Hovering somewhere between “A-Hole” and “F-Bomb” lies the Two-Headed Blog:

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I guess the sad part about this is that my posts are actually pretty heavily edited. You should hear me after a couple of drinks, when someone brings up a subject that pisses me off. Yikes.

(via Dustbury)

As I mentioned in my last post, Dwight, Cookieboots and I went to Queen of Sheba for dinner Friday night. I’d been wanting to check out this place for some time, and was psyched to finally have the chance. Queen of Sheba, Oklahoma City’s only Ethiopian restaurant, is located at 2308 N. Macarthur. (OKC Bites already beat me to a review – you can read theirs here.) But, I’d very much like to add my comments to the mix.

The restaurant was already about half-full when we rolled in sometime after 7:00. A jazz band, Mitch’s Brew, were getting set up and ready to play. We grabbed a booth near the back and waited for menus.

The service at Queen of Sheba is what I would call “European.” Others might just call it “slow.” It’s definitely not the place you want to go if you expect to get in and get out in thirty minutes or less. However, while leisurely, the service was friendly and helpful, and I personally prefer the slower pace – it gives you time to watch the band and linger over conversation. If there’s one thing I despise in a restaurant, it’s the feeling of being rushed.

We each ordered a glass of tej, or honey wine – I thought it was okay, but Dwight and Cookieboots didn’t particularly care for it. It kind of burned going down, but there was a mellow, honey-like aftertaste that smoothed things out a bit. I’m glad I tried it, but I probably wouldn’t order it again, either.

We also ordered a vegetarian appetizer – I can’t remember what it was called, but it consisted of lentils and spices stuffed inside a perfectly-fried shell, sort of like an Ethiopian Hot Pocket. It was incredible, and writing about it makes my stomach growl.

To my stomach: “Shut up!”

Ethiopian food is very vegetarian-friendly (although there’s also plenty of meat for the carnivores). For our main course, we ordered the vegetarian sampler, which cost a little over $10 per person. It was brought out on a large, round tray lined with injera (Ethiopian flatbread). Atop the injera lay several vegetarian entrees – a thick, spicy lentil stew, some boiled potatoes, collard greens, corn, and green beans with sweet potatoes. In the center was a small salad, providing a cool counterpart to some of the spicier dishes. Our platter was served with an extra plate of rolled-up pieces of injera.

The deal with Ethiopian food is that you eat with your hands. The trick is to tear off a piece of injera, and use it to pick up whatever you want. It wasn’t as difficult as it might seem, and we had fun making a mess. We decided that this was more of a long-term relationship kind of place – you might not want to come here on a first date with someone you’re trying to impress. It’s gonna get ugly.

The three of us pretty much agreed that the spicy lentil stew was the best, followed by the green beans and collard greens. We were disappointed by the salad portion, which seemed like little more than an Olive Garden salad minus the croutons and pepporcinis.

I’m still rather iffy on the injera, to be honest. The taste was okay, a little sour and vinegary perhaps, but the texture really freaked me out. It was weirdly spongy and unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. One side sort of resembled a loofah sponge, the other side was smoother. It just really unnerved me for some reason, although Dwight loved it.

Cookieboots remarked that this was perhaps the least Western meal she’d ever had. I think I’m inclined to agree with her.

The next day, I was still puzzling over the injera, and how on earth one achieves that texture in a flatbread, so I looked it up. I learned that injera is unique to Ethiopia, and is made with teff, one of the smallest grains in the world. The preparation of injera is somewhat unusual. In case you’re interested:

Injera preparation usually takes two to three days, the teff is milled into powder then mixed in water along yeast and small quantity of flowers. This mix is set aside at room temperature for 2 days so it ferments and raises. During the second day it starts to give tangy aromas as the fermentation releases air bubbles; this is where the Injera’s slight tangy taste comes from.

After the fermentation process is finished the mix is cooked on hot flat iron pan called ‘Mitad’. A circular motion is used to achieve thin consistency. When the hot pan and the fermented teff mix/batter contact thousands of tiny air bubbles escape, creating thousands of tiny craters/eyes – creating the familiar look of Injera.

The side touching the hot mitad pan gets its flat look, while the one facing away towards the air has the a porous structure with thousands of mini craters. This pour us [sic] structure allows the injera to be a good bread to scoop up sauces and dishes.

