Perfectly Disgraceful

Stolen!

 

I left it outside of my house, unlocked, for a few minutes, like I do every morning and evening. I went in the house to open the alley door from the inside and bring the bike in. And it was gone. I suspect the bad neighbors. I have a feeling the bike will turn up soon. And if not? That bike was a bit of a lemon, I wouldn't mind something new.

Bibou

Yesterday, the Younger Child and I were walking down 8th Street when we stopped to peer in the window of Bibou. Charlotte Calmels, co-owner of Bibou and wife of the chef, Pierre Calmels, saw me and came out to give me a copy of the menu and chat about children. She also told me it was their opening night.

Bibou is in the former home of the dearly departed Pif, our old favorite restaurant. When Pif opened in 2001, we were terribly excited to have a French restaurant only two stumbly blocks from our house. And not just a French restaurant, but a really good French restaurant. I ate the foie gras and escargot at Pif many times. I had a memorable birthday there with two of my favorite people. At that dinner, a large table of oenophiles sat next to us and when they left, they gave us a few half bottles of very good wine. Better than I had ever had. Another time, Rex and I had the Chef's Meal for two at the bar and the surfeit of rich food nearly killed him. Good times.

So we were excited once again when we saw activity in the old Pif spot. And let me tell you, Bibou lives up to its predecessor.

We couldn't miss the opportunity to eat there on the first night, so I biked to the liquor store for a bottle of Lunetta prosecco (I like it, though Rex finds it a little too fruity) and made arrangements for the children. We didn't have much more than an hour to eat, but we were determined to make the most of it.

We started with an amuse bouche of chopped raw oyster and mackerel with a bit of cilantro and lime juice, like a ceviche, but not marinated for long. It was amazing. Rex is going to try to replicate it.

We didn't really have time for an entree, although they all sounded tempting (especially the pigs' feet stuffed with foie gras, and the duck with honey and lavender sauce), so we ordered four appetizers. The escargot ragout with fava beans and tarragon was good, although I'm still partial to the Pif escargot. The rabbit rillettes, served in round chilled slices, was full of delicious bunny goodness. The morel fricassee was delicious, its creamy sauce was an excellent sop for the very good house-baked bread. The foie gras, seared and served with grilled mango and what looked like scrapple but was more like a cinnamony cornbread, was beyond the beyond. While eating it, I couldn't concentrate on what Rex was talking about. Probably an obscure band.

We finished off the bottle of prosecco and ran home, but not before deciding on the theme of my birthday celebration this year. Inspired by what we hope is the first of many delicious meals at Bibou, my party will feature prosecco and pâté. I cannot wait!

*****

Bibou is located at 1009 South 8th Street - 215-965-8290 - BYOB - Cash only

More Easter

After services and tea sandwiches at Christ Church, we visited the magnolia garden at 5th & Locust. It was 40 degrees. The Older Child insisted on flip flops and the Younger Child wouldn't (never will) wear a coat. The Older Child had a coat, but a bird pooped on it, so off it came.

In the garden there was a woman, clearly not homeless, lying on a bench, pretending to be asleep. As we walked around admiring the magnolias, we noticed foil-wrapped chocolate eggs placed, not hidden, around the garden. As soon as we started talking about the eggs, the woman popped up and told the girls, in heavily accented English, they were permitted to take one of each color.

That sh*t was B-A-N-A-N-A-S

We always said the 215 wasn't your typical literary festival. For one, there is always booze, nothing worse than a sober writer. All that booze leads to some wackiness, of course. We've had people go back to hotels with best-selling novelists. Other, older, best-sellers have tried to hook up with young cuties and been shot down. Someone even got pregnant at a 215. For reals. Even when sex wasn't involved, I'm such a fan girl that hanging out with writers is delirious fun.

But last night may have been the craziest 215 ever. David Rees called it, it was a five alarm banger. And I don't even know what that means.

It began as one would expect. Rees was over-the-top funny. I mean, seriously. If you can catch him live (dates on the right) DO NOT MISS IT. Hodgman was his excellent Hodgman self, if slightly more serious than past performances. Still, the finger on the touchpad voting screen bit slayed me. Another don't miss tour. I adore that man.

But it was the afterparty that tore shit up. Ian Svenonius dj'ed arcane and insanely funky soul and blues. Lord Whimsy got his dance on. Random passersby joined in the dancing-- in the neighborhood of the Latvian Society, those passersby are going to be, well, interesting. At one point Rees thought some "greasers" were going to start throwing punches. Rees is excitable.

