Christmas has unfortunately become a holiday that is centered around making lists and receiving gifts but few seldom stop to realize that gifts wrapped in pretty bows are mere material possessions; unneeded objects that occupy space.
Sure a gift can be a nice gesture to show someone how much they mean to you but almost everything we own will eventually end up collecting dust in the garage or in a yard sale on its way to collecting dust in someone else’s garage.
Many of us are so caught up in our own desires that we seldom stop and think of those poor souls that yearn not for lavish items but simply to have a roof that shelters them from torrential rain, clean water to drink, and food to settle their aching stomachs.
Christmas is the time of year when we can open our hearts and wallets not only to our family members but to those who need it the most.
Family should not pertain solely to our immediate relatives.
The homeless man who sits on the sidewalk hoping for us to look his way and drop a coin so that he may eat is our brother, the mother that has to sell her body so that her child may live another day is our sister.
Yet we simply pass them by riding on top of our high horses.
Who are we to judge others; we have no idea as to why so many men and women have been reduced to such a hopeless state.
We never even take the time to consider that our lives could change in the blink of an eye and we may find ourselves sitting beside them.
The power of giving should by no means be underestimated.
Something as simple as buying someone a hot meal or donating as little as sixty cents to a charity can do wonders for another human being.
Those who claim they don’t have much to give are wrong. Love, comfort, acceptance, and guidance are all things we can give in plentiful amounts.
Being able to help someone who is less fortunate is the most gratifying feeling in the world.
Giving is a selfless act that one should not boast about. The purpose of giving is lost when one begins to desire acknowledgment for their acts of kindness.
Christmas is also the time of year when we can gather with our loved ones and be thankful for our countless blessings.
We are blessed with an abundance of food whereas men, women, and children in other parts of the world die from starvation at alarming rates each day.
We have medicines and technologies that enable us to lead healthy lives and yet people willingly risk their lives by the use of legal and illegal substances.
We have an array of programs and services to aid us should a problem arise that we cannot resolve independently.
We live in a society that strives to bring justice through the use of law whereas criminals haunt villages across the globe freely.
We have educational institutes that aim to expand the minds of individuals regardless of ethnicity or financial capability.
We live in a land of opportunity which is priceless. But if we continue to take our blessings for granted, we will lose track of what is really important in life.
Christmas is the time of year when we can stop, reflect on the year that has passed and offer a little bit of ourselves to others.
It is a time of giving not receiving.
It is a time of inspiring others and restoring hope in those that need it the most.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Our First Turkey
I was born and raised in the United Kingdom so naturally Thanksgiving is fairly new to our family.
Although, we celebrated something similar called Harvest Day, we have never actually had a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner.
This year was our first.
I woke to the sounds of the cupboards slamming shut, the rattle of pots and pans and of course the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.
It was a colder than usual morning so I decided to stay in my pajamas; absolute comfort was the goal of the day.
I made my way downstairs and discovered a kitchen that looked as though it had just been hit by a violent tornado.
I greeted my parents and sat down for some breakfast: blueberry pancakes with an extra helping of syrup and a cup of coffee with a splash of hazelnut creamer.
After breakfast it was time for me to get started on my contribution to dinner. I have a major sweet tooth so naturally I was in charge of the desserts.
Cupcakes, brownies, and apple crumble; I would surely be dubbed the queen of baked goods at the end of dinner.
My mum and dad divided the rest of the work amongst themselves since my brother was at work and unable to take part in the cooking.
As the three of us slaved away in the kitchen I paused for a brief moment to take in the overall ambiance in our home.
Holiday music was softly playing in the background, my cats Tigger and Simba were sprawled out in front of the fireplace to keep warm, and the aroma from a pumpkin spice candle filled the entire house.
For a split moment, time itself had stopped and the stresses accompanied with everyday life had suddenly melted away.
For a split moment, I was completely and utterly content.
When I returned to reality, I realized the only thing left to do was put the turkey in the oven so we grabbed the appetizer tray and our mimosas and headed over to the living room.
By this time, my brother had returned from work so we decided to watch a movie while we waited for the turkey to cook.
Before we knew it the timer on the oven went off. It was time to feast.
The table was already set so we grabbed our plates and piled on the goods; turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole, dinner rolls, and of course sweet potatoes drenched in brown sugar.
