Plov Love Story

Plov Love Story

Plov

Sophie was a good looking, interesting, and, most important, intellectual girl, but I never felt anything sexual toward her in any way until I saw her voraciously wolf down an Uzbek dish of Plov one night.

        

I was living in Moscow and a colleague of mine, Philippe, called and said he was “making a small party” and invited me over for some drinks and dinner.  I accepted and arrived with a bottle of wine and a good attitude.  There were already a few people there by the time I walked in.  I grabbed a glass of wine from an open bottle and took a seat on his red velvet couch. 

        

There were two others there besides Philippe:  Jean and Anton.  They were all Frenchmen.  Jean was an old friend of Philippe’s who was unemployed but looking for something and Anton was a journalist visiting from Paris to write an article on Moscow’s hedonistic nightlife that proved that freedom was still a viable product that the Russian masses were excessively indulging in.

  

We drank a few bottles discussing everything from circumcision to agnostic beliefs and the ramifications of a potential afterlife when Sophie arrived.  She immediately yelled from the door that she was sorry she was late, which no one paid any attention to, and that she had brought dessert.  I looked up and smiled when she walked into the room and seemed to be the only person that noticed her.  The other guys just went on with the discussion.  Philippe had a large apartment and he often had people crashing there for extended periods and I knew Sophie was staying at his flat at this time. 

I had met Sophie maybe a handful of times- always at Philippe’s place- and we always got along really well, but I would usually leave his larger parties with one of the many local women that always seemed to be coming and going or, I would leave alone and go to a bar in the neighborhood to see what else was out there.  It was very easy in those days to walk into a place and leave with a nice, beautiful girl within a short period of time.  It was the last hurrah of the post-Soviet cultural/sexual revolution, which was a very special time in Russia’s history and one that will not likely be repeated for a long time, if ever.

        

Once Sophie joined us, Philippe called for dinner to be served.  The cook/maid brought out bowls filled with Plov for each of us.  Plov is the national dish of Uzbekistan.  It is a rice dish with beef cubes, onions, carrots, paprika and other spices.  While filling, it’s not that exciting.  What was exciting for me though, was what I saw after I took a few bites and leaned back to have a sip of wine while casually looking over at this Sophie woman.

Sophie was sitting in the chair directly to my right eating.  She was hunched over her little bowl of Plov and was shoveling it in like a murderer throws soil into a shallow grave under a full moon with people approaching.  I could see her spine accented through her black pullover while she wolfed down the Plov.  It appeared that she hadn’t eaten in days.  I had not, and have never since, seen a woman eat like this before.  I was in awe.  From this fascination, my eyes naturally perused her entire body and I then had one of those clear moments of perception.  She was an entirely different person to me from that moment on. 

She was so busy eating; she didn’t even notice me staring at her in my trance-like state as the minutes flowed by.  But observing her in entirety and detail was the upper cut after the body blow of her eating mannerisms.  She had on a worn cardigan sweater thing and a black skirt with black nylons, but I then noticed that her nylons, on both legs, had runners and her skirt needed a washing and was wrinkled and stained in many places.  This strangely infatuated me like you cannot imagine.  I was so used to these perfect young Russian women, with manicured bodies, impeccable make-up and stylish clothes and here, next to me now, I had a French woman, slamming down a bowl of rice and meat like a crack junkie getting her fix in disheveled clothes and runners in both stockings.  I was enraptured by it all.  I wanted her at that moment as much as I had wanted any other woman in my life. 

After a short time, I forced my gaze back to my Plov, which, frankly, was nothing to write home about.  I proceeded to eat it though, while stealing glimpses at Sophie’s devouring whenever possible.  However, she quickly finished her bowl (how could she not?), so this alluring spectacle ended far too soon and I was left with a desire for more.  Naturally, I offered her my half eaten bowl, but she surprisingly turned me down with a hearty laugh.

After dinner, she went into the kitchen and quickly returned with her dessert.  It was little pudding cups.  The Russian version of a snack pack pudding for kids.  My face once again couldn’t mask my shock and strange delight in this woman’s eclectic taste and style and when she saw my reaction, she immediately announced my satisfaction of her dessert choice to the group.  They all looked confused at this.  But, for me, there was no going back- my mind was set.  Later, when things were winding down and Philippe left the room, I followed him and quietly pulled him to the side.