Then, just as the greasers were disappointing us with their pacifism, in walked the cake-taker. An androgynous female version of Omar from The Wire. She was fascinating. You couldn't take your eyes off her, and she was all over everyone. Dancing in our faces, up against our bodies, trying to hook up with us. She had a DSLR with a giant lens and took pictures of everyone. What I wouldn't pay to have some of those pictures. It was when she entered the scene, dancing her ass off, in her cowboy hat and briefs peaking out of tight jeans, that Rees called it. A five alarm banger.

But when she sat down next to Rex and me, took off a boot and produced a what looked like, to my untrained eye, a big black Glock hand gun, well, shit got bananas. She tried to get my number after that, and let me tell you, it's hard to say no to a heat-packing plate of sex even when you are happily married. Unless, like me, guns scare the living shit out of you.

Best 215 ever? Oh yes. I think so.

215 Festival

It's tonight and tomorrow. It's at the Latvian Society (7th and Spring Garden). John Hodgman, David Rees and Patrick Borelli will be there at 9:00 tonight. Ian Svenonius will DJ at 11:00 tonight. Then there's all kinds of awesome stuff tomorrow and Sunday. Don't miss it!

More info here and at Philebrity.

My best friend's wedding

My best friend got married on Saturday. Here she is with her personal dress designer (yes, that's how we roll in South Philly, none of this off the rack crap) in front of the church. I enjoy how the Blessed Virgin appears to be giving her a little poke in the ear.

 

My very first bike accident

My people are from Glasgow, which  features one of the worst slums in Europe (so I'm told, I cannot be bothered to Google). They came to the states and settled in Detroit, another top-ranking slum area. I left Detroit (we will ignore the bland non-slum-ness of Allentown and the suburbs of Detroit where I actually grew up) and bought a house in South Philly, home to a larger proportion of semi-employed assholes than most urban areas. Really. Ask me about my delightful tire-slashing tree-killing constantly-threatening neighbors sometime.

Like my people, I do not fear a little adversity. Friday night? When a taxi hit my bike? And was totally in the wrong? Did I cry and get upset and call the cops? No. I blocked the damn taxi so it couldn't drive off and yelled and cursed at the driver long enough to make him feel really bad. Then I made sure that my bike was functional and rode off. Goddamn taxis are a menace. That driver should be thanking whoever it is he worships that I didn't call the cops. I didn't call because both because I fear the overzealous South Street cops (I did have a few drinks in me), but also because I am sympathetic to the undocumented and I didn't think that dude needed to get in a lot of trouble.  But he and all the other taxi drivers in Philly need to PAY ATTENTION.

Philebrity

One of my current fave blogs is Philebrity, written by local, um, actually I don't know what you'd call Joey Sweeney, but it's written by him and a few others.  I believe it's a popular pastime in Philly to hate on Sweeney, but whatever, I like his writing style.  Especially the title for this post and its closing line

People, Seriously: Let's Get Together and Gentrify The Shit Out of Camden This Weekend.

"....You can see where I’m going with this — it would truly be a Grand Experiment. Anybody up for it? No? Oh. OK. Fair enough. After all, this is Camden we’re talking about. But mark my words, people. Mark. My. Words."

I also greatly enjoy his rants, like this post on the woes of the local newspapers.

My Urban Children

There is a reason this blog is called Perfectly Disgraceful, and it's not just in salute to the poem by Frank O'Hara.  Last night I fed my children a dinner of Ikea hotdogs (with catsup! which is a Reagan-approved vegetable!) and took them to hear some experimental music (very loud) at Brickbat.  In addition to the Ospreys, and tasty Rowhouse Red ale, there was lovely guitar by Meg Baird, and a Belgian band called Ignatz, which is one guy whose first name is spelled Bram but was pronounced Belgian fashion.  Apparently Belgian tongues make special sounds that mine does not.

The older child was tiiiiired and boooored.  The younger child loves a party.  The older child won the stay or leave fight until we got outside.  Another tiny urban child, who had also been kept up too late to hear odd music, was climbing a pile of construction sand.  In the middle of the street.  How could I allow my children to miss that classic urban experience?  So they climbed the precarious pile, dangerously close to passing buses, and had the time of their lives (also, Lord Whimsy strolled by and stopped for a chat and a climb).  We got home at 11:30, tired, hungry and sandy, but damn, it was awfully fun to play king of the hill way past bedtime on that lovely squishy sand.