Beyond Chexican: Meet the Sushi Burrito

This is not a food blog. My first attempt at blogging was a food blog back in 2005 that was so cringeworthy I've taken it offline. That being said, I'm subjecting you to back-to-back food posts. Why? Because I'm sitting in San Francisco and just discovered Sushiritto.

In NYC, I've seen plenty of Asian and Mexican food fusion over the past decade. The first wave was more of a cultural fusion than a food fusion in the form of  a fast food-ish type spots all over New York called Fresco Tortillas. They were Mexican food places run by Chinese people, affectionately dubbed "Chexican" by a former roommate. Their ratings weren't amazing, but the fajita meat was real, and the food was cheap. They were enough that I resolved to never eat at a Taco Bell again.

 Fast forward to the recent influx of fusion food trucks. There's Kimchi Taco Truck, Korilla BBQ, among others. Creating tacos out of Korean-preparation meats (Bulgogi, Spicy Chicken, Short Ribs) has become all the rage. It's not quite Fresco Tortillas cheap, but damn, it's good.

Last night at a sushi dinner, a friend started talking about sushi burritos. Apparently there was a place that created hand rolls on steroids, making massive, seaweed-wrapped masterpieces. Fast forward 12 hours and I was standing in line.

The setup looked just like a Chipotle, except with tempura flakes instead of pinto beans (jalapenos did seem to be a consistent element). There were three of us, and we tried a variety, ranging from a Tonkatsu Curry version, to one with Teriyaki Salmon with Tempura Asparagus, to the most "sushi"-like one, filled with hand-caught Yellowfin Tuna. 

I'm still amazed that the seaweed managed to hold everything together, but it did. The combinations were fantastic and one burrito was more than enough. I can't deny, I kind of also love the company's mission:

To challenge the status quo of sushi restaurants through creativity and innovation of flavors, form, and sourcing.

The concept works. Sushiritto, please come to New York.

That First Bite...

I might’ve been a convert even before I even took a bite. It was revolutionary when they handed me the plate. I’d always enjoyed meat-filled, steamed Chinese buns but they never quite gave me my meat fill. That non-descript, reddish meat interior was nice, especially when dipped into a soy sauce / Sriracha combo, but why couldn’t they improve the meat-to-bun ratio?

The Pork Bun is being called the cheap eat of the year, and my first one was in 2006. My sister was visiting from Boston and her restaurant-savvy friend Amy told us to meet her at a new Momofuku spot: the Ssam Bar. It was lunchtime, and the place advertised a sort of “Asian burrito” (Ssam apparently means "wrapped" in Korean and can be used even in describing lettuce wraps).

I had ordered some type of pork ssam burrito when I saw someone ahead of me walking away with two of the most attractive buns I’ve ever seen. Instead of a large circular contraption with an invisible meat interior, the white of the bun delicately held a two legitimate pieces of what looked like a thick-cut piece of Peter Luger’s bacon. This was 2006 and Pork Belly had not yet become the new Kobe Beef (or artisanal pickle or cupcake or kale) and I had never tried it before. It was right there in front of me. The meat to bun ratio had been solved.

I switched up the order, took that first bite through the half inch of steamed bun, into a crispy, yet fatty pork belly with a touch of I think hoisin, and a slightly pickled cucumber, and I never looked back. It became an obsession. I’d insist anyone who visited needed to try this. I made the mistake of trying to go there at 3am for drunken food when they closed at 1am, not once, not twice, but three times. In the most propitious twists of fate, the Sox, Celtics, and Patriots all were hitting their peak and the best “Boston sports bar” in NYC happened to be a block away. Instead of wings and waffle fries, I’d run over to grab a duo of pork buns during games.

Over time, the Ssam Bar became a bit of a fancier joint and I dont think they serve the pork buns in a box anymore. I still go and the food is incredible, but it’s more a fancy dinner night than a quick bite of heaven. Everyone else caught onto the idea and variations on the bun sandwich have become a staple on New York menus. Asian hipster cuisine is now actually a thing. I’ve even taken a trip to H-Mart and attempted making them myself. I’ve now lived in Asia and learned the proper name of that non-descript, reddish stuff (cha siu). Times done changed. But I’ll never forget that first look, that first bite, that first year of the Momofuku pork bun.

Kumare, Yoga, and Stuff White People Like

Good art makes you think about lifelong questions. Great art answers them. The film Kumare did just that.

I've always found Westerners adopting and adapting Indian culture fascinating. Whether it's yoga, meditation, or chicken tikka masala, I've been generally confused why so many non-Indians in the US have been gravitating to activities they perceive as Indian.

Maybe the suspicion is borne of experience. Growing up as an Indian-American kid in the 1980s was not exactly a springboard to coolness. Mainstream America's perception of Indian-Americans seemed built around Kwik-E-Mart owners and elephants.

When high school hit, I noticed Indian "spirituality" finding its way into the more liberal factions in my school. I even dabbled in transcendental meditation and listened to my Dad's Ravi Shankar albums. In retrospect, this had nothing to do with my Indian heritage, and everything to do with me wearing Birkenstocks and collecting Grateful Dead bootlegs at the time.

....and then came yoga.

During college I kept hearing about this 'yoga' thing, and by the time I moved to New York, it was everywhere. What puzzled me was that I'd never heard any Indian relatives mention it. Our family is even Hindu and I've happily participated in my fair share of ritual, but  never quite found myself doing crow in our living room with my parents.

I tried it a few times a decade ago and got uncomfortable when everyone started chanting Om and the (non-Indian) teacher started, I think, chanting a number of Sanskrit mantras. I'm about as far an authority on Indian spirituality and religion as you can get, but was this making a mockery of Hindu traditions? Was this how Jewish people felt watching Madonna practice Kabblah? Would a Southern Baptist find it as weird to watch my family start a gospel choir? I grew up hearing Indian parents complain about Hare Krishnas. Was a roomful of yoga students chanting, the same thing?

"India" has only gotten bigger over the past decade. Bollywood's big, everyone's been to an Indian wedding, we've had two Indian-American governors (though not quite how we probably expected), and yoga is so big that Lulu Lemon is worth over $9 billion. Almost every girl I know does yoga regularly, people have graduated from Tikka Masala to Vindaloo or Saag, and I've had a number of non-Indian friends travel to India (most of whom more likely experienced Delhi Belly instead of Nirvana).

