Today's pic continues tracing the sordid career of Morcky Boy. This one's on Nieuwe Nieuwestraat, which is really just a little alley, so the vandalism quotient is low. Not sure I understand what's going on here. I'm guessing that the "I got speakers the size of y'r girl" was painted over Morcky Boy's original design by a competitor. I wish I'd seen this one sooner because it looks like Morcky Boy did nearly the entire side of that alley but was in part painted over. Well, those who live by the spray can......

Here's the other end of that alley, with Morcky Boy's speakers still showing at top.

Did you ever hunt down a restaurant because of it's name?

No, I don't mean going back to one you've been to before or even going to a different branch of a franchise you know. (For example, the next time I'm extradited to Texas, I know very well that my first act upon leaving DFW in my rental car will be to descend upon the first Whataburger I spot.)

No, not that. I mean did you ever read an ad for a place that tells you virtually nothing, but you still feel a compulsion to go to it for the name alone, knowing full well that unless the place looks incredibly nasty you're gonna have their specialty.

Well, I hadn't either, before now. I'm looking at a full page ad that has hardly any text but rather is basically just a vehicle to carry the address (about fifty meters from the Internet Cafe) and the outrageously punning name: Al's Plaice. I'm assuming it's a British fish and chips establishment. I'm hooked. It's just a matter of time until they reel me in.

Today I go again to the Marokkaanse shop and sure enough, I get that eggplant-tomato dish that the assistant was pushing last time. Well, it's tasty, but nothing compared to the stuff they give me when I ask for baba ganoush, which their label calls "aubergine salade". I also pick up more of that incredible Turkish yogurt, but this time in a fit of attempted virtue I get the 3.5% fat version. I mean, surely I can get by on a product with three and a half times the fat content of the yogurt I eat with enjoyment in San Francisco. I also get that Turkish yogurt drink and a few more goodies.

Back to my oars on Cyrus' script. The subject matter is so heavy, man's inhumanity to man and all that, that it is an effort to focus entirely on language. Progress is slow.

At suppertime, Rina's old friend Dore joins us. It's basically the same dinner I cooked for Cora and Johnny except that this time Rina cooks the spinach, the chili and beans are defrosted leftovers, and the cornbread turns out better. Oh, and instead of that rich Charlotte, Rina serves fresh strawberries with a scoop of sherbet.

Rina does not have one of the old black cast iron skillets that, like my mother and grandmothers, I use at home for cornbread. Last time I tried this teflon-lined square cake pan, and the cornbread stuck. This time I use with surprising success this floppy blue silicon thing that I've seen in Sur la Table in the Ferry Building when Sybil has dragged me in there. Yes, dragged. I don't want to see all that tempting batterie de cuisine, but Sybil is astonishingly strong for her size.

Dore, like all of Rina's friends, is a delight although she is upstaged tonight. The most memorable moment of the evening occurs during the interlude before dessert, when the 19-year-old cat shits on the table. I just knew in my squeamish American heart that there was a reason we didn't allow pets on the dinner table.

And what does it say about ability to go native that, after a decent interlude, I am able to eat dessert?.

Well, I did demand a place mat.