The Slaying of the Dragon

Anyone living in the Shrewsbury, Worcester, Northboro etc... area knows "The Dragon." Dragon 88 (alias: Dragon Shady-Eight) on Shrewsbury Street, Boylston is where I have some of my fondest childhood memories, as well as my most regrettable/forgettable 18+ experiences (let's face it, they didn't start carding until just recently). And while I know that the Dragon will always be there, the part of me with better judgement (though small) knows that a quiet petition to shut down the Dragon would probably better the community, and seriously lower the DUI count in the area. I know this is not a laughing matter, but just take a peek through the Christmas light-lined doors, to the right of the golden Buddha cat, and five paces past the yin-yang, and try to tell me you're not laughing.

Or crying...And it is with the following events in mind that I solemnly swear never to cross their Mai-Tai soaked rugs again, here's why:

1. New Years Eve, 2007-2008: Do not judge by my New Years activities alone. Yes, it was pathetic but to the Dragon's credit...it was cheap. This particular New Years involved:
One: Delicious, but probably below health-code standards flaming PuPu Platter
One: Cauldron-sized Scorpion Bowl
Two: Half finished Mai-Tais (No one seemed to notice that I dumped them in the bathroom sink).
Surrounded by the dollar bills that customers seem all too willing to autograph and display on the walls, it seemed perfectly ironic that I was stuck footing the bill for my "too drunk to remember his wallet" Ex. And let's review, the Mai-Tais are dirt cheap and strong as hell, I can't get through one, but the challenge is not so great for someone I will fondly remember as a keg with legs. So this New Years will count doubly, this year's celebration as well as last years to make up for the year I dropped the ball at the Dragon.

2. Spring 2008: This incident actually happened to a good friend whose last stop was the Dragon before a nasty spill that involved stairs and respiratory assistance.

3. November 2008: My culinary companion's birthday, which for some yet to be explained reason, resulted in a stop at the Dragon. It has been a few months and I'd almost forgotten why I hated the place so much, how quickly my memory returned. The visit itself wasn't particularly memorable, just some laughs as we watched a young man flee from the claws of a stalking cougar, a regular night. This normal night involved: ONE: Mai Tai... And the next think I knew I was half asleep mumbling about elephants while the rest of his poor family was trying to watch a movie. An instance like this makes me seriously question what's in that giant Mai Tai pitcher, and think that maybe there's a pitcher for girls, and another for the guys. I will forever stand by my belief that there was something extra in that drink. Elephants?

4. Later November 2008: This one was not my fault, and didn't even really result in anything too traumatic. The hometown "thing" is to gather at the Dragon the night before Thanksgiving to see everyone you graduated with and hoped you'd never see again. To be fair, this was an event I wasn't even aware of until this year, and was something I graciously agreed to, in exchange for a week's worth of servitude and three back rubs. Ten minutes into the bar wait, and at least 75 people over fire code, I found myself shoulder to shoulder with : the jocks, nerds, drama queens, sluts, bullys, someones ex-girlfriend, one night stand, two ex boyfriends, and a few too-old-to-be-there teachers. On this particular night the Dragon taught me: You can no longer come here just for the amazing crab-Rangoon's, and if you are here next year...you're already on a seriously steep downhill rum-run.

As we've seen, nothing good ever comes out of the Dragon, Kublai freaking Khan could not walk out of there with any pride, so let's just cut our losses and make a break for PF Changs, $15 for a Mai Tai, roofies are extra.

The Need to Feed...The Unimpeded Mind

It is a curious fact that novelists have a way of making us believe that luncheon parties are invariably memorable for something very witty that was said, or something very wise that was done. But they seldom spare a word for that was eaten.
Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own

Today's title is a shout out to a certain English Department that I'm growing increasingly fond of as graduation looms. If I had my way, the next Symposium would take place here...A Great Place to Hang with English Professors and also...

Best Bar if you want to seem like a really cool girl/
Best Bar to take and test your girlfriend

The hands-down winner is Victory Bar & Cigar, Shrewsbury Street, Worcester. Cigar bars only fly with a small number of people, so I have little worry that the next time I pop over, my graduating class will have infiltrated. This is without a doubt, the greatest part of Victory for me, the crowd is generally 35+ and at any given moment there are no more than 3 women...No one I know goes there without me...Wonderous. If you're lucky enough to snag seats in the back, you're free to lounge in comfort with table service (albeit, the strip club vibe is strong back there, but it's a small price to pay). Friendly bartenders, decent price, and an all around good vibe has been my experience on at least two birthdays and a dozen or so other occasions.