        

“Hey Philippe, I need to ask you something.”  Philippe immediately looked concerned, as if I was going to ask a serious favor of him.  “Is it ok if I ask Sophie out for dinner sometime?  If something is going on between you two, I understand- please don’t worry about it.”  Since Sophie was staying in his flat, I had no idea if he was sleeping with her or not.

        

 “Sophie?” His face changed immediately, “Why yes, of course, I would be so happy if you asked her out.  That would be very good.”

“That’s great!  I just wanted to ask you to make sure you wouldn’t be upset.”

“Mikey, please, I would be very happy for this.”

And with that, I went to Sophie and quietly told her I was leaving soon and asked her out for dinner.  Her reaction was positive and we agreed to meet a few days later at my favorite restaurant (and one of the only nice ones in Moscow at the time).  I said my goodbyes, thanked Philippe and left. 

Over the next couple days, I ran the full gambit of nerves and worry in my mind.  This would be my first date with a Western woman since I came to Moscow and where she lacked against the local girls, I kept telling myself she made up for in intellect.  All the Russians I was dating then lacked a certain intellectual intrigue that Sophie had.  It was part of her upbringing and culture. I convinced myself that this Sophie woman could actually be someone I could develop a real relationship with and was excited.  By the time of the dinner, I was actually nervous going to meet her!

        

I arrived at the restaurant early with a small bouquet of pink baby roses and spoke with the hostess.  We agreed on the exact table we would be sat at.  I then went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic.  Sophie was thirty-five minutes late and, by the time she arrived, I was already on my fourth gin and tonic.  Her tardiness didn’t matter though.  When she sauntered in with her magnetic smile apologizing for being late in her seductive French accent, I could only see an angel before me.

I gave her the flowers and she immediately put them aggressively into her face and inhaled deeply.  I was liking all of it.  I dropped some cash for the drinks and we were escorted to our table.  I immediately ordered a favorite bottle of French wine.  A crisp St. Estephe, which cost a $110/bottle (wine in Moscow at any decent restaurant then was always a minimum of $80).  As the server departed for the vino, we looked over the menus for a few minutes and I then looked at Sophie and asked what she was thinking about ordering.

“My dear Michael, before we get into dinner I want to tell you something.”

“Oh yes, what is it?”

“I think you are so funny, and fun.  I love to be around and talk with you.”  Upon hearing this, my heart beat a bit faster, “But, even though I am single, I am in love with someone else and because of this, I think we should only be friends.  Very good and close friends, but only friends.”

At this exact time the wine was brought to the table and uncorked swiftly.  I managed a weak smile and tried to put on a brave face as our glasses were filled.  I was too dumbstruck to say anything so she then toasted me to “friendship,” and immediately ordered a two-course meal. 

It turned out to be quite an expensive rejection.

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Urban Wildlife of Chicago and Other Meandering Thoughts…

Urban Wildlife of Chicago

I met a beautiful girl in my Uber pool the other night.  When she was getting into the car, I overheard her saying that she was looking forward to a trip to Colorado to the guy she was saying goodbye to. 

When she got in and we started driving, I said, "so, you're going to Colorado?"

"Yeah, in December."

"Nice, it's beautiful out there; I think you’ll like it."

"Yeah, it’ll be a lot more beautiful than Chicago."

"Really?  I love Chicago.  You don't find it beautiful living in such a diverse and crazy city filled with maniacs and such gun violence?"

"Hah, no I meant Colorado has more natural beauty, nature, animals, you know?"

I thought about what she said for a moment.

"Well, you know, there’s a plethora of natural beauty here in Chicago as well, you just need to look at things differently.  For example, when I drive my car home at night and turn into the alley where my garage is, there’re always a lot of rats everywhere.  Running across the road, in and on top of the garbage cans- that's some urban wildlife right there.”  I paused as she took this in and then added, “Also, in Colorado, you may have a fear of running into bear on a hike, but here in Chi-town, there’s the ever present fear of somehow acquiring bed bugs, so there are some parallels as well."