We each took a moment to say what we were thankful for before digging into the glorious bounty of food we were about to enjoy.
I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive to try the turkey because I’ve always heard such terrible things about it.
I was however, pleasantly surprised. It was moist, bursting with flavor, and absolutely delicious.
Now I finally understand why turkey is the star of the night in any traditional American Thanksgiving dinner.
We devoured our plates and even went back for seconds and in some cases thirds.
We were so full at the end of dinner that the distance between the dining room table and the living room seemed like a year long trek across the Savannah.
So we remained seated at the table and began exchanging sweet memories of years passed.
The night was full of love, laughter, delectable food and a bountiful amount of wine and champagne.
It was a night I will always cherish and hold dear to my heart.
Although, we celebrated something similar called Harvest Day, we have never actually had a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner.
This year was our first.
I woke to the sounds of the cupboards slamming shut, the rattle of pots and pans and of course the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.
It was a colder than usual morning so I decided to stay in my pajamas; absolute comfort was the goal of the day.
I made my way downstairs and discovered a kitchen that looked as though it had just been hit by a violent tornado.
I greeted my parents and sat down for some breakfast: blueberry pancakes with an extra helping of syrup and a cup of coffee with a splash of hazelnut creamer.
After breakfast it was time for me to get started on my contribution to dinner. I have a major sweet tooth so naturally I was in charge of the desserts.
Cupcakes, brownies, and apple crumble; I would surely be dubbed the queen of baked goods at the end of dinner.
My mum and dad divided the rest of the work amongst themselves since my brother was at work and unable to take part in the cooking.
As the three of us slaved away in the kitchen I paused for a brief moment to take in the overall ambiance in our home.
Holiday music was softly playing in the background, my cats Tigger and Simba were sprawled out in front of the fireplace to keep warm, and the aroma from a pumpkin spice candle filled the entire house.
For a split moment, time itself had stopped and the stresses accompanied with everyday life had suddenly melted away.
For a split moment, I was completely and utterly content.
When I returned to reality, I realized the only thing left to do was put the turkey in the oven so we grabbed the appetizer tray and our mimosas and headed over to the living room.
By this time, my brother had returned from work so we decided to watch a movie while we waited for the turkey to cook.
Before we knew it the timer on the oven went off. It was time to feast.
The table was already set so we grabbed our plates and piled on the goods; turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole, dinner rolls, and of course sweet potatoes drenched in brown sugar.
We each took a moment to say what we were thankful for before digging into the glorious bounty of food we were about to enjoy.
I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive to try the turkey because I’ve always heard such terrible things about it.
I was however, pleasantly surprised. It was moist, bursting with flavor, and absolutely delicious.
Now I finally understand why turkey is the star of the night in any traditional American Thanksgiving dinner.
We devoured our plates and even went back for seconds and in some cases thirds.
We were so full at the end of dinner that the distance between the dining room table and the living room seemed like a year long trek across the Savannah.
So we remained seated at the table and began exchanging sweet memories of years passed.
The night was full of love, laughter, delectable food and a bountiful amount of wine and champagne.
It was a night I will always cherish and hold dear to my heart.
Monday, November 30, 2009
A Night to Remember
The time: 6:30 p.m. The location: the Bay Bridge. The destination: the Regency Ballroom in San Francisco, Calif.
The problem: my friend and I are stuck in traffic and have about 30 minutes before the show starts.
We left Sacramento around 3 p.m. ensuring more than enough time to get to the city. But of course, the traffic Gods were determined to stand between us and the one band that meant the world to us; Thrice.
We knew that panicking wouldn’t make the cars in front of us magically disappear so we turned up the radio and patiently waited for a glimmer of hope.
Before we knew it, we were zipping through tunnels and found ourselves in the heart of San Francisco.
Now the only thing left to do was find the venue which ironically proved to be a daunting task, even for San Francisco veterans.
If it weren’t for the map app on my phone, we would probably still be lost somewhere between Polk and Pine Street.
Alas, we arrived at the venue with just a few minutes to spare.
Security riffled through my purse and insisted that I throw away my half eaten pack of gum. She even asked me if I were chewing any at the time.
Apparently I’m some little punk who prides herself in how many wads of gum she can stick under seats. I reluctantly surrendered my pack of gum and proceeded to the ticket checkpoint.