And yes, I've found myself trying to do yoga once a week. The motivation isn't quite celestial though. I have an injured back and it's the only thing that gets me to stretch properly. Some things have changed. The Sanskrit mantras are still there, but there's now Death Cab for Cutie songs alongside chillout Indian instrumentals (think Ravi Shankar meets Cafe Del Mar). Many in the class appear genuinely peaceful or relaxed, yet there are few glares in this world as concerning and scary as a yoga girl forced to move her mat for a latecomer to the class.

My continued foray across enemy lines into the yoga studio only made me more skeptical of Eastern 'spirituality' in the West. Is it a bastardization of Indian culture or is it an overall positive and healing force?

As I walked out of Kumare I realized this question didn't matter. Weirdly, I was at peace. I didn't have an answer resolving yoga and Indian culture, but I really didn't care anymore. I'd completely been missing the point.

The movie is about an Indian-American who becomes a fictitious guru and tricks a bunch of Westerners (and even one Indian) to become followers of his. The film explores religion, spirituality, cults, and especially, what it means to be a teacher. It's hilarious, provocative, beautifully filmed, and not only am I recommending it, I'd happily take any of my 'yogi' friends to watch it.

I'm not sure everyone will have quite as intense a reaction as I did to Kumare, but it made a generally skeptical Indian-American, just a little less skeptical.

Dog-Blogging: Gorbachev Comes to Nolita

My life after trading has found itself slowly drifting further and further away from my life on a trading floor. First it was nomadic travel, then business school, then financial media, and now it's pursuing startup dreams.

My current daily existence is now on the absolute opposite end of the spectrum as the trading life: I sit at home in front of my computer, usually in solitude (sometimes with my cofounder). Contrast that to the daily stimulus of being surrounded by hundreds of hypersocial individuals on a trading floor.

What's the obvious outcome of this major environmental transition?

I got a puppy.

I grew up with a dog (RIP Cleo Roy) and getting another one was always in the back of my mind. Living in NYC makes it a bit difficult as the costs are large and the apartments are small. As I plan on working out of my apartment over the next few months, I figured this was the most logical time ever to get a puppy. That, or talking to myself was becoming a chore.

Gorby is a Miniature Australian Shepherd. I named him after Gorbachev because he's got a noticeable birthmark (though on his nose and not his forehead). Admittedly, it's a bit dorky, but a few people who've met him got the reference instantly and loved it. A few people around my age awkwardly admitted not knowing who Gorbachev was.

There's a tremendous dog scene in NYC. I feel like I just took the red pill in the Matrix and now see an entire world that I was previously blind to. All around me people are walking dogs, socializing with other dog owners, or even petting other people's dogs. I never noticed any of it before.



Then there's the Manhattan-y side to being a dog owner. There are "Dog Runs" all over the city: little dog parks within larger parks for dogs to run freely and play with other dogs. The other day I noticed one just a few blocks from my apartment that amazingly had dog toys just sitting around everywhere and looked extremely clean (things that don't normally happen in NYC).

Gorby getting schooled at the dog run

I walked over with Gorby and saw a locked gate. I asked the one lady in there how to get in and she informed me, "it's a members park and you get a key". I asked her how much it was and she let me know it was $50 for the year. For a full year I actually thought this might be worth it (Warning Sign #1). 

Then came the absurd part: "Just to let you know, there's an application process and there's currently a waitlist. Your dog's so beautiful...I hope you get in."

Yes, an application process and waitlist. Years back, I helped a boss who wasn't a native English speaker write essays for his five year old's application for a posh, private elementary school. Not only would they interview his daughter, they apparently would interview him. I thought it was ludicrous and swore to never be part of such establishments.

(Cue Warning Sign #2, Red Alert) 

The first thought that crossed my mind after hearing about the dog park application process: Well, my dog is totally good enough to get in.

I think I've just accepted I can't ever raise kids in Manhattan.

Phlips Dead

The Republican primaries are in full stride, and they've been damn entertaining. Fairness, taxation, wealth creation, and jobs are at the tip of everyone's tongues and we just finished up the winter of #occupywallst. I've always been left-leaning, but yes, I did work as a trader for seven years. It was quite a wakeup call, as I had never realized people might not revere JFK or might actually hate immigration (I grew up in a bit of a liberal town).

Life as a trader only strengthened my liberal foreign policy views, but I have to admit, my economic views inevitably started creeping to the center. I was surrounded by some characters: one guy would give his four-year old daughter $5 a week for allowance, and then take back 50 cents, so she "could get an understanding for having your money taken by taxation." When he told us this, someone responded that she wouldn't have been in that tax bracket. Yes, this really happened.

Money can be a strange thing.

It was 2006 when I first got out of the red. Life as a trader expedited the process of paying back my undergrad loans and it was the first time I ever had any disposable income. There are many stereotypes of traders: some on the floor who would show up with Gucci loafers and Rolexes, maybe return from a lavish vacation, and some even made sure to pop the proverbial bottle come the weekend. I tried to avoid these things, but I was definitely not immune. The first time my bank account could carry me over longer than a few months, I managed to express my newfound doucheiness by buying one of the first 50" plasma TVs in the market, the Philips 50PF9966.

I read for days about Plasma vs. LCD. I'd go from Best Buy to Circuit City (R.I.P) and convince myself that I could see huge differences in quality. I might've even scoffed at the idea of a Zenith. Remember when people would just watch nature shows and sports in HD....when HD itself was so mesmerizing?

Philips sold me with absurd features like 'Ambilight', that lit up your wall with colors supposedly complementing what was on the screen. In retrospect, this might've been a bit idiotic, as I lived in a convertible one-bedroom apartment. For non-New Yorkers, a convertible 1br is where you take a regular 1br apartment, and add a fake wall to split up the living room, magically adding another bedroom.

(you'll notice the lady is not even watching the TV)

Yup, my roommate and me set up a 50" TV in a living room that was 8ft x 10ft. As someone who's never really been part of either, I never quite got the negative implications of "new money." I guess this kinda captures it?

We'd sit there playing Madden and feeling like we're actually in the game. We convinced ourselves we were somehow being responsible by watching HD sports at home and not a bar. Our guy friends were pretty excited, while girls generally reacted with a "what's wrong with you?"