Ladies, bring your guy here and you've pretty much set yourself up for the sexiest looking night ever. For a woman to bring a man here is a fool-proof plan: You won't be doing the trying-to-get-the-bartenders-attention jig which we all know looks like an awkward two step side to side around the inevitably-massive bar hogs; Geriatric gentlemen part, even MOVE THEIR CHAIRS to make sure you can squeeze in to survey the bar. And that's not an easy feat in a floor length fur coat (watch out for him) and gold diggers hooked to each arm (hearts of gold I promise). Once the drink situation is settled, the would-be imposing cigar selection can be easily navigated with assistance from the helpful staff. Or, if you're trying to go home with the helpful staff, study up on the basics at

Now comes the "Best Bar to take and test your girlfriend" part: Even I can admit that after the 2 hour marker, I get the slightly asphyxiated, Caterpillar-on-the-mushroom feel...But if your girl can keep herself afloat here, hold onto her because you're already doing a lot better than the rest of the people in there who are sitting alone, with an extra change of clothes in the car, so the wife doesn't know they've been smoking. If she can hold her own here, maybe pick out a decent cigar, and/or at least pretend she's not suffocating...you've got something good.

Brawls at the BBC

The British Beer Company's newest location in Framingham promises inevitable tension, regardless of what you order. The menu sets the tone for hostility as the loyalists seem to have contributed all things not American in the menu (Brie, Pasty, and Shepherd's Pie are all from the same place right?) and the Revolutionists have pushed for Hamburgers, Country Fried Steak and Spinach dip. With a menu that lacks any sense of cohesiveness, it's no wonder that I felt the overwhelming need to open the Ex-Files with my own culinary companion.

Maybe it was the sheer number of desperate young professionals, the extremely friendly valet, the security guards on patrol or just the bigger than me tv...but the night was primed for less than comfortable discussions. We're not big fighters though, not yet anyway, and not in the impulsive jealousy-driven way. Just in the "I'm always right and don't even try to prove me otherwise"-way. I was halfway through my pizza and he was halfway through the (fairly impressive) draft list when I felt compelled to "go there"--poor guy didn't know what hit him and neither did I, quite frankly. The next thing I knew we we both on edge, quietly burning holes in every person we encountered. I found a mortal enemy in the waitress that lingered just a little too long, and I'm pretty sure some of that unidentified "guy speak" was exchanged with our bartender. You know the look-and-nod that says: Do your job and don't even think about it...I know you're thinking about it...stop thinking about it.

But maybe you're looking for a fight, sometimes we need them--but know if you're brought to the BBC, you're someone's target and you're going to lose because you didn't see it coming. While your partner is making room for a pint of cider and blood to spill, you're still trying to figure out why the security guard is following you and how to avoid being trampled if there's a fire.

With the palpable tension, we wrapped things up, quietly deciding that mediocre and demographically confused chain-food was not worth any drama. Luckily we had the long and statey-littered trek down Route 9 to smooth things over, ultimately deciding that maybe we would return to the BBC. Maybe some day, when we become young professional yuppies and are too lazy to just stick an equally good Mrs. Buds Pot Pie in the oven.

A Quick Sampler

Never having been a blogger before, I'm selfishly using this surprisingly remarkable tool to release all the informal pronouns I've been stifling since high school. It's already proving to be quite cathartic. But aside from the innumerable contractions and first person perspectives I plan to abuse, the heart of my writing is in my stomach. Awkward...let me start by removing myself from the the serious conversations on obesity, diabetes, heart disease etc... Don't get me wrong, I'm the first one to hand out vitamins and gym passes in Christmas stockings, and Special K bars in Easter baskets...But I do believe in vices...strongly. I've chosen mine very specifically, food is one of them. Disclaimer from the start: Your body is your own, do what's best for it.

My foodie tendencies, like much of my life-- is elitist and exclusive. I justify this because if it involves my body I get the last and only say and what I say is "Congratulations to me I got a raise and I want to celebrate with some amazing Italian" or "I'm sorry I was so insensitive, let's grab some Chinese and talk it over" or maybe even "The Route 9 Dunkins has better chocolate frosted, we need to turn around" I also try to justify my tendency to eat my feelings by a fully paid gym membership and my own painful vanities. I'll do what it takes, just let me eat.

Obsessive? Maybe, but food can sometimes say what we simply can't, it can ease the hostility when you're ready to throw a significant other out the window (what a waste of lo mein) and set the tone for your next few hours. I thrive on these challenges, making the dinner decision for the night, where, when, atmosphere, driving time, drink menu, possible wait time, price, best service, best bread....All essential contributing factors.

So the intention of my writings is to share restaurants, recipes, bars, diners, coffee shops etc from wherever I find them. And of course, I can't escape the inevitable conversations and emotions that start flying around when you send a 20-something anywhere you can find cheap food and booze. We may find comfort food, food that causes discomfort, food that repairs uncomfortable situations or uncomfortable situations that are caused by food...you never know that can come out of the kitchen.