Once in the venue we beelined it to the merchandise table, then grabbed a cold brew, and made our way up to the balcony (we voted against braving the floor since Thrice tends to draw hardcore mosh pit enthusiasts).
The inside of the venue was absolutely breathtaking. It was small enough to allow for an intimate gathering and the décor included gorgeous chandeliers that lined the ceiling.
Flash light security guards ran rampant but failed miserably at doing their job.
A young boy who was crowd surfing fell flat on his face because no one was at the front of the stage to catch him. The fall was so bad that even the lead singer of Thrice was startled and looked around for the security guards.
Luckily the kid made a full recovery, jumped right back up, and managed to walk off with the shattered pieces of his self-esteem.
Another kid, disguised as a crowd surfer, jumped up on stage in the middle of Thrice’s set. He was eventually caught and dragged off of the stage.
He did however, manage to give the security guard who jumped up after him a good run around; a comical sight nonetheless.
And who can forget the potheads foolishly lighting up in a closed venue? A word of caution for those who choose to do so: look up, there's a cloud of smoke above your head. That cloud is your very own smoke signal and your one way ticket out of the venue.
The show itself left me speechless.
As an avid concert-goer, I can honestly say that no one does it quite as good as Thrice.
The band embodies the true meaning of creativity and showmanship.
And unlike, many other bands nowadays, they have perfected the key elements required to make a performance unforgettable.
The set list was impeccable, a healthy balance between old and new songs with a few acoustic melodies thrown in, much to my delight.
The band also utilized the sound system so that it emitted top notch sound that one could only expect from arena shows and carefully planned out the lighting adding to the surrealism of the night.
This quartet undoubtedly gives it their all and the memories you take away from one night are bound to linger on for years to come.
The problem: my friend and I are stuck in traffic and have about 30 minutes before the show starts.
We left Sacramento around 3 p.m. ensuring more than enough time to get to the city. But of course, the traffic Gods were determined to stand between us and the one band that meant the world to us; Thrice.
We knew that panicking wouldn’t make the cars in front of us magically disappear so we turned up the radio and patiently waited for a glimmer of hope.
Before we knew it, we were zipping through tunnels and found ourselves in the heart of San Francisco.
Now the only thing left to do was find the venue which ironically proved to be a daunting task, even for San Francisco veterans.
If it weren’t for the map app on my phone, we would probably still be lost somewhere between Polk and Pine Street.
Alas, we arrived at the venue with just a few minutes to spare.
Security riffled through my purse and insisted that I throw away my half eaten pack of gum. She even asked me if I were chewing any at the time.
Apparently I’m some little punk who prides herself in how many wads of gum she can stick under seats. I reluctantly surrendered my pack of gum and proceeded to the ticket checkpoint.
Once in the venue we beelined it to the merchandise table, then grabbed a cold brew, and made our way up to the balcony (we voted against braving the floor since Thrice tends to draw hardcore mosh pit enthusiasts).
The inside of the venue was absolutely breathtaking. It was small enough to allow for an intimate gathering and the décor included gorgeous chandeliers that lined the ceiling.
Flash light security guards ran rampant but failed miserably at doing their job.
A young boy who was crowd surfing fell flat on his face because no one was at the front of the stage to catch him. The fall was so bad that even the lead singer of Thrice was startled and looked around for the security guards.
Luckily the kid made a full recovery, jumped right back up, and managed to walk off with the shattered pieces of his self-esteem.
Another kid, disguised as a crowd surfer, jumped up on stage in the middle of Thrice’s set. He was eventually caught and dragged off of the stage.
He did however, manage to give the security guard who jumped up after him a good run around; a comical sight nonetheless.
And who can forget the potheads foolishly lighting up in a closed venue? A word of caution for those who choose to do so: look up, there's a cloud of smoke above your head. That cloud is your very own smoke signal and your one way ticket out of the venue.
The show itself left me speechless.
As an avid concert-goer, I can honestly say that no one does it quite as good as Thrice.
The band embodies the true meaning of creativity and showmanship.
And unlike, many other bands nowadays, they have perfected the key elements required to make a performance unforgettable.
The set list was impeccable, a healthy balance between old and new songs with a few acoustic melodies thrown in, much to my delight.
The band also utilized the sound system so that it emitted top notch sound that one could only expect from arena shows and carefully planned out the lighting adding to the surrealism of the night.