The Philips just flatlined this week, flickering itself to the television graveyard. I'm amazed it lasted this long. It's moved four times, usually sitting in the back of a uHaul only covered by a comforter. It sat alone in my parents basement for almost two years, even surviving a flooding that destroyed the surrounding. It even found a friend in another gaudy showing of technology at my current apartment, The Stack. The Philips served me well.

This week happened to also be when my old bank told the trading floor their bonus numbers. I was fairly curious the first year after trading, but then realized it was just kind of weird to discuss with my friends still in the industry. If not for the annual outrage over bonuses, I might even forget that entire world exists.


If this blog was never born, would I be in Best Buy staring at the new Sharp 70"?

Ctrl + Alt + Delete

I've always believed you can find absolute magic in the most mundane of situations. I'm not exactly the guy from American Beauty watching a plastic bag fly in the wind, but I feel there's greatness often overlooked in the idiotic. 

Which logically brings us to the film New Years Eve. 

Post-Tilt, I've been going back and forth whether to search for a conventional job or pursue some sort of independent venture. During this period, there are those days where you genuinely believe you can motivate yourself, strike out on your own, and take over the world. Then there are those days where you find yourself in a theater at 1pm watching New Years Eve.

I'm not going to get into how I ended up there, but the only other people in the theater were some high school girls who shrieked every time The Efron came on screen, an elderly, Woody Allen-worthy "New Yorky" couple, and a solo middle-aged guy whose story I'd really like to know (or maybe wouldn't). 

Yes, the movie was as absolutely atrocious and my hathos quota was more than fulfilled. I'm genuinely curious what Hollywood agent is such a salesman that they convinced Robert DeNiro, "Trust me...THIS is gonna be a hit!" 

(Spoiler Alert!!!)

All that being said, the meathead in me that's a sucker for climactic movie speeches from Al Pacino to even Bill Pullman, somehow found myself weirdly non-ironic (or perhaps "reflective" as normal people might say) as Hilary Swank delivered the crescendo. As the Times Sq ball is stuck, she tells us that:

It's suspended there to remind us before we pop the champagne and celebrate the new year, to stop and reflect on the year that has gone by. To  remember both our triumphs and  our missteps, our promises made and broken. The times we opened ourselves up to great adventures or closed ourselves down for fear of getting hurt because that is what new years is all about- getting another chance. A chance to forgive, to do better, to do more, to give more, to love more. And stop worrying about what if and start embracing what will be. So when that ball drops at midnight and it will drop, let's remember to be nice to each other, kind to each other, and not just tonight but all year long.

Trust me, as I re-read this, I cringe. Yet, I'll admit for that brief moment, I managed to forgive even yet another horrific Ashton Kutcher romantic closing line (rivaling that of No Strings Attached). Somehow this awful movie made me remember what I love about New Years Eve.

It's easy to forget this in New York City. There's a graveyard of $150 "open bar" tickets where you waited in line for hours and missed midnight. There's an endless roster of friends who visited with impossible expectations placed squarely on your shoulders.

I forgot that I love New Years Eve simply because I love the idea of a fresh start.

Maybe I value fresh starts because I know I'm not perfect (understatement of 2011?). Some may wipe the slate clean by with religion and being born again (George W.) but that's not happening. Some may move on by literally moving on across the world, but I'm pretty tired of visa offices (and I guess already did that). I just love that we all agree that an arbitrary event on the Gregorian calendar gives us all the chance to try to be just a little better. 

You just survived another 365 days, you must've learned something. Even if you don't keep your resolutions, at least you're making them. You may have lost touch with people you care about, and you're given an excuse to get in contact (though please don't send out on of those mass text messages). How often does the entire world have a chance to collectively reflect and try to improve?

….or maybe I just love the fact that there's globally more drunken revelry on New Years Eve than any other night? 

Either way, I can't believe at this time last year I was on a plane from India to Singapore, getting ready to travel Vietnam. Tilt had not yet even officially launched. If 2011 was that kinda ride, I'm a bit excited for what 2012 has in store.

Emoting with Kindle Highlights

I'm a technophile. I probably shouldn't be allowed within 100 yards of an Apple store. I could be wrong and the last vestiges of our privacy will soon be usurped and the robots will win. I accept Facebook has forever changed the definition of 'friend' and texting just isn't a phone call. However, there are moments where technology facilitates the basest of human emotion, in wonderful, undeniable way.

One battle in the technophilic war where I occasionally retreat is the printed book. I do get it when people say "there's just something about holding a printed book." But, I also remember when friends argued there is just something about opening a CD case and reading the liner notes or putting an LP onto a record player. I argued that at a certain point, convenience outweighs that limited emotional attachment. Having your entire music collection in your pocket is just better.

After last night's discovery, I have to warn my friends who define themselves by what sits on their bookshelf and love the smell of paper: It's time to accept the world has changed.

I bought the Kindle 2 in Feb 2009, right before leaving NYC and moving to Asia. After one look, I donated most of my book collection to the public library (saving a few for the same reason I save concert tickets). The idea that while wandering Asia, I could have dozens of books in my backpack was too good to be true.

When I read, I highlight. I used to do it physically, and began using the somewhat clunky Kindle 2 highlighting functionality right away. I rarely went back and actually reviewed the highlights and notes, but felt someday it could be worth the effort.

It's happened.

I'm not even sure how long this has been available, but if you go to kindle.amazon.com and click on 'Your Highlights' it's right there: every highlight and note I have taken since Feb 2009. Reading The Man Who Loved China while fresh in Beijing. Nervously reading Shantaram on my Kindle in Dhaka, worried someone might steal it. Waiting to read Growing up in the People's Republic, about the Cultural Revolution, til I got to Thailand because I was afraid somehow "they" would know. Reading The Vietnam War: A Concise History but being too spoiled an American and not visiting because I had to get a visa. Bedridden with a bad back and reading Too Big to Fail, vividly being brought back to September 2008. It goes on and on. Not only did every book and the related setting come back to me, every quote I loved is right there (I'll hold off on getting into the potential for the social elements they've already began building).

Imagine every book since you were a little kid, every inspiration you jotted down on a notepad, every lesson, every character...all on one scrollable page.

I'll take my chances on the robots.

