Gayumas Don't Work No More

My sister and I have an arrangement that we would discover a new restaurant every weekend. That day, we were having too much fun with Google Map (Turn right to Meh-teh-teg [Matatag] Street) and ended up at Gayuma ni Maria. Gayuma is located at 123 V. Luna Extension, Sikatuna Village, Quezon City.

Loving that Witch's Brew sign at the base of the steps.

I visited Gayuma once, on my 30th birthday (yearssss ago). The food was great and reasonably priced. It was dinnertime then and the ambience was kinda perfect, with low lights, soft cloths flowing from the ceiling and yes, rose petals everywhere. But seeing it in harsh daylight is making me re-think the warm and happy feelings it once brought me. That little front foyer for instance, has the dirtiest couch you will ever see. *Cringe.*

I became more disappointed when we got inside. The place has the smell of an old cafeteria that has not been cleaned in a while. We picked a table, and the first thing I noticed were the stains on the table cloth. I shot my sister a look to see if she's still willing to eat there. She shrugged and reminded me that I've taking tons of pictures of the place already, it's nakakahiya to bail out now.   

Pop poring over the menu.

I know Gayuma is going for that laid-back, rustic look, but without the cover of night and those warm reddish/yellowish lights, it just could not pull-off the desired look in daylight. There are places which just look better at night. That day, at 10am, Gayuma just looks dirty and cheap.

There was only one waiter, who does not seem to know what he's doing. He was just scurrying about like a headless chicken, but we waited patiently, because it was just him versus three filled-up tables. We placed our order and we were told it would take 15 minutes. I was already ravenous at that time, and saw this torta-like thing:

The torta is quite good, or maybe it's my hunger talking. My hometown has its own version of torta, and that was the bomb.  Gayuma's torta pales in comparison to our torta. I think it has too much butter and vanilla flavoring. Hmm. This must be the first time I complained that something has too much butter.  

My sister's order was worth the long wait. This must be one of the best pasta I've tasted. I'm not sure why it's called No Boyfriend Since Birth, but I suppose if you could eat this everyday, you would not mind not having a boyfriend. Gayuma is slowly redeeming itself with its meals. My only complaint (of course I have to have a complaint, I am born hard-to-please) is that the serving is too small. I could eat three of this:

No-boyfriend-since-birth pasta.

I'm not sure what got to me, but I ordered this vegetarian burger. It wasn't bad. But being a carnivore, I really cannot call it great.

Anyway, I thought I could still recommend this place to friends (just go at night time, maybe?), until I asked for the washroom and was shown upstairs. No, I'm not gonna post the pic of that filthy washroom (what, next to my sexy burger and no-boyfriend-since-birth??). But here's the dining area at the 2nd floor. Hookah, anyone?

Raincoats at the side are for sale.

Heart-peppered walls.

The Interesting World of Slimmers

My sister dragged me to Slimmers World one rainy day because they are having very irresistible promos. I used to slave over at Fitness First, in the same mall, before I accepted the fact that the Php2750 monthly fees are not just worth it, especially when you cannot make the commitment to show up weekly. Well, what do you know, Slimmers World's promo pegs my monthly fees only at Php850. That's about my usual bill on my pig-out Saturdays, so without thinking twice, I signed up. Big mistake. 

The Facilities. The most obvious mistake of course is not checking out the facilities and the workout area first before signing up. On my first day, I was almost prevented from working out because I did not bring my own lock for the locker. When I had that sorted out, I made a beeline for the treadmill only to be told that I need to make a reservation to use it. And when I finally found a vacant, unreserved treadmill and ran for 30 minutes, I was tapped on the shoulder by another person who said, "ako next ha. 30 minutes ka na eh." WTF. Apparently, the unwritten rule is, you're allowed to use each machine for 30 minutes only because there obviously isn't enough treadmill for everyone. And the exercise machines and the dance classes are cramped into this one rancid-smelling, claustrophic space, with [outdated] music of the dance classes blaring at intolerable noise levels, so loud you can no longer hear the music coming from your own earphones. So bid goodbye to your Gimme Gimme, and learn how to run again to the beat of Eddy Grant's Electric Avenue. One day, I showed up and found they actually hold yoga classes, on that same dance floor, with practically the same noise levels going on, and the yoga teacher shouting instructions at the top of her lungs in order to be heard. Hmmmm. I suppose no one really expects you to find your inner peace at the gym. And anyway, what did I expect my Php850 monthly fee to buy me? Obviously not the spacious locker rooms of Fitness First, its clean, hair-free and soap-and-shampoo-abundant shower rooms, hair dryer, sauna and steam rooms, or the four dozen tv's in the treadmill area. Oh yes, Fitness First used to have unlimited sodas too (there, you have an inkling now where my downfall started).   

The Trainer. Like all first-timers, I was assigned a trainer whose first move was to take my weight (Ma'am obese po kayo), and measure my neck, my arms, my waist and my thighs. He had an assistant who writes down the measurements as he say them out loud (thighs, 28 inches, legs...blah blah). Wtf, right? Is he saying each of my thigh is the waistline of a chubby person?? I know it's not his fault, and this right here is just my pride talking, but how come I can hardly hear my ipod above the din and yet his voice seems to carry out very clearly into the entire room as he reads from that cursed tape measure? There's something sinister going on in this gym, I swear. 

