I meet my friends at Tramonti in the Theatre District and after pigging out on some super delicious fried calamari, I start ordering the main course. Except that I couldn’t. Because the menu looked like it was written in Aramaic. I’m trying figure out what the hell on the menu was penne with marinara sauce. The entire menu blurs into a haze of disorganized gibberish and I start to get a migrane and all I want is some food and WHY CAN”T ALL MENU’S BE AS EASY AS OLIVE GARDEN’S?! Seriously, Olive Garden has to be God’s gift to mankind. Or Mussolini’s. Or whoever invented Olive Garden. What are people like me, who are Italiano illiterate, supposed to eat? Which makes me wonder, WHY DON’T I KNOW THIS ALREADY!? Why isn’t stuff like this taught in colleges? Skills like how to read the menu at a fancy-schmancy Italian ristorante are so crucial to one’s wholesome development and to adapt successfully to real life in the real world and to not get a smirk from the cocky waiter as he judges you for struggling to pronounce Capellini Mare e Monti. And what in fucks name even does Capellini Mare e Monti even mean?! Why can’t you call it what it is: spaghetti,  beans, mushrooms and tomatoes. Except that it wasn’t spaghetti, but something called angel hair pasta. Which reinforces my point about why important information like the gazillion types of pasta and the subtle differences between spaghetti and angel hair pasta be made a part of core college curriculum. Young impressionable adults need to prepare themselves cope with the pressures that await them in the real world of fine Italian dining that goes well beyond Ray’s Pizza.

But all’s not lost. I did meet a guy who has Jack Bauer’s job. And I go, “Yeah right! The fuck you do.” But he does. Almost. He works as an interrogator for a international organization. The moment he said that, my brains were blown away. Like icky, sticky brain matter splattered on the wall after a game of Russian roulette, blown away. Of course, this guy played it down largely, saying all he did was question officials to detect fraud and corruption. But still, to think that he sits in a dimly lit room having a single light hanging from the ceiling swinging back and forth, in front of a man chained to the floor, having drips inserted in his arm injecting him with whatever-the-hell-it-is truth serum is called, calmly asking for cooperation, breaking a few fingers, threatening him with more violence, and offering immunity deals when required, gave me like a teeny-tiny orgasm! But then again, I also think that Hiro Nakamura is the coolest character on television, so that’s not saying much about me. I know, I watch wayy too much television.

From stinky turds to the greatest dessert ever created, gentlemen, I give you, the sizzling brownie. And a shout out to Lil’ m, yes- it does sizzle!

Sizzling Brownie! from Amortya Ray on Vimeo.

So the thought that popped up in my dream this morning, I think, is one of the things that I find extremely annoying and inappropriate and completely wrong with the universe. Guys who use the word ‘dear‘ in conversation with other guys. And not in a grandfatherly ‘my dear‘ kind of way. More like in a ‘yes dear‘ sort of ridiculously schmoozingly castrating way. Every time I hear a guy use ‘dear‘ in written English, or even worse spoken out loud, my respect for them plummets to the depths of the nether world. Nothing is worse than a guy chopping his own balls off and serving them with bolognese sauce.

On other more delicious thoughts, I was recently introduced to the orgasmic pleasures of eating sushi. It was lil’ m’s birthday last week, and big M, lil’ m, Mixie and me celebrated it at Komegashi, a rather fancy joint in Jersey City. I’ve always been a little skeptical about sushi, well, because it’s RAW FUCKING FISH! But lil’ m did a fabulous job of introducing me to the cuisine. Maybe it was hormones or maybe she’s just getting all maternal on my ass, but she’s like, “Try this Morty. It has cream cheese. It’ll mask the taste of the fish. Or try this one- it has avacados in it. A little high on calories, but that’s alright.” And I was all but salivating with my puppy dog eyes wide open. Almost like when I was learning to ride a bike. Or when Dr. Bhonsle, the sex-ed consultant in 9th grade showed Mrs. Sanghamitra’s class of 40 curious, overly enthusiastic and horny boys a diagram of a vagina.