(a few favorites)

"This set the pattern of the next decade: Europe struggling with the legacies and burdens of the past, the United States wrestling with the excess bonuses of its good fortune." - Too Big to Fail (referring to 1919)

“You were born in a shirt” (a Russian expression meaning that someone has very good luck) - Darkness at Dawn

"It was big enough to be useful, small enough to be possible" - Bloomberg by Bloomberg (on the first terminal)

"“But it wasn’t just a nice car,” I said. “It was a Lexus. A Lexus. That’s a specific kind of nice car. Everyone knows what owning a Lexus means. To Cobain, a lavender limousine would have been preferable to a Lexus, because at least that would have been gratuitous and silly. The limousine is aware of its excess; a Lexus is at ease with it. A Lexus is a car for a serious rich person. There are no ironic Lexus drivers, or even post-ironic Lexus drivers.” - Eating the Dinosaur, Chuck Klosterman

"Econometrics is essentially the art of finding statistical methods to extract information from data—or, as a lawyer friend of Stefan’s likes to put it, taking the data down into the basement and torturing them until they confess." - Soccernomics by Stefan Szymanski

"I told him once he’s so shallow that the best he can manage is a single entendre" - Shantaram

"Sometimes, in India, you have to surrender before you win." - Shantaram

"'It’s funny you say that. A girlfriend of mine once told me, a long time ago, that she was attracted to me because I was interested in everything. She said she left me for the same reason.’" - Shantaram

"The sign, simply and starkly, states: “Without Haste. Without Fear. We Conquer the World.” - The Man Who Loved China, Simon Winchester

“There is no such thing as becoming German. You either are or you are not.” - How to Win a Cosmic War, Reza Aslan

Tilt Esta Muerto (self-indulgent reflective edition)

With those simple words, it was in fact, The End. The past year has been the most intense professional experience of my life. The first six months of my emerging markets trading life were certainly not without drama as daily dressing-downs from a dodgy boss nearly broke me. The beauty of trading was that, deep down, you never really cared. You wanted to make lots of money and your ego wanted your name to have large black numbers next to it, but in the end, the non-monetary joy and pain were fleeting. It sounds kinda weird speaking of a financial news website in an emotional tone, but the difference with Tilt was that I actually cared.

The adventure began last September while emailing a bunch of media-related INSEAD alumni. A high-up alum at the Financial Times told me about a startup project underway. At that point I would've taken any semi-reasonable media job, just to get in the door, but the group the alum described instantly tattooed "dream job" onto my brain. The project would be focused on emerging markets, with a strong emphasis on social media (whatever that meant), and was being created by the founders of one of my favorite finance blogs, FT Alphaville.

For those who know me, I tend to get a bit excited sometimes. I'm talking foot-tapping, eye-bulging, repeatedly uttering "are you kidding me?!" excited. It's been described as both my most endearing and my most annoying quality. When I heard about Tilt, I hit the same level of hyperactive energy that elementary schoolteachers once complained to my parents about. I was initially told they weren't hiring, but a tip to job seekers everywhere: always have some vague industry-related project you're working on. If you're told there are no positions available, insist on meeting under the guise of said project (mine was an arrogantly titled media strategy class project, "The Future of Journalism"). That project, combined with a last minute Eurostar ticket to London, got my first foot into the door of One Southwark Bridge.

I was lucky. The exact right combination of people were involved with Tilt to convince them to take a chance on me. There were introductory calls in French supermarket parking lots, phone and videoconference interviews in Singapore, a post-casino job offer call I'll never forget, preparatory calls in Calcutta, and finally, moving back to my beloved NYC and walking into the offices of an organization I always held in complete reverence.

Naturally, real life is always a bit dirtier than less exciting than your dreams. A satellite newsroom ain't what you see in the movies and a startup product certainly doesn't go as planned. The next 10 months were kind of a blur. Weekends and evenings were no longer off-limits, web savviness made it so we could work anytime and anywhere, and the idea of vacation days became a joke.

Even more stressful was that feeling of always playing from behind. Whether it's being down in sports or trading after a bad run, calm is always that much more difficult to achieve. After a lackluster launch, it became an extended game of catchup. I remember when I began trading that feeling of being overwhelmed existed, but then one day everything clicked. There was that moment where you saw everything with clarity and the right results magically began falling into place. Odd confession: during the torturous initiation period of trading life, on the subway ride in, I'd often listen to Dreams by Van Halen. I acknowledge the sharp cheese factor, but fuck it, I was trying to be a trader and was probably wearing a blue button-down.

I kept waiting for the moment of clarity. Sammy Hagar never answered the call.

The vision of what both Tilt could be, and what my job could one day be, was what made that constant battle worth it. Twenty years from now, if you tell me my career combined news, digital media, finance, emerging markets, technology, and entrepreneurship, I will 12-year old girl FREAK OUT. It's not exactly Hefner-ian, but it's the piece of the pie I want. Comfort can be a damn nice thing and it kept me trading for a long time. Taking a chance is not only scary, it's a bit of a pain in the ass, and I kinda miss the days of professional cruise control.

Unfortunately, I'm hooked. That feeling of trying to figure out what people want, trying to create that product, and make it an actual business is just too damn interesting. That connection with the first customers who took a chance on you was too rewarding. The people I met during the adventure were too fascinating. That realization that the market for what you want to create is just too huge and the space is too personally interesting....it's easily enough to make one take another shot.

It's been a few years since my last stint as a severance kid. Well, I'm back. Last time it was a bit cheeky (words I now use after working at the FT) as it was always just a break til b-school. This time I know what I want but have no set plan in place to get there.

I'm actually kinda excited.

The 107th Floor

There aren't many constants in this world, but one thing you can count on is that every June a squadron of blue-shirted, bright-eyed college students descend upon New York for a summer finance internship. My life in trading began with one of these, an internship at Citigroup in the summer of 2001 (well, it was Salomon Smith Barney, who had just been bought out by Citi).

I got into a generalist program but was randomly placed in the "Fixed Income Index Group" and never really quite figured out what exactly they did. More problematic, for some reason one of the main requirements for this group was a computer programming background. Other than a intro CS class that may have tested my interpretation of "knowledge sharing", I did not have one.

It was my intro into the absurd possibilities of a large corporation, as my managers and me mutually agreed the placement was a mistake, but HR refused to consider a change. Luckily, the team was made up of genuinely good people and they let me meet different groups across the bank, taught me about markets in general, and assigned me some minor projects. The bad news: I knew I'd never receive, nor even wanted, an offer from them. The good news: I pretty much had no responsibility or deadlines. What does one do when you're main responsibility is to just show up? Naturally, at 5:30pm you run for the exit to take part in that institution that you only truly understand the value of once you begin your working life: happy hours.

It was convenient that one of my fellow NYC newbies, who would soon be my first NYC roommate in 2002, worked down the street and became an instant partner in crime. We were told by the "cool, older people" about two bars to check out in the area. The first was Moran's, a bar by the waterfront that featured a cast of decked out gold-diggers being wooed by 80s movie villain-like bankers and traders.

You can always tell who the summer intern is at the bar: they're the ones who are actually really, really excited to be there. The rest of the people, while flirting, drinking, and slapping fives (this was pre-"fist pounding" days), are still secretly exhausted from work underneath. For an intern, it's your first time in the mix. It's your first time wearing grown-up clothes, the first time you pretend you have an "important job", the first time exposed to a corporation, and most importantly, your first time experiencing the wonder that is New York City. Like certain other things, the first time isn't necessarily the best..things certainly get better in those subsequent years when you finally learn how the city works. But that combination of innocence, idealism, and complete obliviousness make the first time something different, something unforgettable.

The friend I'd mentioned worked for Lehman Brothers, in the World Trade Center. That second bar we were told to check out was Windows on the World, located on the 107th story of the North Tower.

A bar, a douchebag-in-training, a respite from a desk....it's not exactly the deepest of things, but it's just what I remember about the World Trade Center. When you were at the base, the buildings were so large that they ceased to be buildings. You couldn't clearly see to the tops...it just felt like you were at the bottom of a canyon at dusk. You entered the buildings, and got into the right elevator. I can't remember exactly, but I think you might've had to switch elevators once. Then you arrived. You walked out to the bar area and were surrounded by a panoramic view of New York fucking City in all it's glory. You were surrounded by people you thought were important. Even if the old guy in the suit next to you was a pissed off, passed over, middle manager, the aura of the place convinced you that "he could totally be a MD" (Managing Director, the holy grail of the banking world). That girl next to him, she must be a model. It's a phrase said too often, but there is no way to characterize that place other than larger than life. No place captured the intern's dream that is New York City better than Windows on the World.

I was back at school in Atlanta on 9/11/01. I was at my then-girlfriend's place and got woken up by her roommate who yelled "they're attacking New York". She wasn't exactly Seinfeldian and I thought this might be some ill-executed joke. I groggily walked out to the living room and just stood there staring at the TV. Only the first plane had hit. I texted one of my friends whose dad worked in the buildings. I actually had a flight scheduled to NYC the next morning for my final interviews with Bank of America and guessed I wouldn't be flying anywhere.

I had only spent about nine weeks in New York, but I really felt sick. I called up my friend from the Lehman internship and he told me that everyone from his office (which was on the 4th floor) was okay. I got an email from a teacher insisting we still show up to class, but didn't go. I met up with one of my friend's who was as obsessed with politics as me and discussed Al Qaeda, the Middle East, and national security (yes, we were both nerdy debaters in high school and love this stuff). Talking in the abstract about something makes it a lot easier to deal with.

I called my parents and my mom told me something I wonder if she ever imagined herself saying when she first immigrated to the US, "be careful, people might react because we look like them" (and I really do look like "them", probably more than I look traditionally Indian).

I didn't know people who died and almost had a twisted sense of survivor's guilt. I got on a plane a week later and flew to NYC. I was out late the night before and running a bit late (surprised?) and I was the last person on the plane. I hadn't shaved for a few days and the fearful looks I got walking on the plane were genuinely hilarious. My twisted sense of humor had me wanting to yell "boo". I'm glad I didn't.

After the interview, I went down to visit the group I interned for to see how they were doing. I smelled the burnt air from the taxi, and found out the Citi folks had seen the planes crash from their windows. I walked around Ground Zero a bit and then got on a plane back to Atlanta. I found out in late September that I achieved every intern's dream and got an offer with BofA.

I moved back to NYC and worked in midtown and found a whole new world of happy hours. Suddenly downtown seemed so far away. For that first anniversary of 9/11, the trading floor went deathly quiet for the moments of silence, 8:46 and 9:03. Most of my group had come over from Merrill, which was next door to the WTC and saw everything firsthand. Many knew people who died. The guy next to me shed some tears. It was pretty intense.

I think it was the fourth anniversary when I first heard someone still on the phone and yelling about a stop loss during the moment of silence. People looked at him in horror, trading glances and thinking "is he insane?" Each progressive year it became less and less of a moment until it faded into a background CNBC montage while people went about their daily work. I still haven't resolved if this was a just a trading floor disrespecting the dead because markets "still were moving", or if this was in fact a realization of the very goal we were supposed to strive for, to move on with our lives.

I know that I was spared the true horrors of having been in the World Trade Center on 9/11 or having lost someone close to me. I've also been politely told by friends from other countries that terrorism and tragedy happen all the time, all around the world. However, whether it's my eternal luck in being "randomly selected" for airport security checks, my first real adult anger towrads the Iraq War, or most of all, the attachment I developed towards New York City over the eight years I've lived here, I do think about 9/11.

I had the extremely weird experience of almost crying on a treadmill yesterday while looking up at the TV's to watch a ESPN documentary about one of the victims (their production quality just gets better every day)...

The girl next to me was.

Everyday I'm Shuffling

Trotting around the globe for close to two years certainly opens one's eyes to a whole lotta new experience. Whether it was Ladyboy shows, racist toothpaste, cured meats or singing in a room alone with a Chinese man, I found a world that was well beyond my realm of normalcy. Going to school with hundreds of classmates from over eighty countries also opened my eyes to concepts I'd never heard of nor imagined. The weird thing was, as every new international experience was undertaken, I completely lost connection with what had always been near and dear, American Pop Culture.

For those two years, I never knew what was the latest trend, whether it was in clothing, in music, in television, or even just the latest internet meme. I'd get inklings here and there via facebook (I still wasn't integrated into the twitterverse) but there were a number of times I'd be wondering things like, "Who and what is Justin Bieber?" or "What is Glee and when did acappella become cool?"

Now being back in the US, it finally dawned on me to actually experience and appreciate pop culture, there has to be sufficient context and grounding in a country. If there was some new craze sweeping the island of Singapore, I'd have no clue…I was busy obsessing over Chicken Rice and Singlish. If there was a new type of music taking over the French scene, I'd be more concerned with how much chocolat there was au my pain and marveling at the number of cheeses at the hypermarche. Getting Rickroll'ed only makes sense (and that's still questionable) and is hilarious if Never Gonna Give You Up strikes a nostalgic chord for you.

I think about all this because the other day I was out at a LES lounge with an active dance floor. A song came on that had all the crowd-pleasing elements of a Black Eyed Peas opus, that had an interlude that went "Everyday I'm Shufflin'". People around me were all kinda running in place and dancing somewhat absurdly. The song was LMFAO's "Party Rock Anthem".

The next morning I youtube'd "Shuffling". I'm not sure whether this song was the genesis of the shuffling craze, or the shuffling craze was what inspired the song, but apparently in high schools across the country kids are shuffle battling. The dance mesmerized me as it basically took the Running Man to a place the early 90s never dreamed of. I couldn't stop watching videos, and confession, the hyperactive child in me was attempting my first shuffle the moment the hangover wore off.

I'm back in the US and this is what I wonder about. Is this the next big dance craze? Is this already the current dance craze? Is it actually over and I just missed it (I did turn 31 the other day and can see this being a "those kids today" moment)?

The only thing I can say with certainty is that this summer, like it or not, I will be shuffling.

P.S. A great new site / community for people studying Mandarin posted this video the other day of a little Chinese girl shuffling in front of famous Chinese landmarks. I will fully accept that she is cooler than I'll ever be.

The Viola

I've always had dreams of being a rock star. In reality, I don't think I'd actually have the will to pay my dues as a starving artist and would probably die at an early age if I was in fact a rock star, but I've had maybe two moments that made me feel like I was almost there.

The first was at age 14. The band I was playing with was kicked off stage while we played a teenage version of Purple Haze and our lead singer freestyled some not-so-kosher lyrics. The assistant principal ("you just don't understand me Arthur DuLong") came on stage and actually grabbed the mic from him and told us to get off stage. Check.

The second was probably in the most opposite of settings from the youthful, pre-sellout, high school "band night". It was a MBA black tie event that involved playing a set full of songs that the wannabe hipster in me will refrain from mentioning, but deep down am okay with in the way that I feel that "I'm Yours" is okay. We played in front a group of a few hundred classmates and it ended with me rapping.....okay, I'll admit it, Flo Rida and finishing with....yes, I'll admit it again, Bad Romance. Check.

During my world-renowned career as a guitarist one thing always struck me: bassists are damn interesting, and somewhat odd people. I was always puzzled at the decision to play the bass. Lead singers are generally attention-hungry folk that love the spotlight. A lead guitarist likes a little bit of spotlight, probably can't sing very well, and is generally just nerdy enough to sit down and spend the hours it takes to become technically proficient (laying out these qualities just made me realize: is what drove me to playing guitar the same thing that drives me to blog?). Drummers are just fucking nuts and full of rage.

The bassist though...I always wondered what would possess someone to actually choose an instrument that will imprison you at the back of the stage, not stand out in general at any point in the song (Red Hot Chili Peppers and a few other bands aside), and require extreme discipline to play somewhat repetitive riffs over and over and over again.

With much love to my bassist friends, if I stop and think about famous bass players that come to mind, it's a somewhat odd bunch. John Entwistle from the Who, Jack Bruce of Cream, Cliff Burton of Metallica, Bill Wyman of the Stones, Duff from GNR, Nikolai Fraiture of the Strokes, etc. etc.....what do you think of when you think of these guys? The level of relative anonymity for major rock stars is unbelievable. Are they just quiet, nice guys? Do they just like an instrument that hangs a bit lower? Are they quietly insane and behind the scenes are emotionally and physically abusing their bandmates? What are they up to??

This has always been a fascination of mine that recently was extended into an entirely different realm. The other night when I met someone who plays the viola for a string quartet. It never occurred to me, that in this completely parallel universe, there are almost equivalent dynamics. "Violists are the stoners of the string quarter" she exclaimed before saying "I've always kinda had a thing for violists". At first this seemed somewhat random, but then I remembered back to my brief, disastrous stint as a violinist from ages 8-9. Even at that tender age, a chubby little Ranjan wondered, "Why the hell would anyone play the viola"? In what capacity would an eight year old make a decision to choose an instrument that was just one string down from the ever popular violin? Apparently, the same decision calculus used by a young Flea is utilized every day by hundreds of pre-teens being who are joining orchestras. It is something I don't know if I'll ever understand but weirdly very much respect.

"Oh....you're NOT into Olga Goija?"

Sign Language St. Pattie's with a Side of Beef

There are certain things that you think are completely normal while growing up, until you try to explain it to a friend from another country. St. Patrick's Day is one of those things.

When you're a kid you wear some green clothing and maybe eat a green-frosted cupcake. The holiday only takes on a bit more significance once you hit that tender age of 21 (or maybe 18, or maybe 15 depending on your hard coreness) and realize, "Wow, there's an entire holiday surrounding drinking". Suddenly, you might still wear a green sweater, but the focus becomes taking down Irish Car Bombs, pints of Guinness, and graduating from cupcakes to corned beef and cabbage.

It's 2011, I'm back in the US, and back in NYC, a land where St. Pattie's Day is serious business. Often called "amateur hour" by self-proclaimed serious drinkers due to the hordes of ill-trained drunks roaming the streets, from as early as 10am in Midtown you can see people stumbling around.

Wandering through the mess and looking for a place to eat with a friend, I remembered a new concept that can only exist in my fair city: the nearby Bowery Poetry Club recently began serving much buzzed about Roast Beef sandwiches....and trust me, they are just plain amazing.

There are two things I have to bring up about this. First, why? How? What the fuck? How does a place where I'd previously seen the most intense spoken word...where the hip and intellectual emoted on rape and racism...how does a poetry club decide it would get in the beef business?

Secondly, and I guess less of a wtf moment, when did "Boston style roast beef" become a concept? I do remember Kelly's Roast Beef in Boston, and thought they did make a great sandwich, but was this enough to coin an entire genre of food? I'm proud of my hometown for many things, but is this for real or is this some cynical marketing ploy (yes, the MBA in me has become somewhat suspect of all things business)?

We sat down and ordered. As we waited for the piles of thinly sliced beef, melted che

ese, horseradish, mustard, bbq sauce, and an awesomely branded bun, we decided to check out what was going on in the stage area of the venue. I walked up to a curtained area, where a man who probably says he is not a hipster, thus cementing his credentials as a hipster, told me "Sign language poetry slam, $4 cover".

He said this without a hint of irony or absurdity. Yes, there was a sign language poetry slam. I peeked in and was just too overwhelmed by the combination of things going on at this given moment and didn't have the wherewithal to take any footage for you so all I can give you is a generic Youtube clip.

I acknowledge this story is a bit rambling. It's a bit, to use my favorite word in the English, random. However, coming across a sign language poetry slam + while seeking out a Boston style roast beef sandwich + on St. Patrick's day = my kind of bliss.

Glassesblogging - Countdown to Lasik

"It's like suddenly seeing the world in HD" - my roommate.

Is the term "four eyes" still an insult? Has anyone avoided a punch in the face with the ol' "you wouldn't hit a guy with glasses" line recently? Is the librarian look still sexy or has it not been since the world realized Lisa Loeb was over 40?

Back at work only six weeks and as my vision became more and more blurred, the realization became clearer and clearer: I needed glasses. I went to the optometrist and this was instantly confirmed. Farsighted with astigmatism and a +1 power (I'm not even sure if that's the correct way to say it as I'm new to being a 'glasses guy').

My whole family has glasses, with my dad and sister both having had them since a very young age. I had always kind of enjoyed the fact that even though I was no Goose or Maverick, I could technically be a fighter pilot at least in terms of vision. The sight of people who wore contacts actually touching their eyeballs completely freaked me out.

Well, they arrived this afternoon and I'm wearing them as we speak. I'm still not terribly excited about this development as coupled with back problems of the past, it's yet another symptom of eight years of sitting at a desk.

The bright side however is, I can now sit in a Think Coffee shop and ponder really, really deep things. I can talk about how I'm not hipster but make people secretly think "that guy must be hipster" all the while actually convincing myself I'm hipster. Finally, I can already picture at work now someone coming up to me and yelling "what do you know about the the Consultative Assembly and legislative process in the House of Saud?" and when I respond "um, I work on the business side of the news" their natural response will be "But...but, you have glasses! You must know."

These are the only logical things that can happen in this brave new world I have entered.

Life Officially After Trading

It's been nearly five months since the last post. Another few weeks in South Africa, two months in France, and a final two months in Southeast Asia, concluded my world tour. After the whirlwind that was, in the ultimate deja vu (not sure if that is the correct usage of the term), I'm sitting on a Bolt Bus heading from Boston to NYC. The next few days I'll spend crashing on a friends couch and looking for an apartment. After that...it's back to work after almost exactly two years. It was January 22nd, 2009 that I last sat in an office and paid homage to the corporate overlords. On January 23rd, 2011 it'll be back to work....

This time it will be a little bit different. I named this blog Life After Trading even though I had no idea exactly where I'd turn up post-MBA. Well....I'll be starting a job with a startup group within the Financial Times called FT Tilt as their Commercial Director. Those who have known me for a while know my longtime obsession with the new media world. Whether it's writing this blog, somehow letting Arianna Huffington and Matt Drudge affect my daily mood, or trying to get myself on a food blog discussing the midtown lunch scene. I'm amazed to have found an opportunity that somehow lets me stay in the world of financial markets while moving into the new media side of things (and more specifically "news new media" if that's even a term).

It's been a ridiculous two years. Life as a severance kid took me places I'd never been before. I wandered all around daytime New York City, had a mohawk and a mustache for about a day each, tried learning Mandarin, I traveled the world, I had the first major medical disaster of my life, lived in four different continents, became okay with Jason Mraz (within reason people...within reason), gave up on Mandarin but learned a whole new form of English, went into the Heart of Darkness, and finally managed to come out with a MBA that in my B-school programmed mind, fully justifies the time off on my resume.

As I hit my 30s it's be a whole new challenge....and at least until I fail spectacularly in a blaze of glory, it truly will be a life after trading (cue the music from the end of Layla by Derek and the Dominoes).

Dangerous Quantities of Biltong

I don't consider vegetarianism a disease...just an ill-conceived life choice. I sometimes feel bad thinking this way, considering my Indian roots, but meat is just so damn good. If dinner is being served, no matter how good the starches and vegetables look, my eyes and stomach are waiting for the real deal.

South Africa has introduced me to a whole new level of meat happiness: Biltong. It's basically beef jerky on steroids. The beef jerky you find in the US is usually leathery and bland (disclaimer: I still like it for long road trips for some odd reason) and I had always wondered, "Can they make the beef jerky experience just a little bit closer to consuming cooked meat?"

Ladies and gentlemen, South Africa has answered this question. Biltong is a cured, dried, and often spiced preparation of various meats (usually beef, but also ostrich and kudu out here). In the process, not only do they use much thicker cuts of meat, but the inclusion of vinegar in the drying process creates a product that balances chewiness and softness in the absolute perfect combination. Some of the cuts even retain a little bit of somewhat dried fat on them, which might sound a bit disgusting, but adds this insanely good texture and taste. You basically feel like you're eating a great piece of steak, on the go.

It gets even more decadent. The other day I was introduced to 'rare beef biltong'. They somehow dry the outside of the meat while keeping the center a sandwich roast-beef dark red, that amazingly is just dried enough that it doesn't need to be refrigerated. Combining this with a glass of local Pinotage (a spicy wine from a grape unique to South Africa) makes you feel like you've discovered a Zagat's guide to the African bush.

Safari Randomness

In my former life as a trader, there were sometimes over-the-top steak dinners that resulted in what I call the "meat sweats". That feeling where you don't really feel overly full or nauseous, but you wake up in middle of the night just feel uneasy as you kind of feel your body digesting. It was interesting to see that apparently I eat meat in a similar manner to lions, as we found a lion who had a half-eaten buffalo next to him absolutely in pain. He was breathing hard and just on his back with a huge tummy, rolling around. He looked completely content and awful at the same time.

The different animal collective nouns are absolutely insane. By this I mean the word for a group, i.e. herd of elephant or pride of lions. Some amazing ones I had never heard of were:journey of giraffe, tribe of baboons, murder of crows, crash of hippopotami, clan of hyenas,leap of leopards, and troop of monkeys. I now can imagine the conversation that spawned Animal Collective's band name.

The most common animals around were the Impalas. They're a type of antelope that somehow, someone from Chevy heard of back in the day. It was almost ritual that on everyone's first day of safari, they'd get really excited when they saw a group of these pretty boys, and everyone else would kind of roll their eyes.

