Where does the good go

My weekends with Petitedov and the Donut Stealer

It started quite innocently.
Petitedov was in town, it was her birthday season, so I figured we would do brunch. Since I live in New York and have a car, my only specification was that we be able to get pancakes.
Brunch, pancakes, easy enough, right? WRONG! Keep up! Would I be blogging about it if it were easy? Sheesh, it’s like you don’t even KNOW me. I think I’m going to cry. Um…where was I before you guys hurt my feelings and made me cry? Oh, right. Pancakes.
Petitedov consults our good friend google and he informs her that the City Bakery on the lower east side was where we should go for brunch and pancakes. My evil nemesis, the donut stealing Peter, said “nein, we should eat at das diner near my house.”
Now, between my friend google and my German speaking nemesis Peter, the choice was obvious, nes pas? (Oh my gosh, I swear I have no idea where that came from! Not only don’t I know what nes pas means, I’m not even sure what language it is. Though…I felt weak and a little smelly typing it, so I’m guessing…French? No offense, none taken. This is bad news. It means my other personalities are studying foreign languages. I figure they’re gearing up to take over, dye our hair and move to Paris. If I turn up missing you guys tell the authorities to look for a blond French speaking black woman! And to bring Xanax.)
So I choose Petitedov’s brunch spot (yes, this was a post about brunch, not international kidnapping and mental illness. Focus, people, FOE-CUSS!) I get there and there’s parking out front and NO line! That petitedov is a magical GENIUS I tell ya!
I peek in and look at the people eating. All the tables are full and no one appears in any kind of hurry to leave.
I check out the menu, and while they do have pancakes, they only have blueberry and walnut varieties.
Most unacceptable.
Fruit belongs with fruit. Not in pancakes! Unless that fruit is banana, then it only belongs subtly mashed up in my pancakes.
Dawn law.
I walk in and the lady informs me that contrary to my eyes’ detection of no line, there is, in fact, a two hour wait for a table for three.
“Do you want to put your name down”?
“Sure. Dawn.”
“Ok, got it. Come back and let us know if you decide not to wait.”
Uh huh. On it. Will come running. With bells and whatnot.
I wait outside for the happy couple to arrive and I update them on the situation when they arrive. (Is it disturbing that I chose update in that sentence because I wasn’t sure if apprise was the right word…though, now that I think it through, it clearly is the right word, since appraise involves property values. Where’s Grammar Queen? Have not heard from her since Wygant’s birth. This is either a coincidence or that boy is going to be extremely well versed. And a little prissy.)
They both agree that we should neither wait, nor take our names off the list.
We walk a half block to another restaurant boasting a brunch menu.
No pancakes.
On to the next place a few hundred yards away.
Again, no pancakes.
We cross the street to a restaurant simply called: Restaurant. Surely…SURELY…a place this generic would definitely have…um…nope:
The joint across the street from that place had whole wheat pancakes, but dude, what the hell would that even BE? We’ll call that NO PANCAKES too.
I started to think that perhaps Mayor Bloomberg had passed some ordinance of some kind outlawing pancakes. It was THE ONLY explanation.
Frankly, I don’t even know how you can be allowed to advertise that you serve brunch if PANCAKES aren’t on your menu. Look up the damn word brunch! Right after the phrase “a mashup of breakfast and lunch” will be a clause that reads “where you can eat pancakes”! Frack!
Finally, I’m like well, let’s drive to some other neighborhood. As we walk back to the car, we find a place called the Fat Hippo.
Hey now! You know what fat hippos eat? Well, if the loser brats in my third grade class are to be believed, then they eat candy, cupcakes, key lime pie AND PANCAKES!
Indeed, the menu had pancakes on there. However, they were of the blueberry and chocolate chip varieties.
Meh. I could make it work.
The place was empty.
The walls were white and the tables were made of that industrial silver material that adorn lofts in trendy downtown clubs. Did I mention the place was empty?
We checked out the menu, every entree cost 12.95 and according to the menu came with either a juice or a coffee. We could tell that in better economic times this meal came with juice AND coffee, but that had been whited out and replaced with the lesser “or” connector.
It took the waitress a good twenty minutes to come by even for me just to ask if they can do plain pancakes.
Thirty minutes after THAT she actually took my order for same.
At that point I was so going to order the HELL out of that free juice. Like I was going to order some fresh squeezed unicorn blood juice from the jungles of the lost city of Atlantis! Keep Dawn Summers waiting? Hmm. I’LL SHOW YOU!
So, we wait and wait and wait. I started to joke that maybe Bloomberg HAD banned pancakes, and so the staff at the Fat Hippo have to get their supply from an underground pancake railroad that shuttles in pancakes from the IHOPs in Jersey.