This quartet undoubtedly gives it their all and the memories you take away from one night are bound to linger on for years to come.
Monday, November 16, 2009
It's Always Funny
Television has gone through a rapid transformation in recent years.
“Reality” shows that are scripted, makeover shows that are so graphic they make even the strongest of stomachs churn, and dating shows starring has-been celebrities vying for the attention of overzealous men and women are currently plaguing the world of entertainment.
And who can forget, the television dramas full of over-the-top scenarios that could only be possible in tv land?
Don’t get me wrong, I have succumbed to dramas such as Grey’s Anatomy on more than one occasion but who really wants to watch a depressing show that has you reaching for a box of Kleenex at the end of the hour?
I seek refuge in comedy shows.
It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia is not your typical comedy show.
It is a show that doesn’t just push the envelope; it gives the envelope the finger.
The series follows a group of five semi-alcoholic, unethical underachievers who run Paddy's Pub, a run-down bar in Philadelphia.
The cast includes Charlie (Charlie Day), Mac (Rob McElhenney), Dennis (Glenn Howerton), Sweet Dee (Kaitlin Olson), and Frank (Danny DeVito).
So what makes this gang of self-centered owners so special?
Their unwavering determination to do just about anything, no matter how ridiculous, in an attempt to better their own situation.
“Paddy’s Pub: Home of the Original Kitten Mittens” aired on Nov. 5.
When a merchandising convention came to town, the gang tried to develop marketable products in an attempt to build the Paddy's brand.
The episode opened with a minute long commercial starring Charlie Kelly.
“Hello, Charlie Kelly here, local business owner and cat enthusiast. Is your cat making too much noise all the time? Is your cat constantly stomping around driving you crazy? Is your cat clawing at your furniture’s? Think there’s no answer? You’re so stupid! There is! Kitten Mittons. Finally, there is an elegant, comfortable mitton for cat! Is your cat one-legged? Is your cat fat, skinny, or an in-between? That doesn’t matter! Cause one size fits all! Kitten Mittons! You’ll be smitten! So come on down to Paddy’s Pub. We’re the hoooooooommee of the original Kitten Mittons. Meeeeeeeeeeowwwww!
Kitten Mittens were hands down the crowing jewel of the episode.
The gang also experimented with other merchandising ideas including, Paddy’s thongs, a stress ball (actually just a raw egg), the dick towel which showcases hand-drawn genitalia of all sizes, and last but not least shot gun, a gun (not a toy) that shoots alcoholic beverages into your mouth.
With such a hysterical start one would wonder, is this a precursor to what lies ahead or just another comedy show that starts off strong and falls flat on its face mid-episode?
I was however, pleasantly surprised; a mere thirty minutes of this laugh out loud comedy show and I found myself begging for more.
Not to mention the fact that there are so many jokes layered on top of one another that a single viewing of any given episode just won’t do.
It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia is politically incorrect, controversial, and downright hilarious.
It is a breath of fresh air in a genre that often tries too hard to well, be funny.
I give this gang from Philly an A+ and a secured spot in my TiVo’s weekly line-up.
Be sure to catch its latest episode this Thursday at 10 p.m. on FX.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Life Happens
“What happened? You were doing so well at the beginning of the semester,” said my Punjabi Professor.
I thought, life happened.
Take this past week for example.
My beloved uncle had a heart attack. Thankfully, he is okay but we have been driving back and forth from the Bay Area ever since to help out with the family business.
My boyfriend and I broke up. The actual break up, oddly enough, wasn’t the difficult part. It was the aftermath that followed that took me by surprise.
You would think I'd be able to rely on my nearest and dearest for support but instead they felt the need to pass judgment on something they knew nothing about and pegged me out to be the bad guy.
Oh and my dad who is basically my support system went to South Korea and won’t be back until the end of the month.
Needless to say, studying for an exam in my foreign language class was the last thing on my mind.
A weekend like that was just an anomaly. A series of unlikely events designed specifically to test my will power.
Or so I'd like to think.
The good news is I'm still standing.
When life isn’t throwing every possible curve ball at me, my week usually consists of the following.
Mondays and Wednesdays I have class from noon to 6 p.m. and then it’s off to the gym. By the time I get home, I have just enough time to scoff down some dinner and attempt to tackle the beast that is homework.
