood obsessing over these disgusting kids so of course I wanted some. I looked through the stacks but found only one I really wanted. When I asked how much it was, one of the grandpas said, “Take it, it’s on me.” And so I did.

  These are the things I love about Brooklyn Flea—the food, the finds, the surprises.

  And, after running into Happy, I had gotten my dose of all three.

  We left in search of crack. And by crack, I mean Momofuku Milk Bar’s Crack Pie.

  May 9, 2014

  Winning the bill tug-of-war

  It’s a fight that happens at every meal. I call it the bill tug-of-war.

  The simplest way to win the bill tug-of-war is having quick hands so you can be the first to grab the check when the waiter brings it to your table.

  But when you are dealing with bill tug-of-war pros, sometimes speed isn’t enough. If you really want to win, you need more sophisticated tactics.

  Like arriving early at the restaurant and giving the waiter your credit card before your friends even get there (see: Joel at Chef Yu). Or, if it’s a fast-food situation and you’re both at the counter, tell the cashier that the other person’s money is fake (see: me at different places).

  Losing at the table or the cash register doesn’t automatically mean defeat—you can steal the other person’s victory by slipping the cash into their bag or pocket or bra (if you are sure this move won’t get you punched) or leaving it in the backseat of their car (see: Jill on numerous occasions).

  We are all pretty good at this game but Jill’s mom is the undefeated champ. She is the queen of bill tug-of-war and she doesn’t even use any special strategies—she just stares at you until your will to win shrivels up and you put your money back in your wallet.

  But I wanted to break my losing streak. And I knew if I wanted to win, I was going to have to be sneaky, very sneaky.

  “I’d like the corned beef hash with scrambled eggs, wheat toast and a side of crispy bacon, please,” I told our waitress.

  We were at Mil-Lee’s, our favorite breakfast place in Philly.

  After everyone finished ordering, I left the booth under the guise of going to the restroom and followed our waitress to the kitchen. She turned to me, a quizzical look on her face.

  “I need your help,” I said. “The people I’m with keep trying to pay for our food. I’d like to pay for breakfast. Can I give you the money now?”

  I shoved two-hundred-dollar bills into he
r hands. She looked at them and said, “This is too much.”

  “I know, but just in case they order more,” I said, thanking her before slipping back to our table.

  We enjoyed our breakfast. And when it was time to go, our waitress approached our booth and handed me my change.

  “What?!” everyone groaned while I beamed. I had won.

  Our waitress laughed. “Oh yeah, she was sneaky,” she said before walking away.

  “We’ll leave the tip,” Joel said.

  “Of course not,” I said. “She helped me, I’ll leave the tip.”

  Joel shrugged, as if to say, “Fine, you win this time, you crazy person.”

  But another hand was pushing the tip back towards me. I looked up. It was Eliud, Joel’s sister Tina’s boyfriend.

  Aha! A stealth contender!

  “We’ll leave the tip,” he said, taking money out of his wallet and placing it on the table.

  He looked like a formidable opponent, like he was determined to win, but I was not afraid.

  “Nope,” I said. “Not happening.”

  He cocked his head, looking like he was trying to placate a stubborn child.

  “Come on, we’ll take care of the tip,” he said again.

  “Nope, sorry.” I shook my head, pushing his money back towards him.

  “Really, we’ll leave the tip,” he insisted.

  “Okay, let’s arm wrestle,” I said.

  Everyone laughed and kind of hooted. Jill seemed to like the idea, immediately clearing the table and bringing out her iPhone so she can take a video.

  But there was no way in hell I was going to arm wrestle with Eliud. He looked like a strong guy, like he can crush my arm like a pancake.

  I like arm wrestling but this looked more like a suicide mission.

  “Of course he’ll win,” I said, confidently. “But I’ll still leave the tip.”

  And with a gentle nudge from Tina, Eliud accepted defeat, keeping his money.