I also learned from this website that the reason Ethiopian food is so vegetarian-friendly is because their religion prescribes a certain number of fasting periods, in which you’re not supposed to eat meat.

I’ll definitely be back to Queen of Sheba – I had a great time. The food was interesting and good, the live jazz was highly enjoyable, and the dinner conversation was excellent (big thanks to my dining companions). I’ll give the injera another shot. Hell, I didn’t particularly care for sushi the first time I tried that, either, and I eventually ended up craving the stuff.

Last night was the most fun I’ve had in a very long time. Even though I, Princess of Melodrama, tend to proclaim, at least once a month, that this is the most fun I’ve ever had – ever – this time I really mean it. Seriously. Last night was a blast. Here’s a recap, in three acts:

Act I – OMG, It’s My BFF!

My dear friend Cookieboots was in town for the night. She lives in Little Rock, so we only get to see each other a few times a year. She’d booked a room at the ultra-swank Skirvin Hotel (more on that later). Dwight and I picked her up at the hotel about 6:30, and I was greeted by a very enthusiastic Cookieboots flinging open my car door and falling into my lap with a big hug. Now, that’s a greeting.

For some reason, she and I often lapse into middle-school BFF behavior. We even have matching Best Friends necklaces – you know, the kind that resemble a heart split down the middle? One person wears one half, and the other person wears the other half. Totally Claire’s Boutique, totally sixth grade. I love it. And I love my Cookieboots.

I’d been anxious for some time to try OKC’s only Ethiopian restaurant, Queen of Sheba. And since I was with the only two people I know who would be willing to go along for the adventure, last night was the perfect opportunity. Dinner was a delightful and interesting experience, one that deserves its own post. That post will follow, posthaste.

After dinner, Cookieboots and I decided that the best thing to do now would be to get tattoos. It made perfect sense.

Act II – Seddy and Cookieboots, Meet Hound

I already have two tattoos (a dolphin on my ankle, an auroboris on my lower back), and I’ve been contemplating a third for quite some time. I decided, a few months ago, that I want an atom tattooed on the back of my neck. It’s much more symbolic than my previous two, which I’d more or less chosen because they looked cool. The atom symbolizes my commitment to rational, scientific thought, and is also a nod to my lifelong obsession with nuclear weaponry. It’s perfect. And the back of the neck has always seemed like a very sexy spot for a tattoo.

Cookieboots wanted to get the Superman logo with an “A” inside (for her last name) instead of an “S.” And she wanted it on the inside of her forearm.

We headed over to Atomic Lotus on N.W. 23rd St. As we flipped through the portfolios on the counter, one of the gruff-looking tattoo guys asked what we were thinking about getting.

“Umm, can you do an atomic symbol?” I asked, rather timidly. (Tattoo places still intimidate me just a bit.)

Tattoo Guy pointed towards the flashing neon symbol in the front window. It was an atom. “You mean like that one?”

Oh, yeah. I guess the name of this place is Atomic Lotus. Duh. “Yeah, like that,” I replied with embarrassment.

The next few minutes were spent developing the exact image I wanted. Tattoo Guy printed the result on transfer paper, and then made a copy of my driver’s license while I filled out paperwork. Meanwhile, Cookieboots was working on her tattoo. Tattoo Guy told her that her Superman “A” wouldn’t work, because the shape of the letter “A” was the complete opposite of the shape of the cape. You wouldn’t be able to see the “A.” Her next choice was a Ninja. However, she was then told that the Ninja sticker she brought as an example would look weird if she had it done as small as she wanted. She finally decided to just get the same thing I was getting. This made me a little nervous. I’d been settled on my atom for months, and I didn’t want her to get something on impulse and then regret it the next day. She was sure she wanted to do it, though.

So, having signed our waivers and paid up, we waited for them to get our room ready. Our tattoos were being done by the same artist, whose name we learned was Hound, so we went back together. I was first. As we waited for him to get situated, Cookieboots struck up some conversation. “So your name is Hound?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“She’s Seddy. And I’m Cookieboots.”

I tried not to giggle. Compared to “Hound,” our nicknames suddenly sounded so un-badass. Not that they ever did sound particularly badass, mind you.