But more often than not, my body is exhausted and my mind is running on overtime so I pop a sleeping pill and wait to drift away into a self-induced slumber.
The rest of the week consists of much of the same.
I try to divide my time equally but my obligations to my family and friends always prevail and homework simply falls to the wayside.
Life has become so hectic that I have been forced to take drastic measures just to keep from losing what is left of my mind.
Most people have one to-do list. I however, am privileged to have not one but four.
These to-do lists come in all shapes and sizes. After all, variety is the spice of life, right?
There’s the calendar which hangs over my desk, the white board that hangs on my wall, the agenda book that resides in my backpack, and the to-do list that lives in a little app on my phone known as the notepad.
You may be thinking why on Earth would someone need so many to-do lists? Well, each to-do list serves a specific and very important purpose.
My calendar reminds me of upcoming birthdays, holidays, lunches, and get togethers, my agenda book lists assignments and their due dates, and the list on my phone is specifically for errands.
The white board however, is the motherboard.
It is strategically hung by my door so that it’s the first thing I see when I wake and the last thing when I leave.
It is divided into four sections, one that reminds me what to do before I leave, one that reminds me of homework due the next day, one that reminds me to pay my bills, and one that is aptly labeled “someday” for those things that I will eventually get to.
I’m sure it seems absurd to have so many lists but ironically enough, it works for me.
I am able to manage my time better and never run the risk of forgetting anything.
I just wish there was a list that tells you how to juggle life and school without having to prioritize one over the other.
Until then, I will keep trekking forward with my end goal in sight and know that one day, this will all be worth it.
I thought, life happened.
Take this past week for example.
My beloved uncle had a heart attack. Thankfully, he is okay but we have been driving back and forth from the Bay Area ever since to help out with the family business.
My boyfriend and I broke up. The actual break up, oddly enough, wasn’t the difficult part. It was the aftermath that followed that took me by surprise.
You would think I'd be able to rely on my nearest and dearest for support but instead they felt the need to pass judgment on something they knew nothing about and pegged me out to be the bad guy.
Oh and my dad who is basically my support system went to South Korea and won’t be back until the end of the month.
Needless to say, studying for an exam in my foreign language class was the last thing on my mind.
A weekend like that was just an anomaly. A series of unlikely events designed specifically to test my will power.
Or so I'd like to think.
The good news is I'm still standing.
When life isn’t throwing every possible curve ball at me, my week usually consists of the following.
Mondays and Wednesdays I have class from noon to 6 p.m. and then it’s off to the gym. By the time I get home, I have just enough time to scoff down some dinner and attempt to tackle the beast that is homework.
But more often than not, my body is exhausted and my mind is running on overtime so I pop a sleeping pill and wait to drift away into a self-induced slumber.
The rest of the week consists of much of the same.
I try to divide my time equally but my obligations to my family and friends always prevail and homework simply falls to the wayside.
Life has become so hectic that I have been forced to take drastic measures just to keep from losing what is left of my mind.
Most people have one to-do list. I however, am privileged to have not one but four.
These to-do lists come in all shapes and sizes. After all, variety is the spice of life, right?
There’s the calendar which hangs over my desk, the white board that hangs on my wall, the agenda book that resides in my backpack, and the to-do list that lives in a little app on my phone known as the notepad.
You may be thinking why on Earth would someone need so many to-do lists? Well, each to-do list serves a specific and very important purpose.
My calendar reminds me of upcoming birthdays, holidays, lunches, and get togethers, my agenda book lists assignments and their due dates, and the list on my phone is specifically for errands.
The white board however, is the motherboard.
It is strategically hung by my door so that it’s the first thing I see when I wake and the last thing when I leave.
It is divided into four sections, one that reminds me what to do before I leave, one that reminds me of homework due the next day, one that reminds me to pay my bills, and one that is aptly labeled “someday” for those things that I will eventually get to.
I’m sure it seems absurd to have so many lists but ironically enough, it works for me.
I am able to manage my time better and never run the risk of forgetting anything.
I just wish there was a list that tells you how to juggle life and school without having to prioritize one over the other.
Until then, I will keep trekking forward with my end goal in sight and know that one day, this will all be worth it.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Meet Nicholas D. Kristof
Nicholas Donabet Kristof is an American journalist, author, op-ed columnist, and a winner of two Pulitzer Prizes.
