Good Morning, Vietnam

Not your Grandma's Grand Slam Bánh xèo

(Image via Wikipedia)

I have to watch No Reservations with a notepad handy because I'm always thinking, where can I find that? Fortunately, in New York it's not too difficult with a little research. Sucked into a Sunday marathon, I ogled Tony in Vietnam enjoying Bánh xèo, a savory crepe filled with shrimp, pork and onion. It's all I could think about. A few Googles took me to Pho So Mo 1, in Chinatown.

I did not take the photo above (my Banh didn't photograph well in the windowless room -- yes, I played food blogger!), but it definitely represents the, um, scale of the dish. The crepe nestled a stack of lettuce leaves and basil -- which made me wonder, how do I eat this thing, anyway? Like a lettuce wrap? I don't remember Tony offering any tips. I decided to go at it omelette-style. Enjoyable, but perhaps the most fattening thing I've eaten in a long time.

You Found Out

Their own choreography.

So True!

If it’s the most beautiful day in the world outside, I’d still stay inside until 2:30 p.m. Because it’s just as nice inside as it is outside. I love outside, but inside is nice. People think I should feel guilty. They say, “You should go out and do this.” I’m like, “No, it’s nice inside.” -David Chang

Jam On It

My radar's been off for a few weeks, but this morning these two brought me right back. Via Idolator and Instant Hits, respectively.

Everyman

Enthralled as I am with Hold On!, starring Herman's Hermits, it's Ira Glass-lookin' Herbert Anderson (really, the other way around) who's caught my eye as a reporter trailing the band. Anderson might be the ultimate character actor.

The Girls of Their Years

She does not attempt to come on sexy. Her excitement is something else. It is almost pure excitement. It is excitement of the New Style, the New Chic. The press watches Jane Holzer as if she were an exquisite piece of ... radar. It is as if that entire ciliate corona of hers were spread out as an antenna for new waves of style. To the magazine editors, the newspaper columnists, the photographers and art directors, suddenly here is a single flamboyant girl who sums up everything new and chic in the way of fashion in the Girl of the Year. (Tom Wolfe, "The Girl of the Year," The New York Herald Tribune, 1964)

Off the runway, much ado was made of her personal fashion sense — a cuted-up variation on the old New Wave with little hats, suspenders and neon accessories, and Web sites were dedicated to the fetishization of what Anna Wintour referred to as her “uncompromising hair” — the platinum-bleached crop-top emulated by fans around the world. Even if Ms. Deyn’s income did not make the Forbes Top 15 for supermodel earnings, she was increasingly visible as a tastemaker. In 2008, Glamour magazine named her among seven people “Who Will Change Your Style.” (Cintra Wilson, "Of the Moment, And Thinking Ahead" (The New York Times, 2009)

In many ways, Cintra Wilson's Agyness Deyn profile in today's Styles section reminds me of Tom Wolfe, who proclaimed Jane Holzer's Itness in 1964. ("She comprehends what the Rolling Stones mean.") Thankfully — with a helping of Wolfe tongue, hold the exclamation points — Wilson sidesteps the usual celeb-profile fawning:

She comes off as genuinely sweet, sunny and slightly dim, her punkette look the thinnest candy coating over an interior filled primarily with airy, whipped pink goo and nuvo-hippie, gestalt-y wow-ness. But this dimness, I suspect, is strategic. I’ve seen this before; actresses sometimes evade answering questions by obfuscating them in colorful fogs of positive nonsense. It is understandable: actual information limits the ability to be all things to all people, so vagaries protect the brand. But they also result in puzzling answers to relatively simple questions.

Take a Little Trip

The other day Angela and I were walking from the Seaport, where we saw a concert, to SoHo. It reminded me of the evening, shortly after I'd moved, when I got lost on my way to a reading at the old Astor Place Barnes & Noble and ended up in Chinatown. It was a humid July night; I bought pastries from a Vietnamese bakery and peered into the tall windows of showplace apartments in TriBeCa. I didn't mind the detour because I wanted to visit TriBeCa but didn't know exactly where it was. I also found Ground Zero, which I'd been avoiding; I wanted to prepare myself, but really you can't. The ominous hum of generators gives the site a Hitchcockian feel, especially after dark.

Thinking about that night reminded me how I love to wander (Harlem, Chelsea, the Upper East and West sides, for example) and how easy it is to settle into routine -- though don't get me wrong, love me some routine.

One of the perks of semiemployment (my contract came up about two weeks ago) has been re-acquainting myself with Kensington and surrounding neighborhoods. And en pied, objects are closer than they appear: Sunset Park, with its Olympic-size public pool and expansive East River-views, is a 15-minute walk (30 by train, with transfer). On Sunday I walked to Flatbush, which I hadn't done in ages. It's also about 15 minutes away and boasts beautiful Victorian homes and a Sunday greenmarket. On the way home I passed ball fields and vendors offering Mexican and Caribbean fare, and two cute cafés I'd never noticed. Maybe they're new.

The last few weeks have reminded me of the first few. In addition to the job search, which is fruitful (the market seems to have relaxed a bit after the fourth-quarter panic attack), I've been reading and borrowing DVDs from the library (my new hobby). I feel reinvigorated, plus a little older and wiser. And while I've been writing this I accepted a 3-4 week assignment. Summer of Fun rages on.