As I was being prepped, Hound seemed to run into a problem with my hair. “Man, I haven’t had to deal with hair like this before,” I heard him mutter. I’d piled it up on top of my head and fastened it with a clip, but apparently that wasn’t good enough. Hound grabbed some heavy-duty surgical tape and started wrapping it around my head, mummy-style. I guess all those wispy little baby hairs were getting in the way.

Hound then shaved the back of my neck, and attached the transfer of my design to my skin. After checking it out in the mirror to make sure I approved of the placement, I finally took a seat in The Chair (which resembled a dentist chair without the arm rests). Even though I’d done this before, I was still a little worried that the back of neck might hurt worse than my other two.

It didn’t. In fact, it wasn’t bad at all. Yeah, it stung, but since my design was so simple, it was all over and done with in less than five minutes. The worst part was when it came time to remove the surgical tape that had been binding my hair. Hound began to yank the tape off my hair, and it felt like half of my hair was being ripped out. Cookieboots jumped in to hold my hair down to my scalp so it would hurt less when he pulled.

Yeah, that hurt much worse than the tattoo itself. But, now I have this on the back of my neck (keep in mind that my skin’s still kind of bloody and scabby, so the colors don‘t look quite as cool as they will after I heal):

Next, we waited while The Apprentice sanitized everything and set up for Cookieboots. The whole process took awhile, and Cookieboots seemed to be getting just a little nervous, working her way through a pack of gum. We looked at the artwork adorning Hound’s wall, which consisted of miscellaneous horror artwork, stills from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and the crowning glory – a John Wayne Gacy, Jr. self-portrait.

Yikes. Hound was a Gorehound.

Finally, everything was set up and Cookieboots took The Chair. Like mine, hers was over and done with in mere moments, and she boasted that she’d had acupuncture more painful than this. What a trooper. We thanked Hound, and beelined for the front of the store, where Dwight had been waiting patiently. As we walked out to the car, we giggled about our sheer, unadulterated awesomeness. Time to head back to the Skirvin and start in on those bottles of wine we’d picked up at Byron’s Liquor Warehouse.

Act III – The Red Piano

I love the Skirvin. I love the architecture. I love the lobby, with its giant red curtains. The guest rooms, I was pleased to discover, are no less posh. Black and gold striped-curtains, flat-screen television, big soft bed with lots of pillows, a view looking out over downtown – the room was gorgeous. No generic, tacky hotel-room décor here. I was insanely jealous, and wished I could sleep in that room.

We called Room Service to check the dessert specials, and ordered the Red Piano. Named after the Skirvin’s downstairs lounge, the Red Piano was just that – a small, red grand piano fashioned out of dark chocolate, filled with berries and crème brulee. It was stunning, and I took great pleasure in chomping my way violently down the keyboard like it was an ear of corn.

We downed a couple bottles of wine, laughed over the adult movie descriptions on the Pay-Per-View channel, and congratulated ourselves on our new, kickass, matching tattoos. After a couple of hours, Cookieboots conked out on the big, soft bed, and Dwight and I gathered up our things to leave.

Yes, it was definitely the best night I’ve had in a very, very long time. You know it’s been a good night when you wake up with a neck sore from your new tattoo.

It seems all too easy to be a soulless, money-grubbing bastard in the private sector. Fuck the little guy. Fuck kindness and common decency. All that matters is the Almighty Bottom Line.

You’ve probably already heard about how Wal-Mart is suing a former employee for over $400,000 to recoup what they paid out for her medical costs. In case you haven’t, here’s the story so far – the employee was in a car accident that left her severely brain-damaged. She’s going to have to spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair, in a nursing home. On top of that, her son was killed in Iraq last year.

Debbie Shank and her husband received a million dollars in damages as the result of her accident. After paying the lawyers, they were left with $417,000. (Why lawyers take that much money is a travesty in and of itself.) That $417,000 was placed in a trust to pay for Ms. Shank’s long-term care.

Enter mustache-twirling villain, stage-right.

Due to fine print in their health care policy, Wal-Mart is suing the Shanks for that money. Apparently, Wal-Mart has the right to recoup medical expenses if an employee is awarded damages in a lawsuit.

