Armed with a cheesesteak from Pat’s (conveniently located only one block away), we entered Ray’s in our sweats and slippers (remember, it was 7am), followed closely by several friends looking to share in the wonder of this early morning event.

breakfast of champions

To start the day off on a fairly unbearable yet amazing note, we toasted with our cans of Schlitz and then raced to finish them, which was a highly unsuccessful endeavor.  (Jimmy put us all to shame, but I’m happy to say that I kicked his ass in round two.)

the most disgusting chug of all

As we continued to get our drink on (which included “Jager bombs” that were just glasses full of Jager and ginger ale), the owner – Ray’s son, Lou – brought us over a bottle of champagne, free t-shirts and a birthday Schlitz, which was a can dressed up with two candles taped to it.  Classy.

who needs cake?

The drinking continued, which led to dancing, which led to free drinks and more dancing.  It was a vicious, drunken cycle of awesome.

this is how we always dance

Turning 30 is a milestone that many a woman dreads.  For them, it’s a sign that they have passed their prime, no longer the partying, easy going young thing that gets picked up at the bar on a Saturday night.  30 is like the ushering in of a new era for these ladies, one in which they are ready to shrivel up and waste away with 12 cats and a basketful of yarn and knitting needles.  What they need is a drunken dose of Ray’s while playing hookey from work.  And who knows?  They may just see me there.

On Sunday, October 10th, the North Star Bar (27th and Poplar Streets) competed against playoff baseball and an unpopular weekend night out (albeit teachers and city employees had the following day off) to host the first ever Philadelphia leg of the Air Sex World Championships tour.

2009 was the first year of the Air Sex World Championships, which toured 14 cities and eventually crowned the champion from LA as the best-of-the-best in the finals in Austin.  This year, the tour expanded to 20 cities, allowing the citizens of the City of Brotherly Love the chance to gyrate for glory and a world title.

For those of you who want to know more, but hate clicking on links, here’s the quick and dirty from the website:

Never been to an Air Sex show before? Here’s what you need to know: it’s a lot like Air Guitar, but instead of rocking out with an imaginary guitar, you’re making sweet and/or filthy love with an imaginary sex partner. You choose a clip of music, you show up in whatever sort of wardrobe you like, and you come up on stage and show everyone how you do it. Or how you wish you could do it. Or how you once had it done to you, and oh my god was that a bad idea and while it’s embarrassing to show that act to a room of strangers, you know that you need to do it now in order to make sure that no one else falls down the same rabbit hole you got stuck inside. Or, you know, just do it however you want.

The only rules we have are the laws laid down by the state we’re in. Since most Air Sex venues serve alcohol, you can’t get naked. And since some also serve food, all orgasms have to be simulated (or at least arguably so). Other than that, you’re free to do whatever it takes to impress the judges, the audience in the theater, and the world!

As we entered the bar, the bouncer checked our IDs while trying to convince us to add ourselves to the contestant list.  At first I was flattered, assuming that we were asked because of some vibe we were giving off that alluded to our air sex prowess, but, once we made it to the back room, I realized that the hard sell was because of a lack of contestants.

The first performance was an exhibition by the emcee, done to R. Kelly’s “Bump and Grind.”  Then, the judges were announced, one of whom was on the tour, and two that were Philly natives.  They ran through their expectations of the contestants, stressing creativity (“you can only see so many fisting routines…”) and commitment to the craft (“if you’re not ready to get air pregnant, get the fuck out of my room”).

Contestant number 1 ended up being the bouncer, who put on a pretty fantastic show wearing only a furry thong shaped like the head of a bull.  His wife is definitely one lucky lady.

The second contestant was an embarrassingly drunk guy who kept falling down in the crowd while yelling “sex!” over and over.  I had my fingers crossed for a face plant while he was on stage, but instead, I witnessed what may have been the saddest air sex performance ever documented.  When it ended (seemingly 3 days later), the judges ripped into the guy, asking him if he always nailed his feet to the floor when having sex, and joking about the fact that he was singing along to the song the whole time.  Whoever it is that he sleeps with is NOT quite as fortunate as the bouncer’s wife.

