Every so often I get "homesick" even though I'm sitting in my sun-room here in Atlanta where I've lived since 1987. I consider myself a bit mixed up in terms of where my "home" is, becauseI think it will always be in Honolulu, Hawaii. I'm getting ready to board a plane for Hawaii in a few days to take my family back to visit my elderly father. I'm thankful he has preserved himself well by walking and staying active over all these years; it gives me a really good reason to share my heritage with my children and to help them know the culture and family that has helped form me. I'll be really sad one day when I won't have the joy of seeing his happy face upon our arrival; when I won't have him there to give a sweet goodnight kiss to; when I won't be able to share in our mutual love of all the local foods available to us in this very cosmopolitan island as he describes what he's eating for lunch or dinner.
And though I am eager to see all of my family, including my brother, sister, and their families, I anticipate the goodbye, and my heart breaks, and the salty tears cannot stop because each and every time I return "home," I know I'll have to say farewell, not knowing when I will be able to return. This is the hardest, most bitter-sweet part of going home.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Cafe Istanbul
The reason I don't like going to Cafe Istanbul on Lawrenceville Hwy in Decatur is simple: I like restaurants that have ambiance, where the decor, the feel, the lighting, and the seating lead to a relaxing and peaceful feeling. This place is completely the opposite of what I look for in a restaurant. It's located on a busy highway here in Atlanta, with parking that's not always easily accessible. Moreover, when we walked into the restaurant last night at 7:30 p.m, it was still light outside but cavernous and oppressive inside. You can't see anything much except the open rooms with pillows lining the wall and tables positioned every few feet along in front the pillows. Persian carpets covered most of the floor, and there were a few small groups huddled over their hookah pipes, puffing away while lounging on their backs. The varied assortment and sizes of pillows bothered me; how long had it been since they had been thoroughly washed and cleaned? How long, for that matter, had the floors been cleaned, and were the tables we leaned our elbows on in fact cleared of all ground in food and residual ashes? I had my nice Falconnable white shorts on... was I going to have a big fat round spot on my bottom after smooshing myself onto the embroidered pillows?
As for the food, we could neither read the menu nor understand the items. With a little guidance, we ordered an array of foods from shish kebab to mezza plates to lamb stew to pizza. The margarita was irritatingly sweet and large, a sure message that there wasn't much alcohol in it. And that was a bit depressing, considering that we were going to pay for the 12 people we brought with us! When the food was brought out, we were relieved as the adults in the party were slowly sinking into the several pillows we had positioned to prop us up while we sat Indian style or knees to our chests; gravity was at work, and arthritis was setting in. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get out of the position and I knew others weren't very comfortable, either.
The belly dancer was a big hit with the kids and the men in the party. Nostalgia set in as I thought to the days of living in Hawaii and enjoying the Tahitian dancers at hula shows. The little tambourines on her hands were fun, but our conversation was soon overwhelmed by the loud music and our attention diverted with the barely clad belly dancer. How is it, my husband asked, that some Muslims wear berkahs while others fully accept these belly dancers? Hard to understand!
Finally, our dinners came out, but the various meats were really difficult to identify. My mixed grill consisted of a longer dark tubular meat, a round disc like meat, a cube lighter colored meat, and thinner sliced square pieces of meat on rice with potato salad, red cabbage, and shredded carrots. It all tasted pretty good, but it was definitely a bit dry and one type of meat from the other was definitely not identifiable.
With our ears ringing as we walked out of the restaurant, I was reminded that it's not so bad to go to restaurant like this if nothing more than to be able to appreciate the ones that I typically look for in my search for a great restaurant. It will be a long time before I go back, and I hope by then, they'll have given everything a good scrub down.
As for the food, we could neither read the menu nor understand the items. With a little guidance, we ordered an array of foods from shish kebab to mezza plates to lamb stew to pizza. The margarita was irritatingly sweet and large, a sure message that there wasn't much alcohol in it. And that was a bit depressing, considering that we were going to pay for the 12 people we brought with us! When the food was brought out, we were relieved as the adults in the party were slowly sinking into the several pillows we had positioned to prop us up while we sat Indian style or knees to our chests; gravity was at work, and arthritis was setting in. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get out of the position and I knew others weren't very comfortable, either.
The belly dancer was a big hit with the kids and the men in the party. Nostalgia set in as I thought to the days of living in Hawaii and enjoying the Tahitian dancers at hula shows. The little tambourines on her hands were fun, but our conversation was soon overwhelmed by the loud music and our attention diverted with the barely clad belly dancer. How is it, my husband asked, that some Muslims wear berkahs while others fully accept these belly dancers? Hard to understand!
Finally, our dinners came out, but the various meats were really difficult to identify. My mixed grill consisted of a longer dark tubular meat, a round disc like meat, a cube lighter colored meat, and thinner sliced square pieces of meat on rice with potato salad, red cabbage, and shredded carrots. It all tasted pretty good, but it was definitely a bit dry and one type of meat from the other was definitely not identifiable.
With our ears ringing as we walked out of the restaurant, I was reminded that it's not so bad to go to restaurant like this if nothing more than to be able to appreciate the ones that I typically look for in my search for a great restaurant. It will be a long time before I go back, and I hope by then, they'll have given everything a good scrub down.
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