He made me do 300 sit-ups, which did not kill me as I expected, but paralyzed me for the next three days. After that, he lead me in front of the mirrors, gave me dumbbells and instructed me to lift it for 25 reps. Then he left me and did not come back until after a whole 5 minutes during which I stood dumbly there (dumbbells, dumbly, gets?), while sweaty, muscular guys go around me, undoubtedly checking out my 28in-circumference thighs. I was so hopelessly self-conscious I started pumping those dumbbells again, and then, just when I felt like crying already, the trainer showed up. I made sure he heard my counting "73...74...and 75. Whew." He apologized profusely for leaving me so long (omg I could have been raped, you SOB!). I said I understand (because those training sessions were for free, and my mom always taught me that if a thing comes for free, you have no right to complain). But he repeated it again for the next three sessions, leaving me alone for really long periods of time to attend to someone else, and coming back and apologizing. At that point, I no longer cared if it's free or not; had he been my boyfriend, he would never even get past strike two. So when he finally offered his training packages of Php7,000 for fifteen sessions, I was resolute with my "no." You've had your chance, boy toy. 

The Mean Girls. I've noticed a group of girls performing on the floor with these sets of very complicated (for me) footwork. I've always loved dancing classes and thought I could join the class, but I could not help but notice that the instructor does not slow down to show how each move is executed. They just turn the music on and launch into it full speed, in a way that does not leave any room for a beginner. Then inside the girl's locker room, I would overhear these same girls talking about what shirt color they would wear for their next session. That's when I noticed all of them were wearing pink. The next time I saw them, they were all in black, and the other time, green. What a sorority. 

Then one night, I was changing into dry clothes and I heard them trash talking the new girl who apparently just joined their exclusive dance group: "Eh ano ngayon kung dance instructor sya? Kaya ba niya yung mga left-right, left-right natin? Dance instructor lang sya, hindi sya aerobics instructor! Baka di niya kayanin yung mga ginagawa natin!" Everyone chimed in agreement. 

Then I got distracted because two toddlers suddenly barged inside the locker room. I just finished reading the rules and regulations posted in the work out area, and the gym strictly prohibits kids in the premises unless they are also enrolled. Anyway, their mom (I think) ushered them in and said, "O bless ka kay Tita, blah blah." And the titas/mean girls all cooed together "uyy ito na ba si [name]? ang laki laki mo na! blah blah."

In addition to the Rules and Regulations posted in the workout area, the locker room is peppered with signs like this. Topmost is: Children and Non-Clients Are not Allowed Within the Center Premises. 

But never mind that, the kids probably just dropped by to pick up their mom. The mean girls saga however does not seem to be over. That same moment, as I was preparing to leave, another girl plopped down her gym bag beside me, while talking non-stop to her gym buddy:

Girl 1: Tingin mo may anak na si [name]?
Girl 2: Oo naman no. Kita naman sa balakang niya. Ang lapad lapad. Katawan pa lang nya, halatang may anak na sya!

These girls are fucking scary. I'm sure those girls they denigrated thought they are her friends. Hmmm. *Must not make friends here. Must not cross their paths. Must not trust their smiles.*

The Peddlers. I was tying up my shoes while sitting on the gym's narrow benches when I found a Chinese girl standing uncomfortably close in front of me, with totally no regard for personal space. She said, "Mooncake."

Just that. One word, in a very flat tone. "Mooncake." Now I just finished watching ten episodes of this tv series on international espionage and the first thing that came into my mind was that she is a member of the Chinese mafia and she identified me as their local asset, and "mooncake" was the code word. So I went "....ah...ahh...umm..." because for one insane moment there, I actually debated between denying I was their contact spy, or playing along and hoping I could chance upon the reply code word (champoy? hopia baboy? tikoy?). 

Then she repeated it, with a heavy Chinese accent, and said, "Ikaw mooncake." The same way you heard "ako legal wife" in the movies. It then dawned on me that she is calling me Mooncake! Oh you sick fuck. My eyes widened and I bristled in indignation. I was trying to come up with something equally mean to say when another girl approached her and said that she would be canceling her order of mooncake because it's not payday yet. 

Oh. Well. That clears it up then. I politely declined her mooncake offer. She made a face, and then walked away. 

The following week, her face suddenly came up as I slammed my locker door shut. I stifled a scream of surprise, and she nonchalantly said, "oatmeal cookies," in that same monotone that's becoming familiar now. "Oatmeal cookies. Very healthy." 

I told her I don't really like oatmeal cookies and mightily resisted the urge to point out to the posters behind us:

She scowled and looked straight at my thighs, and I don't understand chinese, but I swear I heard her brain saying, "well no wonder you're so fat."

Last night, again at the locker room, I saw a woman holding a tupperware-full of lumpiang toge (beansprouts eggroll daw according to Google). She was hurriedly selling it to another girl, who was trying to dip the lumpia in a separate tub of flavored vinegar. 

And then my sister, who was working out with me, came in giggling and pointed to the top of the locker rows, where two boxes of J. Co. donuts are discreetly stashed. I guess that completes the checklist of ironic prohibitions:

• Children and Non-Clients are Not Allowed Within the Center Premises.
• Peddling of Goods is Strictly Prohibited.
• Food and Drinks are Not Allowed Inside.

#Personal

Balay Indang, July 2012.

Memories can be a bitch. 

The College PE Shirt

My favorite night shirt is my college PE shirt because it's loose and soft and comfortable. One exceptionally warm night, I was looking forward to wearing it when I remembered that I already passed it on to Brody:

 
As a freshman in 1998, I thought it was the coolest PE shirt ever created, and thought that only something as cool as Ateneo could create one. Until you actually read what's written at the back.

What's a Lose One = Lose All? 

My initial reaction was, huh?!? Anyways, in PE apparently, the worst thing you could do is incur a cut. Later, I learned that it was the teachers of the P.E. department who came up with this shirt. So go figure.