One of the judges came up next, and if I never end up in a room with him again, it’ll be too soon.  He was an over-the-top, yelling for the sake of yelling, Lewis Black wannabe whose comments made Stephanie and me contemplate the merits of stabbing ourselves in our ear drums with dull pencils.  As he sang “My Cock is on Fire” (a parody of the Kings of Leon song “Sex on Fire“), we decided we couldn’t take it anymore and ducked out of the event to watch the end of the Phillies game.

Overall, the Philadelphia Air Sex World Championships was a bit of a letdown, though I think the perfect storm of it being a new event for the city, taking place on a Sunday and competing against playoff baseball in a sports town kept the crowds away.  I’ll keep my fingers crossed that next year, the “talent” comes out en masse.

Situated on a triangular stretch of land on the southwest corner of the street, I had only ever gone there for breakfast, because it’s one of the few places in the city where you can get a bagel with hummus and avocado.  (For a gal who loathes cream cheese, a coffee shop that has hummus is a huge score…)  There’s a fair amount of outdoor seating, so it took about a year’s worth of visits (which are fairly few in number, given that I don’t live or work on that side of the river) to realize that the small front room, which holds the coffee counter and a few chairs, isn’t the only indoor space – there’s actually a decent sized, slightly more formal dining area in the back.

Another great thing about Gold Standard, in addition to the hummus and avocado bagels, is the fact that it’s a BYOB, so you can save a few pesos while still getting your buzz on.  Unfortunately, due to quite the bender the night before that took a while to recover from (my recovery time seems to grow in direct relationship to my increasing age), Stephanie and I decided to fore-go the booze.  However, a part of me couldn’t help feeling a bit jealous of the couple that was sipping on some pink champagne, because it reminded me of my days at James Madison University, when I regularly made party while double fisting $4 bottles of pink Andre.  And, let’s be honest, it’s extremely rare that I don’t have a desire to drink champagne, regardless of how cheap and/or disgusting it is.

Stephanie went with the vegan summer garbanzos (stewed chick peas with sundried tomatoes,
squash, preserved lemon and tabouleh), which she was totally into,

beans!

while I partook of the sea scallop salad (seared scallops, bean salad, barley and bulgar pilaf), which could have used a scoch less dressing, but was, all in all, a pretty tasty dish.

We ordered coffees to go, still needing caffeine to balance out our sluggish and hungover bodies (if you’re lucky, someday I’ll tell you the horribly embarrassing story of the previous night), and headed to the show, which once again took me back to my days in basements and yards listening to local bands in The Friendly City.  I realized while I was listening to Cranes Are Flying (it was my first time hearing them, and I think I need to listen to their recorded stuff before forming an actual opinion about whether or not I’m a fan) that anyone who struggles to understand the difference between hipsters and indie kids need only attend a local, backyard show to clear it up once and for all.

But I digress…

Divinity (that’s right, his name was DIVINITY; or at least, that’s what he went by) called me up a few days later, and we made plans to meet up at the movies in the Northeast. (By the way, going on a first date to the movies is a bad idea. Don’t do it.) That went well enough, and we decided to grab some food, so we got in our respective cars (because, let’s be real, I didn’t know this guy, so I wasn’t getting in his car) and headed to Friendly’s on the Boulevard. It was during this ice cream time that I learned that Divinity had OCD (there was an issue with the cleanliness of silverware that ended up with the need for individually wrapped plastic utensils). Not necessarily a dealbreaker, but it has potential to be one depending on the severity. As we said goodnight and I prepared to go my separate way, he asked me why I wasn’t going to sleep with him that night. (If there are any guys reading this that aren’t clear about this, it’s not okay to ask that on a first date. Or ever.) He also pulled out this little gem as he tried to entice me: “Most people think all Haitian men have AIDS, but I don’t. I promise.” YIKES.