Finally, a week and a half later, waitress finally brings our order. Here is what my pancakes looked like:
And yes, they were just about as tasty as a homeless man’s foot. Why oh why didn’t they just truck them in from a Jersey IHOP?!?! The experience inspired my latest million dollar idea: an anti zagat’s. A handy easy to read collection of the places you should never step foot into for a meal. I would call it “Don’t eat that!” (Like Zagat…Donteatthat…it rhymes! Shut up!) I also explained to P&P that while I’m not bold enough to flatly refuse to pay the bill for a bad meal (or reckless enough to send it back and wait another nine days for a saliva infused replacement plate), my deeply ingrained need for justice requires that the offending establishment suffer retribution at my hand.
For instance, the Fat Hippo thinks they have a complete set of silver creamer holder thingies. Suckahs: pancakepunish
Peter then suggested the rating system in “Donteatthat” should be little icons of the thing I stole to punish the restaurant. The worse the meal, the bigger the trinket. I’m guessing next to Denny’s would be a picture of a stool or a table.
Seriously, people NEVER eat at Denny’s EVER. ESPECIALLY not on your birthday! Come on!
Anyway, we had a lovely time. We washed away the disgusting “food” with delicious cupcakes at Butter Sunshine Happy Cupcake place (I can never get the name right…ever. But those are the general words involved.) Peter interviews me for his project, he determines that I am a racist, deletes all mention of my awesome Liberace sneakers AND his teacher marks up the transcript of our talk with a red pen and demands proof that I am a real person. Which, you know, what the hell?! I wasn’t even lapsing into French phrases back then!
Well, this Saturday the three of us met up again. (Oh…hmm…this post is so long already, you probably thought I was nearing the end, huh? Yeah…no…we’re like at the middle and that’s barring anymore psychotic tangential rants. So, maybe this will be a good time for a pee break. Or a snack. It’s okay. I’ll wait.)
Taps foot.
Files nails.
Are you back?
SO P&P meet me at Casa de Dawn and we set off for Difara’s at 5:30 pm on Saturday. Difara’s is so full of his own hype now, that the store is closed like every other day. It opens at bizarre hours like 1:22 pm – 3:37 pm and then reopens at 6:05 for thirty-nine minutes. Blargh. After a failed trip there on a Tuesday with the G-train, I decided to take a photo of the damn hours.
DiFara's is closed Mondays AND Tuesdays now...well played, ol... on Twitpic
So I figured leaving at 5:30 pm would put us at the front of the line come 6 pm. Not first mind you, that’s crazytalk. But…front…ish.
We get there and there’s a handwritten sign hanging on the door: BE BACK AT 7
What. The. Fuck????????????????????
Petitedov smartly also reasoned that if we left and came back at 7, the people who crazily had some notion that he was going to reopen at 6, would already be in line and the wait would be trebled. Of course, my deeply ingrained sense of justice would not allow me to reward his ridiculous time changing by waiting there for an extra hour. Plus, I had the overwhelming desire to steal the sign. But I woulda had to get out of my car.
As I had with F-train, my fallback posture was just to go to Artichoke. But NOOOO Artichoke was fracking OUT OF PIZZA. What the hell?? And then it hit me. An inability to find pancakes…NOW epic Pizza failure. It could NOT be a coincidence. The universe was apparently punishing Petitedov AND Peter by denying them deliciousness and I was just getting caught in the middle.
I had to get to the bottom of this. Was it that Peter described the traffic delay they encountered on the way to Brooklyn as caused by a “van full of cocks.” And then looked my horrified face and goes “what? That’s PG isn’t it?”
No, dude. NO. Hannah Montana is not rocking out on stage talmabout “vans full of cocks”! No, Sir.
And then petitedov called something gay, and I corrected her and said “um, cheerleader.” And she rolls her eyes and says whatever.
A-ha! She is heterosexist! (No, I’m not she protests. I’m dating a man!)
AND supports rounding up immigrants in Arizona!
It all fell into place. Peter’s hatred of my Liberace sneakers (he was gay.) Petitedov’s hatred of Clay Aiken’s music (gay) Even her letting everyone mispronounce her name for years and years cause her real name means “Funny gay guy”! True story!
So, we ended up getting crap L&B pizza, which may or may not have been ice cold after we drove back to my place and I realized I had locked myself out and we had to go to my mom’s house to pick up my spare set.
We all voted that it would be Peter who went upstairs.
Later that night, I drove KJ home and stopped at my mom’s to have him return the keys to her. Part of me laughed at the notion that my mom might not have noticed that they weren’t the same guy.
I mean it is hard to tell them apart. Except that Peter is all heterosexist and steals donuts.
Oh, but the moral of the story? Don’t try to get delicious foodstuffs with Petitedov and Peter. The universe will not allow it!