Apparently they're called the "McDonalds of the bush" for a few reasons:

1) They actually have what looks to be a big 'M' tattooed on their backsides

2) They're so common that they're basically the low-quality, easily accessible "game" for people on safari

3) They actually are the easiest prey for lions and leopards. They can barely fight back and are so plentiful that predators can easily take out a few in any given attack.

My favorite random fact: Rhinos penises are actually "recurved" meaning that it kinda curves back through their legs. This allows them to spray pee backwards to mark their territory. Both rangers I came across made the exact same awful joke when pointing this fact out (in both safaris we observed them reverse-spraying)…saying "it took me a few weeks to learn how to do it myself!" Hey-o!

Apparently when female buffalos are ready to mate, they will actually mount another female to demonstrate to the male that they are ready…not dissimilar from a drunk, heterosexual coed making out with another girl at a party (I am using the term 'coed' because I am now over 30).

Hippos used to hold the title of the killer of the most humans for years until very recently in South Africa. Lions have taken over due to a very random geopolitical development. Illegal immigrants from Mozambique apparently have been flooding over the border and the least guarded route is through Kruger National Park. They cross in middle of the night to avoid rangers, but unfortunately lion's are mainly nocturnal hunters. Unfortunate.

Rangers and trackers speak to each other in a mix of Sangaan, Zulu, and English. Leopards are called "ingwey" and a lion is an "ingala", while a male is "madodo" and female is "mufazi". The entire time they'd be speaking to each other about what they thought might be around and say things like "mufazi ingwey on bellway peak chasing madodo kudwa". I feel like I now understand the lyrics to the opening song in Lion King.

Where Cargo Pants Are Still Okay

I want to begin this entry with the disclaimer that I've never been a particularly outdoorsy guy. I've definitely never tried hunting. I always suspected that bird watching was just a cover for child molesters. Even factoring all this in, the experience of an African safari is up there as one of the most amazing of my life.

What exactly constitutes a South African safari? It seems like it should be obvious but I wasn't completely sure what I was getting myself into. The objective is to see or find "game", a term that I thought was only used in hunting. In South Africa, there's a collective called the "Big Five" that's made up of lions, leopards, rhinos, elephants, and buffalo. The more of these you see, the "better the game" in a given area. One evening we saw a leopard eating an impala (a type of antelope) that had dragged the body up into a tree to protect it from hyenas and was busy ripping into it. That game would definitely be considered lekker (an all-purpose South Africanism for "very cool", "tasty", or even "sexy").

There are two ways to do a safari in the Kruger National Park area in South Africa: one is to "self-drive" around the park. I attempted this for one morning and considering I was flying solo, between trying to concentrate on driving and having absolutely no clue what I was looking for, I didn't see much game.

The other way is to book a stay with a Private Game Reserve. North of the park, there are large plots of land owned by resort-type lodges. After the self-drive disaster, I booked a few nights and am eternally glad I did. I'll post later about the specific lodges, but basically, you wake up around 5:30am for the morning game drive. You load up on a large, open land cruiser that's outfitted to seat up to 9 passengers in addition to the driver and a 'tracker'. You then drive around all morning 'tracking game'.

The whole tracker concept was absurd and amazing at the same time. I went to two different lodges during my stay, and both times the tracker was a local African who grew up in a surrounding village or town, giving them a solid knowledge of the bush. As you drive around, the tracker is seated up in front of the vehicle on this extension seat thing. The coolest part was he'll coolly sit up there as we're driving around, and occasionally, when none of the passengers would notice anything, make a little rightward hand flick and the driver would stop. Without fail, there would be a lion or some other game hiding between trees or hidden in tall grass. Often he'll tell the ranger to stop driving when he sees tracks in the dirt and then inspect those tracks to decide where to head next. When the sun went down, he'd shine a spotlight around and sometimes spot animals just by the reflection of their eyes.

Cruising around with Tracker Gideon and Ranger Chase

The one main rule, which still blows my mind, is you have to absolutely stay seated the entire time. Apparently, the animals are used to seeing the shape and hearing the sounds of the land cruiser with seated passengers from birth so are not threatened at all by it. If you're to stand up, and especially if you get out of the vehicle, then you're just a human and it's dinnertime if they're hungry or threatened.

I seriously cannot describe how crazy it is when you're about four feet from a lion ripping apart a buffalo, or even a leopard stalking in the grass hunting a kudu (another antelope). There are moments you even begin to be convinced that the animals are somehow in on itand are taking a cut. However, we were about ten feet from an elephant at one point who suddenly turned around towards us and snorted a few times and stuck his ears out. The ranger absolutely floored it in reverse and later told us that is a definite sign of an impending charge, and that occasionally the animals do charge if a ranger is careless. Enjoy.

After the morning drive, you eat a huge breakfast and then chill out for a few hours. They have optional "bush walks" where a ranger will take you around on foot to parts deemed safe to walk and talk about plants and animals. I went on one which featured Jeffrey, an African ranger, who was extremely animated and somewhat incomprehensible. As we walked he kept telling stories about animals attacking irresponsible rangers and tourists and then would laugh heartily at the end of each one.

After a smaller lunch, you head out for the sunset drive that lasts for another 3-4 hours. The experience is similar to the morning one, but you see certain animals more frequently and in different situations. An added benefit of the evening drive was as the sun is setting, the ranger finds a relatively open field and parks. You jump out and they set up a table contraption attached to the land cruiser. It's 'Puza' time. Apparently, 'puza' is a term for drinking/drinks and can be used as a verb or noun. They'll pull out a bunch of booze and some biltong and other snacks and you puza as the sun sets, before heading out for another hour or so. (Fun Fact: Apparently liquor brands will sponsor nights like "Puza Thursdays" at bars and clubs in cities)

After the sunset drive, you have a large dinner in a fairly communal setting. I have to say, you can only imagine the cast of characters you'll meet at one of these. Throw in a bunch of wine and the conversations were absolutely unreal.

As I mentioned above, I generally don't crave the outdoors (I did live in New York City for over seven years) but the safari experience is something I'd recommend to everyone. Seeing animals like lions and rhinos from mere feet away is something you can barely process. Even driving around in the open land cruiser through the bush was somehow relaxing. It's a pain in the ass getting out here and the whole experience isn't exactly budget, but I'd strongly, strongly recommend everyone at some point in their lives to experience an African safari.