At that point, I should have realized that Divinity and I were not going to work out, but, as someone who likes a free meal, I agreed to see him again the next weekend. This time, we went to Kabobeesh, an Indian restaurant at 42nd and Chestnut. (If anyone reading this can explain to me why a man with OCD and hygiene issues would suggest going to an Indian buffet, I would be much obliged. It’s been baffling me for years.) We once again had issues with cutlery and dishes, resulting in full use of paper products, but at least that was accompanied by excessively dull conversation that was strained, at best. He asked me where I lived (since I had yet to let him pick me up for a date), and I vaguely told him the Italian Market, but refused to give him any specifics. The meal ended and he walked me to my car, where he kissed me goodnight and said he’d like to see me again, to which I mumbled something unintelligible and quickly drove away.

While I recognize that I should have been direct with him and just told him I wasn’t interested, I didn’t, and, for the next several weeks, he called and texted quite often. I never answered the phone or responded, and got what I deserved when he started calling upwards of six times a day. I also saw him wandering around my neighborhood once or twice (he never saw me), which made me quite happy in my decision to not tell him exactly where I lived, the main reason being that he had no business being in my neighborhood, since he lived in WILMINGTON, DE. (You can’t really pull the I-just-happened-to-be-in-the-neighborhood thing with distance like that.) I get that I’m charming, but come on.

To make a long story even longer, my point is that, since we’d only been out twice , the fadeaway was an acceptable form of ending things between us. Of course, it’s also true that I wimped out and just couldn’t be direct, and that resulted in my phone and neighborhood both ending up being things I wanted to avoid for a few weeks, but I stand by that fadeaway. If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing, except maybe deciding to go out with a guy named Divinity that I met at a North Philly after-hours club where it was assumed I was carrying a weapon.

So, if this were a fairy tale and I wanted you to take away a moral from this story, here’s what it would be: don’t pick up men in places where people have been shot. There’s no greater dating wisdom I can impart than that.

However, there is something that makes me feel like a red-blooded, apple pie loving, terrorist hating member of this Union: baseball.  There is no time when I feel greater pride in my country than when I’m sitting in the cheap seats at a Phillies game, sucking down the most American meal known to man – cold beer and lukewarm hot dogs – in the blazing summer sun.  Can there be a greater sense of unity than high fiving a row of complete strangers in the excitement of a walk off homerun or a stronger feeling of brotherhood created when starting the wave and seeing it ripple out over 45,000 people?

There’s a feeling of comraderie that seems to wash over me as I’m sweating alongside fellow red-shirted fans that makes my heart swell with pride at being both a Philadelphian and an American.  Perhaps I’ve been brainwashed by years of hearing baseball referred to as our “national pastime,” to the point that I can no longer separate the game from the country. Or, perhaps I’m just a simple gal who loves bad food and worse beer, and the loud hum of joy, frustration and, occasionally, sorrow from an audience wearing their collective hearts on their t-shirt sleeves.

proud to be an american.

Jenny and I hardly squeezed our way through the door of Carman’s Country Kitchen (11th and Wharton, Friday-Monday, 8am-2pm), partly due to our ample backsides, but mostly because of the large crowd of people waiting to eat and trying to beat the sweltering 102 degree heat outside.  A staple in the South Philly brunch scene, and one of the primary members of the Philadelphia “brunch belt,” Carman’s is basically just a small room with three tables (accommodating 2-3 each) and two counters (adding another 9-10 seats).  It’s rumored that larger parties are able to sit in the bed of Carman’s pickup that’s parked outside, but I haven’t seen it in my many passes by.

We had made a reservation (it’s recommended), but were told by the waiter (who we later found out was Carman’s son, Jaret) that we’d still have a 10-15 minute wait.  (Carman offers everyone coffee while they wait, so you don’t have to sacrifice your caffeine addiction in order to get a seat.)  Four minutes later, we settled into our seats at the far end of the counter near the door, taking in the atmosphere of the place, which was full of tchotchkes (mostly of the sexual variety) and signs of all types, many of them bearing the motto of the restaurant.

are there 16 of them? are they 16 years old? and what exactly does "smart" mean?

jaret has been sufficiently guilt tripped into being helpful.

enough. said.

***If it isn’t yet obvious, you probably don’t want to bring your kids here, unless you’re a bad parent.***

Each day at Carman’s there are four menu items – a pancake/belgian waffle dish, a challah french toast dish, an omelet, and a special.  As someone who truly struggles at brunch to make the choice between sweet and savory, I was thankful that Jenny wanted to share so my tastebuds could be fully satisfied.  We opted for the challah french toast with jersey blueberries and south carolina peaches and the special – a large piece of shrimp with crab grits, two eggs any way you want them, yukon gold home fries and toast.  We also had coffee (of course) and sides of bacon and homemade country sausage.  (I know good sausage, and Carman’s is right up there with the best I’ve ever had.  It’s definitely worth the $2. Don’t skip it.)

mmm...french toast.

this was much more tasty than the picture implies. the grits had so much crab it was shocking.

Almost everything was absolutely delicious (though I’ll admit that I’ve had better potatoes in my day), and I ended up feeling full but not uncomfortable.  Unfortunately, Jenny wasn’t quite so lucky – “I’m so full that when I sneezed, I felt like I was going to vomit.”   (That’s what she gets for having a cold and a weak immune system.)

Overall, the mix of the over the top inappropriateness and unintentional kitschiness made me feel right at home.  Carman cooks every dish, making it feel as though you’re at an eccentric aunt’s house for breakfast.  To me, that’s comfort at its finest.

The first to arrive, I parked myself near the door, watching couple after couple come in, only to be turned away because of their lack of reservations.  It seemed a bit odd to me, considering that most of the tables were empty, but I learned later why this was the case – a meal at Zahav is more than just a meal.  It’s a dining experience, one which you need to set aside a good chunk of your evening to truly enjoy.

Stephanie was the next to arrive, so we grabbed a seat at the bar  and ordered some drinks to start the evening.  (Shocking, I know).

lemonnana - bourbon, muddled mint, fresh lemon, verbena

ginger petel - vodka, canton liqueur, muddled blackberries, lemon

Meenoo and Juie (the birthday girl) arrived shortly thereafter, so we moved ourselves to a carved wooden table to begin our evening of celebrating.  Stephanie and I decided to try the Mesibah, one of the two tasting menus.  Unfortunately, our waiter informed us that it was meant to be an experience for the whole table, and, since the signature dish of the Mesibah was a whole roasted lamb shoulder and our other two companions were vegetarians, it wasn’t really going to work out for us.  The waiter must have been able to read the disappointment on our faces, because he worked it out so that we could get the Mesibah, with Stephanie and me getting the lamb as our main course, while Meenoo and Juie got the Galil, a vegetarian dish of eggplant, tomato couscous, asparagus and tehina.

The service was fantastic, and the food, overall, is now on my list of the top ten meals I’ve had in my six years living in Philly.  Having ordered the Mesibah, we weren’t entirely sure what dishes would be coming, so it was like a constant supply of never-ending surprise plates.  The pictures in no way do the food justice, but here they are, nonetheless.

salatim and hummus

Potentially the best hummus in the world…

crispy haloumi

fried cauliflower

I don’t even like cauliflower, but this was fried so well that it was absolutely delicious.

savta mati's borekas

pitriyot

white tuna with fava beans

the galil

lamb shoulder with crispy rice and pomegranate

dessert - pistachio cake, halvah mousse, almond semifreddo, cashew baklava

There were only two people inside when we arrived and parked ourselves on stools at the ornately beautiful, wood bar.  We ordered draughts (Newcastle and Smithwick’s) and food (seasoned waffle fries with cheese) and began talking amongst ourselves.  In walked an overly friendly man (late 30′s, maybe?) in a baja poncho, who proceeded to ruin our evening.  As we tried to ignore him during his continuous questions firing our way, it got increasingly more awkward and uncomfortable.  We got the check, and, apparently, it was right on time.

Man: J, do you dance?

J: No.

Man: Not even at junior prom or senior prom?

J: Nope.

Man: Kellie, how about you?  Do you dance?

Me: Nope.  I don’t dance either.

Man: Are you guys best friends?

J and me: *choking laughter*

Me: Not best friends, no.  Just friends.

Man: Can I come hang out with you tonight?

Me: No.  I think we’re just going to head home.

Man: Can I come with you guys?

J and me: (emphatically) No.

The turn that the conversation took, starting with the best friends comment, led us to believe that he thought we were going home together and had a different type of relationship than we do.  A type that he wanted to be a part of. Definitely more than I was expecting during a Monday happy hour.

Having read one glowing review after another about the joy that a PYT burger brings, I was almost salivating when I walked in on Monday night.  Here’s a rundown of the experience:

Host/worker says to sit at the third table on the right; doesn’t escort.  I get confused about whether or not to go to the third booth (technically the fourth table?) or the third table.  In my defense, the first “table” was tiny, so I’m not sure whether or not it actually counted as a place to sit.

We order “adultshakes,” and the server takes our menus and starts to walk away, then comes back with a comment about how we still need them because we haven’t ordered yet.  As if we aren’t aware.

Shakes come, both are Peanutbutterchocolatebanana (chocolate ice cream, Castries peanut rum, Malibu tropical banana rum, fresh bananas and fresh peanut butter, topped with whipped cream and rainbow jimmies).  Pretty tasty, but with shake dripping down the side.  Thank goodness for napkins.

I order first – the PYT Burger (cheddar, bacon, tomato, lettuce and some chunky special sauce – which I ask for on the side – on a potato roll).  The menu says it comes topped with chips, so I’m surprised when the server asks, “Do you want fries or onion rings with that?”  (Score!)  I get the onion rings, Felicia (PYT Burger) and Jana (Calibunga Burger) get the handcut fries.

We wait and chat, basking in the glow of the digital cable classic alternative music channel.  Billy Idol, The Clash, Blink 182…ridiculously glorious.

Burgers come sans sides.  I remind the server about the two orders of fries and my onion rings.  She gets confused and says she thought it was three orders of fries (apparently they were on their way).  I say, “No, I ordered the onion rings,” wanting to add (but refraining from doing so), “You wrote it down.  And I ordered first.  Not much grey area.”  She puts in my order for onion rings and tells me it’ll be a wait because they need to start cooking.  Super.

We dig into our burgers, and Jana’s falls apart at first bite.  She mashes it back into burger shape.  Bite and repeat for the rest of the meal.

I chance the chunky special sauce – the chunks may or may not be onions – and it’s relatively okay.  The burger itself is fine but nothing special.  Three quarters of the way through, onion rings arrive and are the best part of the meal.  Greasy, peppery deliciousness.

Server comes to clear table and picks up some items.  She realizes she can’t carry everything she picked up, makes a face and puts some things back down.  Leaves.

Classic alternative gets turned off and the bartender puts on music that needs to be yelled over due to the volume.  I shout to my companions, “I’m glad I already ran out of things to say to you.”  Good timing, I suppose.

Server drops off bill (and the holder also includes someone else’s bill).  We realize that we were duped, and the fries and onion rings are added as sides.  We’re charged for three fries and one onion ring.  (Didn’t we already go over this?)  We tell server there are too many fries on the bill.  She has bartender help her remove an order and brings updated bill.

We all have cards, so I write the amounts we want charged on each onto the bill.  Server takes it and we explain that we wrote it down for her.

Server returns and says to me, “You have lots of receipts.  I actually charged $0.24 a couple of times by accident.  Sorry.”  (A couple of times?)  I sign my three receipts and we almost run out the door.  Goodbye forever PYT.

Many Philly food blogs have spoken highly of PYT, but I don’t understand the appeal.  I can get a better tasting burger, a vaster selection of milkshakes (though alcohol free) and better service (not to mention free crayons!) at Nifty Fifty’s.  Mmmm…Nifty Fifty’s…