So, fine – it’s within Wal-Mart’s rights to do this, but does a company that makes billions upon billions of dollars in profit really need this comparatively meager sum of money? Do they really? You’d think that if for no other reason than the desire for good P.R., they’d let this one go. There’s no way they can come out of this looking like anything other than total douchebags. Of all the ethically dubious things Wal-Mart has done over the years, this might be the most heinous. It reaches Dick Cheney-esque proportions of evil.

I very much want to urge each and every one of you who reads this to boycott Wal-Mart. Since we’re stuck in such a capitalistic society, let’s do our part and take our business elsewhere. Everyone always extols the virtue of letting the free goddamn market “sort it out,” so fine – let these assholes suffer for their greed. But what’s the point? People are always going to choose convenience and low prices over principle. There won’t be a boycott. Big Business always wins. Abhorrent behavior continues to be rewarded.

I, for one, am reviving my commitment to no longer shop there. I boycotted Wal-Mart for awhile a couple of years ago, and then backslid a bit. I just can’t feel good about myself anymore for shopping there.

It’s Friday, and everyone in my office is in full-on Slack Mode. What better day for a long lunch? What better time to try that little restaurant I drive by every day and wonder about?

As you may guess from the name, Jamil’s Steakhouse isn’t exactly the most vegetarian-friendly restaurant. Never having been before, and wanting to make sure there was something there I could eat, I did a little pre-lunch research. Bizarrely, even though I found a website, I found no menu. A click on the “Cuisine” section revealed only the following:

Cuisine: Middle Eastern & North African, Steak and BBQ. There is no other place in Oklahoma City with quite as much style as this lebanese steakhouse.

Okay, then. Time for Plan B.

I called the number listed on the website, and asked if they could fax me a menu. No such luck, the man on the other end told me, they didn’t have a fax machine.

I was going to get the information I needed, even if I had to get all Jack Bauer on someone. This vegetarian will torture. Pulling out the pliers just in case, I asked Jamil Guy if they had any meatless options.

Pause.

“Well, we can get creative,” said Jamil Guy. “We have a protein plate that comes with a burger patty. We could take off the burger patty. It also comes with eggs, green beans and carrots.”

Oh, dear. This wasn’t going well at all.

Putting my ass-kicking plans on the back burner, I decided to just roll with it. I knew they had a few Middle Eastern-type appetizers, and since I wasn’t terribly hungry, I figured I could make a meal out of some hummus or tabouleh. My coworker and I headed off to Jamil’s.

We parked in back and walked down a long, tunnel-like walkway to the front door. Once inside, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Caricatures of notable Oklahomans adorned the walls. The whole vibe was retro and cozy in an old-school, supper club kind of way.

Looking over the menu, I was delighted to find a “Remington Grilled Cheese Sandwich” ($6.50). I guess one good thing about being a vegetarian is I no longer have to hem and haw forever over what to order. My choices are usually pretty limited. My coworker ordered the half-pound burger special (also $6.50). Both his burger and my sandwich came with a choice of fries, potato or tabouleh.

There seemed to be a little bit of an Oklahoma City theme to the menu – I spotted a Governor’s Burger, not to mention various items named in honor of the state representatives and senators. I would venture a guess that the fine members of our state government frequent Jamil’s.

I was pleasantly surprised by my sandwich. I was expecting a slice of American slapped between two slices of smooshed white bread. Instead, I was presented with the Mother of All Grilled Cheese Sandwiches – lots of melty Cheddar and Swiss (grated, not sliced), onions and tomatoes, all stuffed between two thick slices of toasted rye. It was pretty tasty, and apparently looked good enough to pique the curiosity of a woman at the table next to us. After eyeing my plate for some time, she finally broke down and asked me what it was. After I told her, I heard her exclaim (with some surprise) to the rest of her table, “That’s the grilled cheese sandwich!”

The tabouleh wasn’t bad, either, although my coworker took one bite and then proceeded to hand me his share. Even though I indulged in a little good-natured ribbing, I had to congratulate him on his adventurousness. This is someone who generally avoids eating anything that isn’t some form of bread or meat. (He really enjoyed his burger.)

If you’re into The Meat, Jamil’s might be a good place to check out. If not, I’d say it’s worth going once to try the grilled cheese sandwich – otherwise, I’d find someplace else.