Day 14: The Burnt Toast Post

There won't actually be any toast in this post. I just liked the title, and I was thinking about "burnt" because I am burnt OUT on food-related daily blogging. I need a day to collect my faculties (still waiting for you guest posters!) so I'm going to chat about what's on my mind today. Luckily, food is always somehow related.

Mary and I had a playdate today. Our first stop was Happy Buddha, which I just learned about from my friend Jill. Happy Buddha, where have you been all my life? In an unassuming strip mall on Convoy St. lies a little taste of nirvana in the form of foot reflexology. In Oriental medicine, the foot is like a microcosm of the whole body, and massaging various points on the foot can cure whatever ails you.

When we walked in, I was already in love. It's a tiny place, and we were the only ones there. There are about eight ginormous plushy red recliners (I'm talking the biggest recliners you've ever seen, more of a Lazy Giant than a Lazy Boy) some tinkling table fountains, and a flat-screen in HD spooling silent footage of China. We were invited to sit down, and someone brought us some jasmine tea. Then our therapists (they call them "foot masters") returned with two buckets (not the unromantic cleaning-supply kind, more like props from Hee Haw) full of scorching hot water. While we soaked our feet, the therapists (a woman and a man--I had the woman) reclined our chairs and began massaging various pressure points in the face, head, neck and shoulders. It was freakishly awesome. After about 15 minutes of that, they dried our feet, took the buckets away, and returned with warm towels and lotion, which they used to wrap up one of our feet and start massaging the other. This lasted an HOUR, Readers. Can you imagine? I'm getting all sleepy again just thinking about it. Not that it was all drool-time. Some of those pressure points must have been stubborn because she was WAY into them. I yelped a couple of times. Mary laughed, and the gal working on me said it might hurt but it was good for me. (Hmmmm...does she know my mother?)

Afterwards, we staggered next door to the Asian import shop, and bought some crazy-adorable satin balloon dresses (is that what they're calling them in Milan?) for the girls. We can always justify the Asian outfits, since they are the preferred costume at all the Families with Children from China events. I don't know about you, but I really work up an appetite when I get a foot massage, so I requested lunch.

We dined at Phuong Trang which was bustling with the lunchtime crowd, even though it's big as a banquet hall. We both had versions of pho, which is like the Vietnamese version of noodle soup (Vietnamese penicillin?) It's chock-full of fresh herbs, broccoli, carrots, baby corn, green onions, vermicelli and savory broth. Mine had chicken, Mary's had tofu (she's a veg.) We also had fresh spring rolls, which are wrapped in rice paper instead of fried, and filled with tofu, lettuce, mint and noodles which you dunk in savory peanut sauce. Delish! But my favorite treat at Phuong Trang isn't even Asian (I don't think) just addictive. It's a tall glass of club soda with fresh-squeezed lemon and a truckload of sugar, which you whip into a froth with a long spoon. I had two of those--I can't get enough.

Pleasantly full, we headed over to Daiso, which I have discussed in this space before--it's the Japanese dollar store. I always do some serious damage in there, and without a kid trying to smash everything in sight, I was able to do even more. Mary and I got separated for a bit (distracted, we were both knocked down by a wave of shopping with an undertow of extreme cuteness) and when we met up again she was sporting a basket chock-full of Bento supplies--"I've gone Bento-crazy!" she said. "It's Bento-madness!"

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David and I saw the most delightful movie last night (not coming to a theater near you; you have to Netflix it) called The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters. That's a rather unwieldy title, if you ask me, for a sweet little documentary about the ongoing rivalry between Billy Mitchell and Steve Wiebe for the world record on Donkey Kong. That's right, the early-'80s video game with Mario, the ape and the barrels (apparently, there are many more screens that don't have barrels, but I never got past the first one in my arcade days.)

Billy Mitchell was featured on the cover of a national magazine in 1982 for his video game records, and he's been building an empire out of the notoriety ever since. His Donkey Kong record, in particular, had remained unchallenged until recently, when a sweet, unemployed "hand savant" named Steve Wiebe decided to challenge him. He sets up a classic Donkey Kong in his garage, and spends most of his time in there perfecting his game, which drives his wife and two young children kind of bonkers. What happens when he videotapes himself scoring over a million points and submits the new record to Twin Galaxies, an independent foundation that tracks video game statistics worldwide, makes for some awfully entertaining shenanigans.

The film takes us to Fun Spot, an annual world championship video game tournament (I'm not making this up) and into the devious backstage machinations of everyone in the industry whose livelihood has been supported by Billy Mitchell's fame. Billy Mitchell himself is a hoot, and his simpering lackey, Brian Kuh, is even funnier. And through it all, Steve Wiebe just keeps quietly wielding his joystick, keeping his eye on the game, not bothering anyone and hardly objecting when everyone mispronounces his name (it's Wee-Bee.)

In the interest of tying this to food somehow, I marveled that these people play for hours, sometimes all day, and never seem to eat or drink or go to the bathroom. They're like video game superheros. Oh, and Billy Mitchell owns a restaurant called Ricky's, devoted to hot sauce. You must see this movie--you won't learn anything about how to play Donkey Kong, yet a tiny part of you will admire the men (oh, they're all men) who do.