They live in the apartment directly across the small breezeway from me. All their windows face the opposite side of the building from mine, so we share a long common wall that includes the back of our respective walk-in closets, the bathrooms and the kitchens.
I have to say, overall, as far as neighbors go, especially ones so close, I have very little to complain about them. They don't play music or TV at all, it seems and when they have conversations with each other they are quiet and during normal hours. I've spied through the peephole in my door at times when someone knocked at their door and when it was opened I could see, albeit fuzzy and extremely fish-eyed since it was through a peephole, a nice, neat furniture arrangement in there. Their patio which I can see clearly when I walk back there to go to the laundry facility in the next building over has a nice healthy potted palm and a cute black canvas covered umbrella table.
They're a young couple. I met each of them walking either to or from our cars to the door at least twice. The boy looks cute, though hard to tell with his perpetually worn designer-looking sunglasses covering his eyes. He looks to be about mid to late twenties, same as the girl, I'd guess. The girl is somewhat short and tight in build and with a sweet voice. I've only nodded "hello" to either of them but have heard them talk to each other and visitors. It's always in Spanish, of course.
They don't have wild late night parties (that I can tell) and they are probably of some Christian faith since when a couple of Mormon boys came knocking on my door a few months ago, once I quickly dismissed them in as polite a fashion as I could muster, my neighbor opened her door and seemed delighted they had dropped by. The Mormon boys' no-doubt scripted pitch was that they were in need of a "drink of water". It worked easily on her and she relished the idea of providing them refreshment as she eagerly ushered them into her place.
Ideal neighbors, right? Quiet, keep to themselves, no parade of loud visitors, not strange-looking or acting and apparently generous, patient and accepting of strangers.
But here's the rub. Whether it's her or him, I don't know which, but apparently they can't cook. Due to the lovely old duct system in this building, I can smell aromas of cooking food from at least my nearby neighbors. Not so bad. So far as I've been here, it would seem, this couple are the only ones trying to cook anything at all. And when they do, it's always the same item...
Broiled steak, unseasoned, burned to a crisp.
That's it. And sometimes a goodly-amount of it since my apartment will even have a haze of smoke that's wafted its way in from there.
Thankfully it's not everyday. Only once or twice a month I'd say.
Now of course I've never seen, or touched, or tasted this brutalized piece of meat ever, but I've been around a kitchen or two, you know, and I know what steak is supposed to smell like. In fact, good cooks (myself I humbly include into that pack) can use their sense of smell to determine done-ness. I can smell the difference between rare, medium and well. Let me tell you, their hunk o' flesh is cremated!
It's been done enough times to suggest it's not a failure in culinary exploration on the part of a novice. Anyone with even a modicum of cooking sense would learn well from their disaster if it was a mistaken botch up. They live in this building so they're probably not rich. At over $6/pound for just average grade beef, their pocketbook would demand they learn how to cook steak decently without a lot of wasted attempts.
No, they know what their doing. This is how they like it.
Forget Chicago Black and Blue, they make their's Mrs. O'Leary's cow after the fire it caused!
I sure hope I don't by chance get a friendly invite to come over there for dinner anytime. I already know what they'll be serving and frankly, my poor old teeth just couldn't handle it.