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If this blog were a newspaper, you probably wouldn't feel like you were getting a lot for your money. Two sections, Entertainment and Lifestyle, delivered with frustrating infrequency, and the odd Future Shop insert (The Proposition is out on DVD today, go get it!) But at least for today I can add another section, Cuisine, which I've really only done once before.

Of course, this post may only be of interest to those actually living in Vancouver, (as opposed to, say, the universal appeal of a post about a case I read somewheres in some class), but I'm willing to accept that.

Because Primo's Mexican Grille is such an amazing find. It's a quaint restaurante tucked away on 12th avenue in South Granville, and if you're tired of sea-based food (or, "seafood") then it's the perfect place. It's got the kind of atmosphere a lot of restaurants would pay muchos pesos for, and though I can only vouch for las fajitas on the menu, all the choices looked great. It would be easy to attribute this love to my recent immersion in the Tex-Mex novels of Cormac McCarthy, but there's something about the place that makes it an easy recommendation, a certain yo no se cual.

Starting to spread the news

Ah, New York City. It's frightening how much of my knowledge about Manhattan comes from the Spiderman 2 video game and Die Hard with a Vengeance - scarier still how accurate those guides are. Thankfully, for the first time, I got a real tour around the city courtesy of some friends. This was a far better way of seeing a city than just dutifully checking off items in a list of tourist spots - not that there wasn't some of that.



Some things I learned: taxi cabs are freakishly easy to come by. They're cheaper than you'd expect (relatively speaking of course). Garbage trucks run almost daily to every neighbourhood. The city and subway really are clean. And if Jerry Seinfeld really lived at West 81st Street and George Costanza really lived in Queens, there's no way they'd be friends across that distance.

There's really too much to say about the trip, so here's a quick list of the best places I saw around town:

Mandarin Oriental, a high-rise bar with high-cost cocktails and a view right out of Lost in Translation, minus the Tokyo skyline and a scantily clad Scarlett Johansson.



Pastis, a Parisian-style brasserie that has the best French toast I've ever had. Considering the decor, maybe this shouldn't have been a surprise to me.



Rue B, a low-key neighbourhood bar with great pizza located on Avenue B in the East Village that also shows New Yorkers are not above a good pun.

Rosa Mexicana, an upscale Mexican eatery famous for its guacamole that they make right in front of you from scratch. Tomatillo sauce is the new salsa as far as I'm concerned.

Magnolia Bakery, every bit as gloriously delicious as you'd think it was from watching SNL.



Among the other awesome, but more conventional sites I saw: the Met, Rockefeller Center, Radio City Music Hall, Central Park, Times Square, SoHo, the meat-packing district, the Brooklyn Brewery, a Broadway show (Spamalot, with David Hyde Pierce, Hank Azaria and John Cleese) and the list goes on.



Then I had what I suppose many people have in New York, a celebrity encounter. I heard from friends who had seen Drew Barrymore and that shaggy Stroke Fabrizio Moretti. Others had seen Donald Trump. Me? I saw a greatly dishevelled and weak Nick Nolte, using a cane to get into an elevator. I wasn't so much dazzled by celebrity, as I was sad for it.



A big thanks to the friends who made the trip worthwhile, residents of a cool apartment in the East Village that was way more fun than any hotel - but I'm willing to bet just as pricey. A funny note about the picture - it looks like it was taken at an off-kilter angle, until you realize the fridge is level.

Soy Bomb was less of a jerk

I've seen Joel Plaskett play three times live now, each in a tiny venue that either has (Kingston's Grad Club) or could (Vancouver's Media Club) double as someone's house. My feeling is that if the idiots at Joel's label marketed his albums properly, he could be filling venues ten times the size. Yet at the same time, the intimate setting suits his act just fine.



The great thing about seeing Joel live is that he offers commentary for his songs, oftentimes right in the middle of them. ("Chris Martin eat your heart out.") Opener Peter Elkas came up on stage to play a few songs with Joel, and was first asked to play some guitar solos and then jokingly asked to stop because he was "too good." Like Jeff Tweedy of Wilco, Joel is a hilarious entertainer, my favorite line of the night being:

"How much did they charge you for this show, ten dollars? You paid twelve?? Peter Elkas we're rich!!"



There was, of course, the standard issue concert-going jerk in attendance. See Thom's blog for a full account of this. Let's just say we can all stand a little chatter during a show, but this guy actually told entire stories (with full-body actions) to uninterested members of the fairer sex, while standing in the front row no less.

Before the show, we stopped at Guu with Garlic, a remarkable Japanese izakaya restaurant on Robson Street whose food is best described as tapas. Cheap, delicious, and - when the waiter forgets who's been waiting an hour and seats you almost immediately - even better!

The night also featured a stop at the Virgin Records store downtown, which was notable for a very strange occurence. I waited about ten minutes for a guy to finish at the listening station for the new Basement Jaxx album. While I browsed, I kept looking over, and he seemed to be really into it, making me want to listen to it all the more. When he finally left and I took the headphones, there was nothing, not even static. Apparently the headphones were dead, and there was a now-visible sign indicating how the station was out of order. What music from beyond the grave haunted that man for so long? And can I download a copy?