This line of conversation and thought went on for a few minutes as we drove to drop her off.  Once we arrived at her stop, I was disappointed that she didn't give me her number when I asked her out. 

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Guest Blogger Inspires Potential Social Gathering

After reading Clown’s last couple blogs on the Geriatric Genius Blog, which I really liked, I decided I wanted to meet him.  From his jovial post about life at the Carling Hotel and his unique tale of harassment at Angelo’s Comedy Night, I’m certain he would be good company full of interesting tales about the vagaries of life and the banter between us would most likely be lively and thought provoking.  So, when I was hanging with the Genius at the Ale House this week, I told him that I wanted to meet Clown. 

"This Clown is really interesting.  I think we would get along well.  He seems to be a true realist with a keen eye on the world imploding around him coupled with an ever present sense of impending mortality."

"Yeah, Clown is a real ripper.  Knocks ’em dead every time."  The Genius said with the pondering gaze of a wounded World War II soldier just after he got his morphine hit on the battlefield.

"I'd like to meet him, can you help make that happen?  He doesn’t come into the bar anymore does he?"

"No, his drinking days at the Ale House are behind him.” 

"Uh-huh…I thought so.  What do you think could entice him to get away from the comforts of the Carling for a night….maybe a dinner party?  If I invited him and Mrs. Clown to one, do you think they would come?"

"I would love to pass on your gracious invitation, but I would suggest that you should make it a guest blogger dinner party.  Invite all of your colleagues from my magnificent blog to break bread and share in jubilation together."

"A guest blogger dinner party huh, that’s an interesting idea.  Let me look into when I could make this happen and once I get a few dates sorted we can send out some feelers.  It’s actually a great idea.”

"I'm not called the Geriatric Genius for nothing.”  The Genius casually threw out while grabbing hold of his Polish martini (Bud Light on the rocks).

"Let’s get through the baseball postseason and I’ll then get the ball rolling on Operation Dinner Party.  I’m sure we can get Pub Crawl to attend, but do you think BuzzKill would be interested as well?  I don’t see him out after dark very often…doesn’t he have a curfew?"

"I'm sure he'll never have known such satisfaction and gratitude as upon receiving your gracious invitation," the Genius said.

To be continued…

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Uber Subterfuge

Every time I get a cab or Uber with a driver named Mohammed, I always get excited and ask him, "Mohammed?!?  Isn't that an Irish name?"  That usually brings some good natured laughter as we start our trip together.  Then, I start plowing through a lot of questions I have about terrorism, the Caliphate, Assad, and other things unfolding in the Middle East.  Not much laughter follows, but I find the name joke is a great icebreaker that gets the driver out of his shell. 

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Long Screws

Overheard at the Ale House one night in a conversation between a man and a woman:

“It’s going well, I’m almost done with it.  I just need some really long screws,” the guy said holding his hands apart showing the length.

After pondering his words for a few moments, the woman said, “Me too.”

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A Different Opinion on the 2017 Cubs

*The following thoughts were included to illustrate the depth of opinions Cubs fans maintain and not as any form of rebuttal.  Every fan has a right to support their team as they so desire.     

The Chicago Cubs hopes for a World Series repeat died in the 2017 National League Championship Series (NLCS), but this is not a time to wax poetic with sorrow and regret, or to shift our disappointment onto others, or throw in the towel and say that we didn’t deserve to even make it to the NLCS (which is gibberish- we deserved it).  One must also acknowledge that a large part of the Cubs fan base is strangely uncompetitive and apologetic and being such, they will continue to be wholeheartedly thankful for the 2016 season and will avoid, at all costs, any analysis of what went wrong in 2017, which, if we are honest with each other, is not very helpful and will only cause the team to dither further from taking the steps necessary to achieve repeated excellence going forward.  It would be a gross understatement to say that the team’s hitting and fielding were lacking during this last series, but I believe the real culprit for this year’s failure lies with unimaginably strange and, sadly, destructive coaching decisions.  I’m sure many fans will ignore Joe’s Maddon’s inexplicable bullpen management and continue being thankful for his dedication to constantly undermine his players so that the Sword of Damocles is always present and ready to fall, but for this lifelong Cubs fan, Maddon will largely be remembered for making mind numbing pitching decisions that made the easy wins a bit more difficult and the hard wins, well, losses.  He is a manager whose pitcher acumen seems to be completely nonexistent while he continually chooses to play favorites with younger and/or subpar pitchers who lack the composure necessary to achieve victory while at the same time, removing the team’s best pitchers while they still had their stuff and were well settled into the moment, and that is how we should remember this untimely end of our season.  So let us move away from the sorrow coupled with false sounds of praise and revisionist history that often permeate through at times like this and try to look at Maddon with the cold, sober eye of statistics and facts.  In short, Maddon’s hackneyed adherence to largely unproven strategies to justify his illogical behavior was the main reason we find ourselves here today.  His one true achievement was that he was able to put a team together last year that managed to overcome all the pitfalls and headwinds his management style could throw at them to achieve a much deserved World Series victory.  It was a risky strategy trying that same level of undermining and mismanagement in 2017, but I have to say, I’m certain that he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Godspeed Mr. Maddon, Godspeed.