Kristof risks life and limb by traveling to the deepest corners of the world and shines a light on horrific daily occurrences in a way that grabs you by the heart and makes you appreciate the endless freedoms we so often take for granted.
He doesn’t just report and return to the comfort of his home, he plays an active role in the lives of the people he meets.
He is a free-thinker who is not afraid of voicing his views, regardless of how much they may differ from the popular vote.
Kristof's journey began shortly after graduating High School. While working in France, he discovered a passion for traveling. He began by backpacking around Africa and Asia and writing articles along the way to cover his expenses.
After graduating from Harvard, he studied law at Oxford University and graduated with first class honors.
Kristof has lived on four continents, reported on six, and traveled to more than 140 countries, and all 50 states.
During his travels he has had "unpleasant experiences with malaria, wars, an Indonesian mob carrying heads on pikes, and an African airplane crash," according to his blog.
Kristof joined The New York Times in 1984 and served as a Times correspondent in Los Angeles, Hong Kong, Beijing and Tokyo.
He covered economics and presidential politics.
Kristof was an early opponent of the Iraq war and among the first to warn that we were losing ground to the Taliban in southern Afghanistan.
He was also among the first to raise doubts about Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD) in Iraq and the first to report that President Bush's State of the Union claim about Iraq seeking uranium from Africa was contradicted by the administration's own investigation.
Kristof has written an op-ed column for The New York Times since November of 2001 and is widely known for unveiling human rights abuses in Asia and Africa, such as sex and human trafficking.
His columns have often focused on global health, poverty and gender issues in the developing world.
In particular, since 2004 he has written dozens of columns about Darfur and visited the area 10 times.
In 1990, Kristof and his wife, Sheryl WuDunn, also a Times journalist at the time, won a Pulitzer Prize for their coverage of China's Tiananmen Square democracy movement. Cementing their place as the first married couple to win a Pulitzer for journalism.
Kristof won a second Pulitzer in 2006, for what the judges called "his graphic, deeply reported columns that, at personal risk, focused attention on genocide in Darfur and that gave voice to the voiceless in other parts of the world."
His other accomplishments include winning the Michael Kelly award, the George Polk Award, the Overseas Press Club award, the Online News Association award and the American Society of Newspaper Editors award.
Kristof and WuDunn are also the authors of "China Wakes: The Struggle for the Soul of a Rising Power," "Thunder from the East: Portrait of a Rising Asia," and "Half the Sky: From Oppression to Opportunity for Women Worldwide."
He has even kept up with the rapid expansion of multimedia. He was the first blogger on the New York Times' website, has a Facebook fan page, a YouTube channel, and also twitters.
Kristof personifies the true meaning of journalism.
He is a driving force for change. He is a beacon of hope.
He is my inspiration.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A Bad Habit
The Habit Burger Grill is located at 7400 Laguna Blvd. in Elk Grove, Calif. Nestled between a FedEx Kinko’s and an apartment complex, blink and you just might miss it.
On second thought, go ahead and blink. You’re better off never setting foot into this so-called “burger joint.”
Unless of course you fancy dining in a poorly decorated establishment that plays horrible music from the 80s and paying upwards of $8 for a mediocre, at best, meal.
My first experience at The Habit was about a year ago, when they first opened for business; a sad day for burger-lovers everywhere.
It was disastrous to say the least but what can I say, I believe in second chances.
I arrived at The Habit a little after 12:30 p.m. and was surprised to see absolutely no one in line. There were however, a few patrons scattered around the restaurant.
I walked up to the counter and glanced at the menu, a mere wooden board dangling high above my head.
My first experience at The Habit had taught me to avoid their signature “Charburger” at all cost so I opted for a grilled pastrami sandwich instead.
The employee who took my order greeted me with a smile but must have been hard of hearing because I was forced to repeat my order three times before he actually understood what I was asking for.
He then proceeded to tell me my total, “That will be $8.06.”
As I reached for my wallet, I thought, eight bucks for a sandwich and a coke? This better be worth it!
My fellow classmates and I sat down and patiently waited for our numbers to be called.
I was the first to order but the numbers were being called out of sequence. I thought there was a first come, first served protocol at burger joints but apparently The Habit has a different approach.
I walked back to the pick-up counter after my number was yelled over the intercom. As I carried my tray back I couldn’t help but notice the puddle of grease forming around my sandwich.