32 Responses to “My weekends with Petitedov and the Donut Stealer”

  1. Katie Says:

    your posts always crack me up. this one was epic! :)

  2. Dawn Summers Says:


  3. Petitedov Says:

    You still owe me delicious pizza. I owe you delicious pancakes. Fuck the universe. And yes my Hebrew name means “little birdie” aka a common expression for a gay man. And yes my real name means hilarious. My parents had no working understanding of English or Hebrew when they named me. The Universe is a cruel joke.

    I’ll help your round of all Poles in Arizona. Promise. Also, I totally love/hate gays as much as straights. See I care about the person’s character not who they sleep with. Stop spreading lies about me.

    This as always was hilarious. It was like I was there the whole time and laughed at your jokes and now there here for posterity.

    I’m glad you returned the keys to your mom. Phew.

    “Van full of cocks” is the new “cheerleader” – chickens are assholes.

  4. F-Train Says:

    Your grip on sanity, precarious at the best of times, seems to be down to a fingernail.

  5. Dawn Summers Says:

    In an insane world, the insane woman is queen. And you shouldnt be attacking me, it’s petitedov that hates gay people.

  6. Tae Says:

  7. Dawn Summers Says:


  8. Jack Says:

    You can post about this experience at It’s an NYC negative review site.

  9. Angela Says:

    This is the best post ever on Clareified.

    And by the way, I think it’s you because I’m always able to achieve delicious foodstuffs when out with P&P.

  10. Ugarles Says:

    I really am tempted to comment this dude is soooooooooo gay. But I wouldn’t want it to sound like a complaint.

  11. Tae Says:

    I have to disagree with Angela. The pigeon story is still my favorite (March, 2006).

  12. Dawn Summers Says:

    Oooh, I like this game! My favorite post is…um…oh man, they’re ALL just so wonderful, I can’t choose.

  13. Dawn Summers Says:

    Probably the one where I set my mind up to do something crazy and then it goes wrong, but I don’t ask for help.

  14. Pearatty Says:

    The Thanksgiving post of a few years ago.

  15. Angela Says:

    Okay, I should clarify (yes, clarify on Clareified) that this is the best story that I have read here.

    There are some things you should know:
    #1 When I see a post this long I usually don’t read it because it’s usually about poker. But since this was about the adventures of Dawn & Pdov I read it all.

    #2 I probably didn’t read the pigeon post because I think March 2006 was the time period that I wasn’t really reading blogs anymore. (I know, horrible). Give me a link to it and I’ll read it and tell you if I change my mind about best Clariefied post ever.

  16. Angela Says:

    p.s. Those pancakes look damn nasty. For the best pancakes in the history of pancakes, and especially since you are down the Jersey shore a lot in AC and whatnot, you MUST go to Uncle Bill’s Pancake House. They have a bunch of locations.

  17. Dawn Summers Says:

    Alceste takes us to a pancake house in Jersey City that’s pretty dang amazeballs.

  18. Dawn Summers Says:

    I think this is the post Tae was talking about:


  19. Tae Says:

    Angela, you need to learn to love poker. We can help you with that.

  20. Angela Says:

    Perhaps I could learn to love poker, and am willing to try. But the real question is whether or not I could ever learn to love Dawn’s rambly stories about poker.

    I don’t think that there’s an Uncle Bill’s in Jersey City so it’s probably a different place. But I can certify that Uncle Bill’s is “amazeballs.”

    Thanks for the pigeon link—reading it now.

  21. Angela Says:

    Just read the pigeon story–it a good one, but I don’t think it’s the funniest ever or anything because I would have been freaked the heck out by the damn owl too. That’s not funny!

  22. Dawn Summers Says:

    I resent that! My posts are not RAMBLY! My posts are DESCRIPTIVE and…ooh, cupcakes are delicious.

  23. Tae Says:

    Angela, you didn’t say “funniest.” You said “best.”

    And you’re right. She’s a little rambly.

  24. Angela Says:

    Good point Tae. So that could be one of the best posts, but still, scary owl!!

  25. Alceste Says:

    the brownstone pancakes in jc are indeed delicious (better than my mother’s) — I hear clinton st bakery pancakes are pretty good too (although secret ingredient is sour cream instead of whatever is in the brownstone pancakes), if you’re willing to wait 2 hours…

  26. Alceste Says:

    and the rambly poker posts (now on IHO) are some of the best (although that may be colored by having read many other poker blogs that, while perhaps of more educational value, are downright dreary and boring to read)

  27. Dawn Summers Says:

    Awww, do you all see why Alceste is my favorite? Do you? Do you? Rambly?! Hmph. *folds arms* *takes toys and goes home*

  28. Tae Says:

    I can’t ever invite Dawn over. I have owl art all over the place. I love owls.

  29. Jamie Weinstein Says:

    Alceste takes us to a pancake house in Jersey City that’s pretty dang amazeballs.

    Amazeballs? I need a judges ruling on this….

  30. pn Says:

    ok so this post was hilarious but that does not take away the fact that both you and petitedov are officially retarded. peter was right you should have gone to the diner near his house. city bakery is horribly overpriced and has been on like eight SATC episodes.

  31. Dawn Summers Says:

    haha I came up with that analysis on my own…however, we shouldn’t say things like “Peter was right” — you know how out of control his ego already is! That guy is a power hungry ogre!

  32. Consi Says:

    Thanksgiving post reigns supreme.

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