Google  avoid  Bailey.  Okay,  so  I  am  on  the  train  heading  out  of  I.  D  and  she  gave  me  about  25  minutes  to  get  you  want  and  if  it’s  good  and  maybe  another  month  rent.  Another  thing,  and  130  minutes  of  each  show,  you  can  just  so  kind  of  speculate  about  an  hour  from  now.  I  need  to  get  to  follow  up  with  the  okay,  so  I’ll  give  me  a  call  when  I  get  out  of  the  subway.  Alright,  see  you  there.  Bye.

So I’m all what the fuck? Google screwed up? What am I going to do now? I thought they knew everything about my life? Now I have to figure out where to go ALL BY MYSELF!? I start attempting to decode the message. No dice. I finally give up and just walk down to Trader Joes, where my friend was planning to go. Why, really? Cause cheap wine is awesome. Not as awesome as Bailey’s. Because Bailey’s is fucking awesome.

So we hop on to the green line and head to Ravagh and our lovely waitress tells us that they didn’t have any lamb shank. And I’m like get out of my face already lady!? What did you just say? No lamb shank? What do I do now? I HAVE NO REASON TO LIVE. I was devastated. So after settling for some kebobs, and an appetizer and some non-shanky lamb stew, both of which had the word bademjan in it and contained inordinately large amounts of eggplant, we got done with the meal. But I’m still upset that we didn’t get the lamb shank. And especially mad because my friend didn’t get to try it since I’d been raving about it for the longest time.

Later last night, it hits me that I can listen to the message. That’s right, lissssennn to the message. After the unnecessarily long period when I felt like a total dumbass for not knowing this, I play the message. Here’s what she REALLY said:

Google Voice, really? Okay, so I’m on the train heading out of White Plains and it will take me about 25 minutes to get to 125th street and another 30 minutes maybe to reach Union Square, so kind of calculate about an hour from now for me to get to 14th street. Okay? I’ll give you a call when I get out of the subway. Alright, see you there. Bye.

Google, as awesome as you really are, and as much as I blindly trust you with pretty much every itsy-bitsy bit of information about life (not like I have a choice), its about time you got your shit together and transcribe my voicemails correctly. I’m at a point in life where machines help me make most of my decisions, and NO ONE TAKES THAT AWAY FROM ME!

A little less than a year ago, the same coworker, at the fag end of the day, has a sudden craving for cupcakes, and drags me down the block to said bakery. The outlet at Rockefellar Center is a tiny hole in the wall with barely enough space for more than 10 people to stand. I wasn’t impressed. Strike 1. We stepped in, and from a variety of assortments that appeared to be atleast a day old, I chose a cupcake, that looked the least stale of all. In all fairness, I could see people pulling a fresh batch of cakes from the oven. Maybe it just wasn’t my day. Hence, strike 2. And, finally I felt it was rather dry and nothing out of the ordinary. Strike 3.

From that day onwards, I’ve been avoiding the place like the plague. When tourists and other ask me for my opinion about the place, I rip it apart. All of that changed today.

A few coworkers decided to stop by the place for dessert after lunch. They claimed that the Magnolia banana pudding is out of this world. The group I was with was completely and totally raving about this pudding. I narrated my sorry experience with the cupcake, and while they did agree that their cupcakes aren’t the best around, the banana pudding is goddamn unbelievable. And even though the banana is my least favorite fruit, I decided to give the place another chance. And while in line to pay, I scrapped a tiny portion of the lid and tasted it- and I was SOLD! Magnolia Bakery had come of age. Magnolia Bakery had redeemed itself. I savored each bite of this outrageously delightful pudding with the glee of a 5 year old child riding his bike for the first time with its training wheels off. As I was polished off the last remnants of what is probably the best pudding ever, the guy who sits right next to me said to the others, “Let him eat guys. His eyes are quite literally popping out. He’s in love!”. Enough said. Tourists and New Yorkers, try it out for yourself.