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Rudy

I’d been drinking at Rudy’s Bar in Hell’s Kitchen for over seven hours with my buddy Jack.  It’s past 3am.  It wasn’t supposed to be such a long night, but every time we were on our last one, something would happen and we would get “one more for the ditch,” as the Irish like to say.  The last diversion that kept us there was a waitress from Minnesota who came in and sat next to me after her shift ended.  She works down the street.  After a few rounds of drinks with her and some extremely lacklustre and uninspiring conversation, all of a sudden, it hits me- I’m hammered.  I stand up, lean over to Jack, who was talking to some guy sitting next to him and say, “I’m totally ripped.  I’m outta here” and walk out.  I didn’t even wait for his reaction or to see if he wanted to bail as well. 

I stumble onto the street in a drunken fog and instinctively start heading to the subway.  Immediately a black girl starts walking with me and asks me where I am going.  “Home,” I say and keep walking.  I’m just trying to walk a straight line at this stage.  She follows.

“Don’t you want to party with me?”

This surprises me, as it is pretty rare for a girl to come on to me out of the blue like this, so I give her a proper look to try to figure out what’s happening.  All the time, I continue walking toward the subway.  She is wearing sandals, black stretch pants and a tight blouse with spaghetti straps that go over her shoulders. 

“Party?  What do you mean?”  I’m still swimming in the drunk, so things are registering a bit slow.

“Let’s go get a drink together.”

“Drink, no, I already drank too much and it’s way late.  I’m going home.  Sorry.”

“Well, maybe I can come with you to your place and we can have some fun there?”

“Fun?  What’re you talking about?”  I’m genuinely confused now.

“Yeah, I, uh, live in Brooklyn and don’t want to go home right now.  We should party together.  Let’s have some fun.”  I don’t say anything, but start to cross the street, she crosses with me and adds, “Don’t you want a blow job or something?  I’d love to play with your balls.”

“Whoa. You want to give me a blow job?... Are you working now or something?”

“A girl needs to make some money you know.”

“How much would something like that cost?” 

“50 dollars.”

“Umm….Let me think about this for a minute.”  I’m still walking and she remains pinned to my side.  This is a first for me in New York and I’m trying to figure out if it is really happening. 

“I’m Sonia-” She says to break the silence and offers me her hand.

“Nice to meet you.”  I say taking her hand in mine.  However, once I get hold of it, something is off.  While I don’t have big hands, hers is bigger and firmer than expected and her skin is not soft, it’s rough, almost callous.  It’s like I’m shaking hands with baked ham or something.  I stop walking and stare at her close from top-to-bottom-bottom-to-top through my extremely inebriated eyes.  

“What is it?”  Sonia asks.

“Nothing.”  I start walking again and she follows, but I continue to give her a strong inspection with my skeptical eyes.  Also, I’m sobering up fast now, trying to get a handle on the situation.  She senses something has shifted.

“What?  What is it?” she asks again smiling and trying to be cute.  I stop walking.

“Honestly, I’m trying to figure out if you’re a guy or not.”

“Oh- I don’t like the sound of that.  That’s rude.  I think that’s offensive to say such things.”

