And When You're Holding Me, We Make A Pair Of Parentheses, There's Plenty Space To Encase, Whatever Weird Way My Mind Goes

--"Parentheses", The Blow

I was watching How I Met Your Mother tonight like I do every Monday night. The aspect of the show--aside from NPH, of course (he rocks)--is the fact that so many of the plot lines remind me of silly stunts I've tried or wacky conversations I've held. For instance, tonight's episode revolved around the epic quest to find Marshall's "Perfect" Burger. This wasn't just any ordinary burger, it was the burger that he had his first week in New York when he was still unsure about his decision to move there. This was the burger that reassured him that there were good experiences to be had in the city. This was the burger that sold him on the concept that there were people, places, and, yes, foods that couldn't be had back in Minnesota, where he originated.

The way he described the burger was a food critic's sonnet, an ode to the confluence of perfect ingredients and perfect preparation. I'm always taken in by good reviews of food. By the end of Marshall's description I wanted a taste of that burger. Indeed, there are many days here where I'll get the sudden urge to go find the best pizza in the L.A. area (Petrillo's in Rosemead). Or find the best breakfast place in the South Bay (Uncle Bill's Pancake House). And, yes, there even has been one day when I went looking for the lone Sonic Burger in Los Angeles County (off of the 91 East, exit Lemon).

However, the quest seemingly I've been on all my life is for the place where the serve what I call "The Holy Grail of Milkshakes."


now and then you can bend,
it's okay to lean over my way

I'm sure I've told the story before here--how I went to D.C. in sixth grade with my school, how on one of those days we visited Thomas Jefferson's estate and were then let loose in pairs into the nearby town, and how there I found a tiny drugstore with fountain shop in the back which served the absolute best vanilla milkshake I've ever had. We're talking thirty minutes to make, ice cream handmade in the back, milk measured out precisely, and a closely guarded technique to blend the actual shake. I am not lying when I say I told everyone on that bus about that milkshake when it was time to go... and I've been telling everyone who knows me about that place. It isn't just the end-all be-all of milkshakes; it's about the only perfect food I've ever had. Sure, I've had a lot of best this or that in this or that city, but I've never had anything else I could call perfect.

In the show, unlike a lot of people, Marshall's wife and friends don't mock him for obsessiveness. In fact, they honor his fastidiousness by always agreeing to accompany on his wild goose chases. That's like my friends. I remember in high school how I would take Dan and Peter to this pharmacy or that restaurant because I got a tip that they had good milkshakes there. Later, as I was able to visit more cities, I always hunted down wherever the locals or where the local newspaper said the best ice cream or milkshakes could be had. I found some decent places. J.P. Lick's in Boston has amazingly awesome ice cream, for one. But, alas and alack, I've never found another thirty-minute milkshake in any other city. Nowhere comes close.

Now, sixth grade, I was--what--eleven. That means it's been nineteen years I've been searching for a shake I had only the one time. Yet in my mind I can still distinctly remember the whole experience. I can reminisce about each and every flavor. I can recall every sweet drop of heavenly goodness. Time hasn't chipped away at the opulence, the decadence, the savory, sublime glass of goodness that was that milkshake.

However, what's even more astounding for me is that I'll have put it out of my mind for a few months or even a few years. Then one afternoon I'll get a call out of the blue from one of my friends telling me that they happened upon the quaintest little malt shop/pharmacy/ice cream parlor. Not only do they humor me in my idiosyncrasies, but they indulge me in my belief that I haven't built up the memory in my head, that every last detail I possess regarding the experience is unexaggerated.

Sometime I don't know which I cherish more, the experience itself or the idea that experience meant so much to me that others are willing to assist me in my impossible task of reliving that experience.

It's a crazy pipe dream to think that I'll put lips to that particular glass again.

What's even crazier is the fact I have so many dear people doing their best to see that dream come true.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers