How did your dinner with Gully go?

[Fat Guy]

By now I'm sure you've all received or read the "Take Gully to dinner" campaign pitch, which means you'll be taking Gully to dinner soon. Perhaps, as I did, you already took Gully to an early dinner tonight. Please use this topic to share accounts of your dinners with Gully (and for that purpose only). Here's what happened tonight when I took Gully to dinner:

When I arrived at Cho Dang Gol -- that's the Korean restaurant on 35th Street in Manhattan where I was to take Gully to dinner -- Gully was already seated. Well, I shouldn't say he was seated, for two reasons: first, Gully, true to his Keith Haring/Hopi Indian roots, was at all times during dinner standing -- nay, dancing; second, Gully had chosen one of those tables where you sit (or in his case stand/dance) on the floor. Who knew Koreans sat on the floor? I thought that was a Japanese thing, but no, Koreans are big-time floor-sitters. And this table was hard-core. There was no wussy well underneath for roundeyes to put their legs. This was just a table on a hardwood floor, and I was expected to sit on the floor on a pillow the size of a Korean ass.

I thought about asking Gully to switch to a different table, namely one with chairs, but I confess I was a little embarrassed. As those of you who've met me might have noticed, I struggle with a weight problem. One of my defense mechanisms is that I get very stubborn whenever anybody implies that my weight might disqualify me from accomplishing something. And, frankly, I wanted to make a good impression on Gully, as he is the only member of the eGullet Society staff who arguably outranks me.

So, I sat on the floor like it was no big deal. I didn't sit cross-legged -- that just wasn't even an option -- but I sat like I imagine they sit in a Bedouin tent or something, you know, with my legs folded under me off to one side. A side-kneel of sorts.

Gully greeted me:

"Doo Boo Doo Roo Chi Gi," he said.

"Doo Boo Dong Gu Rnag Dking," I replied.

Translated literally, this exchange means:

Gully: "Spicy pan fried kimchi, vegetables, clear noodles, rice cake & hand made tofu on hot stone plate, with or without pork."

Me: "Eight pieces of small pancake mixed with tofu, ground pork and vegetables, covered with egg."

I allowed Gully to place the order, and the food was quite wonderful. Trouble was, just as the first pan chan (an array of salady appetizer snacks) hit the table, my left leg started to fall asleep. As the numbness in my left leg progressed towards pain, I attempted to keep the conversation going with Gully (we were conversing entirely in Korean, so it required a lot of mental resources) while eating those slippery salads with chopsticks. I also had a lot of trouble figuring out how to use my napkin effectively, since I was without a lap.

Eventually, I could no longer stand the pain, so I decided to reverse my position. There were a few problems with this plan, though: first, I couldn't get the leverage to do it because I had no mobility left in my left leg; second, I wanted to accomplish this maneuver without alerting Gully to my discomfort; and third, for whatever reason I have no trouble mustering up the flexibility to side-kneel with my legs to the left, but somehow the side-kneel to the right doesn't work for me. Eventually, though, I realized that Gully (in part because he was standing/dancing) couldn't see under the table, so I sort of stuck my legs out straight under the table. It then became a race between restoring circulation in my leg and losing it in the base of my spine. But I had reached an equilibrium of sorts, shifting back and forth between the two positions every ten minutes or so for the duration of the two-hour meal.

After I paid the bill -- Korean food can get expensive if you let Gully order -- I went to stand up. This proved impossible. Unfortunately, I didn't discover the problem until I was half-way up, so I crashed to the ground unceremoniously and needed the assistance of a small army of Koreans in order to assume a standing position.

At this point, much to my surprise, Gully said, "Moo Doo Boo Ojing Oh Book Um," which, translated literally, means "Man, my legs are killing me from standing and dancing for two hours."

I replied, "Cho Dang Gol Son Doo Boo Jun Gol?" which, translated literally, means "I don't understand. Why didn't you just sit down?"

Gully stopped dancing for the first time since I had met him, stared at the floor, and admitted sheepishly, "Mo Doo Boo Nak Ji Bok Um," which, translated literally, means "Well, I walked into the restaurant and they offered me this table on the floor. Actually, all the tables are on the floor. What I mean is that they offered me one of the tables where you're expected to sit on the floor. I really had my heart set on impressing you, so I impulsively accepted the offer of the floor-sitting table. I was just realizing my mistake -- I really hate sitting on the floor because my left leg always falls asleep -- when you arrived. I was hoping you'd ask to move, but you just sat down on the floor like it was no big deal. I couldn't believe that a big white guy like you could do it so effortlessly. It wasn't until the end of the meal, when you crashed down to the floor, nearly killing me and that table of elderly Korean ladies behind us, that I realized you'd been faking it the whole time. I was also having some adequacy issues. I'm only three feet tall today (my size varies as Dave the Cook adjusts my pixels per inch) and if I'd sat on the floor my eyes would barely have come above the level of the table. At least with a chair I could have asked for a booster seat. I'm sorry. I love you."

[maggiethecat]

Steven’s right: Gully is wired.

He’s bouncier than Tigger, ten five-year olds after birthday cake and a root beer float, or my college flat mates jacked on Dexedrine during finals. He jumped like Jordan to reach my doorknocker, scattered two squawking cats and slammed his party mix CD into the player. I’m a dancing fool, and no one appreciates the retro party buzz of the B52s more than I, but Love Shack three times through was enough for this woman’s ankles. I left him to chill with the Dorothy Parker special: a triple martini, ensuring that he’d be unable to mount the Hostess. I loaded the silver bullet with a dozen olives, because experience has taught me that Gully will tongue forth the pimentos, insert the olives over his fingertips, and reenact the Agincourt scene from Henry V -- Hank Cinq always the green Bad Boy on his right index finger. Lots of folks don’t know that under that razor-thin façade Gully is a deeply cultured pack ‘o pixels.

Dinner was essentially free. A bunch of buddies had been for dinner last Saturday and left behind swag like two pounds of artisan lox. I’d overbought the heavy cream for the occasion, had stocked up on Costco butter, and never attempted Thomas Keller’s quiche from the almost virgin Bouchon that’s been hogging the space on my bookshelf. Of course, I dispensed with his paddle-mixer shortbread approach to the pate brise, and whizzed the dough about in the Cuiz. The pennies in the penny jar jumped onto the foil to act as pie weights, Gully was declaiming drunkenly about happy bands of brothers while I scalded the cream, sliced the salmon and grated the gruyere. His Falstaff is without equal, but when I called “Gueullie est servie” he glided into the dining room, poured me a glass of white plonk, fiddled with finocchio and blood orange salad, and sliced himself half a smoked salmon quiche.

It quivered, the custard flecked with pink patches of salmon. Even Gully admitted that Keller couldn’t have rolled out a more buttery, tender, crispy crust. I’d slipped Schumann’s Kindersceneninto the CD player (Horowitz, bien sur) and watched as my tanked-up, carb-cuddled buddy nodded off.

He’s upstairs in the guest room. I kissed his little blue forehead, whispered “Good night, Sweet Gully” and washed the dishes, trying to remember my Paypal password.

[SheenaGreena]

someone needs to help Gully with his Korean

[Simon_S]

Palms sweating, breath catching, stomach fluttering, it was with considerable trepidation that I walked towards the front door. The vigorous burst of knocking that had pierced the silence seconds before could mean only one thing: Gully had arrived. A modern icon, one who strikes fear into the hearts of McDonald’s proprietors the world over, one who has dined in the finest of restaurants with the finest of company, stood on the other side of my door, and any second now we would be face to face. Well, maybe not face to face. Face to shin perhaps. I flung open the door and there, pirouetting calmly on the spot with a hungry look in his eye, was Gully.

I got straight to the point. “You are most welcome, Gully, but you should know I am a man of simple means, I can but offer pizza and beer to refresh you after your arduous journey.”

The merest hint of a smile crossed his lips. Without a word he danced past me in the direction of the kitchen, inexorably drawn by some innate primeval instinct. I watched him go, marvelling at his swift movement and lightness of foot. Earlier that afternoon his PA had warned me to be careful, that Gully could out-eat and out-drink even those with the heartiest of appetites. Seeing him gyrate down the hall, many would have considered such a claim to be laughable, but I wasn't fooled. He was small certainly, but he was wiry, and he looked remarkably fresh for someone who had just travelled 3000 miles. I knew I was in for a long night.

A contented volley of burps roused me from my reverie and, smiling happily, I followed the sound. By the time I reached the kitchen, Gully was waltzing with an empty bottle on the table-top, a full bottle open beside him, and another across the table. With the slightest motion of his head, he beckoned me to join him. I sat down, lifted my beer, and heard a deep, resonant voice say “Slainte!” I stared at Gully in astonishment, but his face remained impassive as he danced. “Right back at ya, Gully” I toasted, and finished my beer in one swallow.

I won’t pretend that I remember much about the remainder of the evening. The two slices I recall eating do nothing to explain the 17 empty pizza boxes I found the next day. When Gully found the Riverdance CD I had taken such care to hide, things got really crazy. I tried to keep up, I tried to gain an advantage by passing more and more bottles to him, but it was no use. The last memory I have before passing out is of Gully, slice of pepperoni in one hand, beer in the other, dancing across the keys of my piano, his feet a blur as they tap out “Food Glorious Food” over and over again.

I awoke the next morning in my own bed, a glass of water and an alka-seltzer beside me on the locker. I gingerly negotiated the stairs and entered the kitchen. To my amazement, it was as clean as I had ever seen it. The bottles and cardboard boxes had been neatly separated for recycling, and apart from a small piece of paper stuck to the fridge, not one item was out of place. Smiling contentedly, I read the note. It said simply “Enjoy your breakfast”.

[Dave Hatfield]

Palms sweating, breath catching, stomach fluttering, it was with considerable trepidation that I walked towards the front door. The vigorous burst of knocking that had pierced the silence seconds before could mean only one thing: Gully had arrived. A modern icon, one who strikes fear into the hearts of McDonald’s proprietors the world over, one who has dined in the finest of restaurants with the finest of company, stood on the other side of my door, and any second now we would be face to face. Well, maybe not face to face. Face to shin perhaps. I flung open the door and there, pirouetting calmly on the spot with a hungry look in his eye, was Gully.

I got straight to the point. “You are most welcome, Gully, but you should know I am a man of simple means, I can but offer pizza and beer to refresh you after your arduous journey.”

The merest hint of a smile crossed his lips. Without a word he danced past me in the direction of the kitchen, inexorably drawn by some innate primeval instinct. I watched him go, marvelling at his swift movement and lightness of foot. Earlier that afternoon his PA had warned me to be careful, that Gully could out-eat and out-drink even those with the heartiest of appetites. Seeing him gyrate down the hall, many would have considered such a claim to be laughable, but I wasn't fooled. He was small certainly, but he was wiry, and he looked remarkably fresh for someone who had just travelled 3000 miles. I knew I was in for a long night.

A contented volley of burps roused me from my reverie and, smiling happily, I followed the sound. By the time I reached the kitchen, Gully was waltzing with an empty bottle on the table-top, a full bottle open beside him, and another across the table. With the slightest motion of his head, he beckoned me to join him. I sat down, lifted my beer, and heard a deep, resonant voice say “Slainte!” I stared at Gully in astonishment, but his face remained impassive as he danced. “Right back at ya, Gully” I toasted, and finished my beer in one swallow.

I won’t pretend that I remember much about the remainder of the evening.  The two slices I recall eating do nothing to explain the 17 empty pizza boxes I found the next day. When Gully found the Riverdance CD I had taken such care to hide, things got really crazy. I tried to keep up, I tried to gain an advantage by passing more and more bottles to him, but it was no use. The last memory I have before passing out is of Gully, slice of pepperoni in one hand, beer in the other, dancing across the keys of my piano, his feet a blur as they tap out “Food Glorious Food” over and over again.

I awoke the next morning in my own bed, a glass of water and an alka-seltzer beside me on the locker. I gingerly negotiated the stairs and entered the kitchen. To my amazement, it was as clean as I had ever seen it. The bottles and cardboard boxes had been neatly separated for recycling, and apart from a small piece of paper stuck to the fridge, not one item was out of place. Smiling contentedly, I read the note. It said simply “Enjoy your breakfast”.

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Wonderful. I don't often laugh out loud at something I read, but I did over this.

Given the quality of the posts to date concerning meals with Gully I have to believe that in addition to his other well know talents he's the ultimate literary muse.

Congratulations all & particularly to you Simon. Great stuff!

[Daniel]

This really was one of the most upsetting things that I ever had to go through. The other day while cooking dinner, Gully was standing by the counter watching me cook. I was making a chicken soup so the chicken was boiling for a long time. When the chicken was finally cooked, I took the meat off the bones and put it back into the soup. With the left over carcass I chopped it up and went to put it in the garbage disposal. I turned on the switch and started feeding the bones into the hole in the sink. I was almost positive that the switch was off when I went to answer the phone. A few minutes later I heard the most horrible sound I had ever heard. It was almost like a screaming.

It turns out that gully had stuck his hand into the disposal. His right hand was completely off, but not clean. There was jags of skin hanging over where bone and flesh should have been. His shoulder had been dislocated I guess from rattling around in the disposal. He was hoping around screaming and bleeding, it was really the most horrible thing.

I didn't know what to do, he was suffering so much. I wrapped him in a blanket and put him on my counter top. I really just must have panicked or something because I started wailing on Gully with a rolling pin. I didn't know if I was trying to knock him out or kill him. But it only made Gully scream more and more. I couldn't keep beating him. So I took him out of the blanket and stuck his head in the toilet to put him out of his misery. He began to fight back and scratch at me even though he was kind of in a daze. Again, I panicked, so I just threw Gully in the toilet and sat on the lid. Maybe after a half hour Gully stopped crying.

I opened up the lid and threw the Gully into a bag. It must have lost a lot of blood because his eyes were rolling in the back of its head. I could no longer deal with all the pressure I was going through.. I simply threw the Gully down the garbage shoot.

When I came back to my apartment, it looked like a crime scene. There was blood on the ceiling, on the walls, all over my bathroom floor. I normally would have just called my cleaning lady, but I didn't want her to ask question. My night was ruined, I had to spend like 2 hours cleaning all the crap up.

I feel so terrible about what happened. I will really miss Gully.. The soup turned out pretty good.

[Luckylies]

This really was one of the most upsetting things that I ever had to go through. The other day while cooking dinner, Gully was standing by the counter watching me cook. I was making a chicken soup so the chicken was boiling for a long time. When the chicken was finally cooked, I took the meat off the bones and put it back into the soup. With the left over carcass I chopped it up and went to put it in the garbage disposal. I turned on the switch and started feeding the bones into the hole in the sink. I was almost positive that the switch was off when I went to answer the phone. A few minutes later I heard the most horrible sound I had ever heard. It was almost like a screaming.

It turns out that gully had stuck his hand into the disposal. His right hand was completely off, but not clean. There was jags of skin hanging over where bone and flesh should have been. His shoulder had been dislocated I guess from rattling around in the disposal. He was hoping around screaming and bleeding, it was really the most horrible thing.

I didn't know what to do, he was suffering so much. I wrapped him in a blanket and put him on my counter top. I really just must have panicked or something because I started wailing on Gully with a rolling pin. I didn't know if I was trying to knock him out or kill him. But it only made Gully scream more and more. I couldn't keep beating him. So I took him out of the blanket and stuck his head in the toilet to put him out of his misery. He began to fight back and scratch at me even though he was kind of in a daze. Again, I panicked, so I just threw Gully in the toilet and sat on the lid. Maybe after a half hour Gully stopped crying.

I opened up the lid and threw the Gully into a bag. It must have lost a lot of blood because his eyes were rolling in the back of its head. I could no longer deal with all the pressure I was going through.. I simply threw the Gully down the garbage shoot.

When I came back to my apartment, it looked like a crime scene. There was blood on the ceiling, on the walls, all over my bathroom floor. I normally would have just called my cleaning lady, but I didn't want her to ask question. My night was ruined, I had to spend like 2 hours cleaning all the crap up.

I feel so terrible about what happened. I will really miss Gully.. The soup turned out pretty good.

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what are you on?

where do I get some?

[Fat Guy]

I confess I was shaken up by Daniel's post. A lot of folks don't know how much Gully does behind the scenes here at the eGullet Society. For example, Gully wrote the eGullet Society anthem, every week he spends 50 hours standing in Grand Central Station with a tin can raising funds for the eG Scholarships program, and he was instrumental in arranging our partnership with the International Association of People who Dine Over the Kitchen Sink (SINKIE). As I considered the magnitude of his loss, I felt the hot flush of imminent tears and sobbing . . . and then I heard a knock on the door.

I had never been so happy to see Gully in all my days, and I've had many days when I've been happy to see Gully. The amazing thing is that, aside from a chicken schmaltz stain on his eGullet Society BBQ Apron, there wasn't a mark on him.

Gully, speaking in Korean, recounted how he had awakened in the Fresh Kills landfill on Staten Island, disoriented and bruised, with a missing hand. He stumbled around Staten Island a bit, looking for the ferry and mulling over the unusual coincidence that the Outerbridge Crossing from Staten Island to New Jersey is actually named after a person named Outerbridge, until a homeless fellow named Lawrence observed, "Hey Mac, what's that phone number you've got tattooed on your ass?" Gully borrowed Lawrence's cell phone (which had, it turns out, been stolen earlier that evening from Mario Batali at a Wines of Spain industry party at Sumile) and dialed the number.

"You have reached Dave Scantland. I'm not here right now. Please leave a message . . ." Gully left a cryptic message for Dave (the Cook) and collapsed. All Gully remembered after that was a montage involving the searchlight of a helicopter, a stone archway with the words "eGullet Society for Culinary Arts & Letters World Headquarters" chiseled into it, the lights of an operating table, and someone saying "We can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability . . . . Better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster."

Gully cooked me some bi bim bap before heading out to hit some clubs. As usual, he didn't clean up after himself so it was a real bitch scrubbing the crust off the stone bowl the next day.

[K8memphis]

I think Law & Order is gonna pick up the story...probably be a threefer*. Once where y'all's egos kill each other's legs dancing and squating for hours, the Daniel thread eww eww eww and then the part where the kitchen gets wiped out.

* aka, three for the price of one, a threefer

Edited December 16, 2006 by K8memphis (log)