“I’m sorry, but you asked.”  I keep staring.  Her Adams apple isn’t too visible.  Her shoulders and waist are fairly petite.  I don’t see a bulge where her cock would be- it looks pretty smooth down there.  Her tits are fairly small, but that’s fairly common with both sexes.  Her face, once I imagine it without all the make-up could go either way.

“Come on, let’s go party.  I know a place we can go that’s near here if you don’t want to go to your place,” she says.

I spontaneously touch her hair looking for insights- it’s rock solid and as I lean in to touch it, I catch a whiff of her.  She doesn’t smell clean.

“It’s a wig, but that doesn’t mean anything.  I’m a girl!  Really I am!”  She immediately says once I pull my hand away.

“I don’t know.  I think you should go back to where we met.  I’m drunk and am going to go home.  I don’t want to waste your time.”  I start walking again.

“Oh, come on- don’t say that.”  Sonia starts to follow me.

“I’m sorry, I just think you might be a guy and I’m really not interested.”

“I’m not.  Don’t worry, once we get to the place I’ll show you my pussy.  It is all there.  It’s a beautiful pussy- you’ll love it.  You won’t be disappointed.”

“You know, if you’re not a guy, show me your ID.”  I’m not buying any of it now and the adrenaline from all this madness has finally gotten control of my buzz. 

She freezes for a brief moment, “I don’t have an ID with me.”  She says looking down and away.

“No ID?  Please, don’t waste your time with me.  I’m not interested.”

“This isn’t right.  I’ve walked all the way over here with you.  We are only a few blocks away from the place I know.  Let’s go, I’ll show you my pussy once we get there.”

“You know, no ID, offering sex out of nowhere, this just isn’t for me.  Sorry.”

“What do you need an ID for?”  Then, almost under her breathe, but with some slight vibe of aggression, “You got something against trannies?!?” 

It’s beginning to feel more confrontational now that Sonia sees that her drunken fool of a target is slipping away.  I’m now worrying that she isn’t going to let me go easy into this goodnight.  Luckily, this is New York City and I see a cab with its light on coming down the street toward me.  I stop and turn to Sonia.

“I’m sorry, but I’m out of here.  If you hurry back, you may be able to catch my friend Jack- I left him at Rudy’s and I’m sure he’ll be leaving soon.  He’s better looking than me anyway, and probably more drunk.  Good hunting!”  And with that, I jump off the sidewalk and into the street with my arm held as high as the heavens.  The cab immediately pulls over and I hop in and tell the driver to punch it before Sonia even has a chance to respond. 

On the ride home, I’m a bit riled up from everything and start going over the entire experience in my mind.  Also, as is my nature, I begin to worry about the comment I made sending Sonia back for Jack, even if it was only a joke.  She has no idea who Jack is of course and he is likely already on his way home, as the bar is closing by now, but the guilt of it all gets to me.  I take out my phone and call him.  It rings and rings and then, after some time, a message comes on saying that the “subscriber is not available”.  I start to type out a text message to him:  “Hey Man- I just met a tranny outside of Rudy’s when I left.  She and I—”

My phone rings while I am typing and I see it’s Jack.  Thank god.  I answer it.

“Hey man, I’m glad you called.  I just wanted to-“

“Dude, I can’t talk- I’m in the middle of picking up a girl in front of Rudy’s- I’ll call you tomorrow-” He pushes out in a fast, hushed clip and then, “click”, the phone call is over.   

He hung up before I could get a word in edgewise.  I immediately called him back, but his phone was turned off.  That meant he wouldn’t see my text until he turned his phone back on, which would most likely only be in the morning, so I decided to just let it go and hoped that all would be ok in the end. 

I crashed out immediately when I got home, but thoughts of Sonia and Jack were still with me when I awoke the next day.  That being said, I was hung over and I didn’t have the heart to follow-up on it.  What would it accomplish?  I didn’t even try to reach out to Jack.

Now, I have nothing against trannies at all, live and let live I say, but I don’t like the idea of anyone preying on me (or anyone for that matter) under false pretenses, especially when I’m just minding my own business trying to stumble home in one piece after a proper drinking session.  The worst thing about all this is that I’m not sure if I’m still comfortable getting piss drunk at Rudy’s any longer.  Only time will tell I guess.

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