The sandwich was served on a sweet roll and consisted of Swiss cheese, lettuce, tomato, caramelized onions, teriyaki sauce, and of course, pastrami. It was also paired with a sliver of cantaloupe on a piece of romaine lettuce.
I took a bite and almost immediately spat it back out.
The sandwich was so hot that I burnt my tongue on the first bite. I thought, and we’re off to a great start!
The pastrami itself however, was grilled rather nicely apart from the occasional chunks of fat I was reluctant to come across.
Calling the sandwich messy is an understatement. There was a mixture of tomato run-off and teriyaki sauce leaking from every corner. I went through so many napkins that I’m sure I killed a tree or two.
For the record, whoever thought teriyaki sauce would pair well in a pastrami sandwich must have been off their rocker.
Midway I decided if I carried on with the sandwich I would surely be spending the night praying to the porcelain Gods.
I then turned my focus to the cantaloupe. I could only assume that its sole purpose was to wash the flavor of fat out of my mouth.
But there was no way I was going to try fruit that looked as though it had been sitting in the fridge for weeks.
And the romaine lettuce which was black around the edges was just a pathetic attempt at improving the overall presentation of the meal.
The only thing pleasant about The Habit was the conversation taking place at the table and that my Mr. Pibb didn’t taste like watered down Coke. A welcome surprise nonetheless.
As I threw the remaining half of my meal in the trash, a familiar phrase echoed in my mind; history always repeats itself.
Alas, yet another lesson learned.
On second thought, go ahead and blink. You’re better off never setting foot into this so-called “burger joint.”
Unless of course you fancy dining in a poorly decorated establishment that plays horrible music from the 80s and paying upwards of $8 for a mediocre, at best, meal.
My first experience at The Habit was about a year ago, when they first opened for business; a sad day for burger-lovers everywhere.
It was disastrous to say the least but what can I say, I believe in second chances.
I arrived at The Habit a little after 12:30 p.m. and was surprised to see absolutely no one in line. There were however, a few patrons scattered around the restaurant.
I walked up to the counter and glanced at the menu, a mere wooden board dangling high above my head.
My first experience at The Habit had taught me to avoid their signature “Charburger” at all cost so I opted for a grilled pastrami sandwich instead.
The employee who took my order greeted me with a smile but must have been hard of hearing because I was forced to repeat my order three times before he actually understood what I was asking for.
He then proceeded to tell me my total, “That will be $8.06.”
As I reached for my wallet, I thought, eight bucks for a sandwich and a coke? This better be worth it!
My fellow classmates and I sat down and patiently waited for our numbers to be called.
I was the first to order but the numbers were being called out of sequence. I thought there was a first come, first served protocol at burger joints but apparently The Habit has a different approach.
I walked back to the pick-up counter after my number was yelled over the intercom. As I carried my tray back I couldn’t help but notice the puddle of grease forming around my sandwich.
The sandwich was served on a sweet roll and consisted of Swiss cheese, lettuce, tomato, caramelized onions, teriyaki sauce, and of course, pastrami. It was also paired with a sliver of cantaloupe on a piece of romaine lettuce.
I took a bite and almost immediately spat it back out.
The sandwich was so hot that I burnt my tongue on the first bite. I thought, and we’re off to a great start!
The pastrami itself however, was grilled rather nicely apart from the occasional chunks of fat I was reluctant to come across.
Calling the sandwich messy is an understatement. There was a mixture of tomato run-off and teriyaki sauce leaking from every corner. I went through so many napkins that I’m sure I killed a tree or two.
For the record, whoever thought teriyaki sauce would pair well in a pastrami sandwich must have been off their rocker.
Midway I decided if I carried on with the sandwich I would surely be spending the night praying to the porcelain Gods.
I then turned my focus to the cantaloupe. I could only assume that its sole purpose was to wash the flavor of fat out of my mouth.
But there was no way I was going to try fruit that looked as though it had been sitting in the fridge for weeks.
And the romaine lettuce which was black around the edges was just a pathetic attempt at improving the overall presentation of the meal.
The only thing pleasant about The Habit was the conversation taking place at the table and that my Mr. Pibb didn’t taste like watered down Coke. A welcome surprise nonetheless.
As I threw the remaining half of my meal in the trash, a familiar phrase echoed in my mind; history always repeats itself.
Alas, yet another lesson learned.
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