The day I turn 32, I take a self-portrait then weave my arms through my t-shirt of David Bowie’s mugshot and into a jacket that looks like I skinned Elmo. It is a Tuesday, Election Day, and I have resolved to spend the day as I wish, which thus far includes bundling myself up tight and heading downtown on the ferry. On the top deck, I tie my hair up so it doesn’t become one giant knot and the wind courses over my ears. I should probably have a hat, but I don’t. Exiting at Stuyvesant Cove, I trot in my black leather boots over to B&H for a grilled cheese and tomato soup and coffee. I know I’m one year older; it's nice it's not something that makes this day any different for any strangers walking past me.
I sit and read Charlie LeDuff’s Work and Other Sins, his collection of writing from The New York Times, in Washington Square Park. Youths skateboard and an old man sits on the bench next to me reading the newspaper. My hands and my nose protest that it’s slightly too cold for this, but I persist as I read a story about a pimp trying to make it in New York City after great success in Boston. When my hands and nose give up, I amble over to Mercer Street Books to buy myself a birthday present. Despite over 10 years in the city at this point, I hadn’t been there before Steven Jude took me there on a warm day this past summer. I had already bought too many books that day, and in trying to decide between Anais Nin and Sherrill Tippins and Frank O’Hara, I ultimately decided to leave them all on the shelf. But today, peering amongst the stacks while fielding birthday messages, my birthday present takes the shape of David Rakoff’s essay collection Half Empty, and I look forward to consuming his intellectual snark after I finish...yet another book I probably didn’t need to buy.
As the clock ticks ever nearer to 4pm, I make my way to Cafe Reggio to meet Meena, a new friend I met at an art gallery a few weeks ago. It is nice to know that even after a decade, there are still more good, interesting humans to include in my life, that I haven’t a threshold of friendships, even though it’s something DJ Khaled might prefer. Meena wants to take me for birthday “tea and cakes,” she says because she is British. We sit in the nearly 100-year-old cafe on MacDougal Street that’s normally crawling with tourists but today is merely a venue for working or meeting New Yorkers. There is an eclair and a croissant and blackberry tea and talk of politics, music, food before we cross over to Thompson Street.
“Do you want to play chess?” Meena says, and what a question! I don’t think it’s something someone’s asked me since middle school and, delighted by the novelty, I say yes. We go to Ches Forum. I have not played in years and my minimal skill is evident. As I remember the game minimal confidence erringly grows to hubris that correctly shrinks down again in fits of laughter. The music in the background is classical and “very chess-y,” Meena says, sort of intellectually crowded and complex in ways that make us laugh at both it and ourselves.
Walking down Bleecker Street later, bars with outdoor seating have propped up flat screen TVs so people can sit and watch the election results come in. It’s still early, a bit past 8pm, but my home county of Broward in South Florida, so far appears blue, which is a welcome change from years past. But of course I have already voted and it is my birthday, so I prefer to think about that instead.
I take myself to dinner at my new favorite spot, Kimika, on Kenmare Street. My plan is to indulge as much as I did for my birthday in Hawaii last year, to take care of myself and not worry about anyone else, a luxury I don't normally I afford myself. I remember the freedom in that, in just making myself happy, and that translates to dinner this evening. I don’t have to share, I don’t have to order anything I don’t want to order, I can eat as much of every dish as I want, and I don’t have to make clever conversation. All I have to do is enjoy the food, and I do indeed: their spicy shishito pepper margarita, olives in chili oil, figs with shiso and prosciutto, their signature rice cake lasagna with kimchi, various broccolis cooked in beef fat (!!!), apple crostata with melt-in-my-mouth pastry, and those miraculous, sinful, fabulously unholy mochi bomboloncini with warm nutella centers. Chef Christine Lau comes out and we do a birthday shot of tequila together because hers was the week before.
I leave with a feeling of having taken care of myself. This was a day I asked myself what I wanted to and my goodness did I answer with aplomb.
Step 1: Move to New York. Step 2: Have experiences.
Showing posts with label restaurant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label restaurant. Show all posts
Sunday, December 6, 2020
Sunday, October 4, 2020
Morsels
The last time I saw Julia, a man took our picture with a Polaroid camera and said the bright white of the flash would dissipate from our faces after it developed. He lied, maybe not on purpose, but he did. In it, we look like two friendly ghosts. We kept waiting for it to get darker as we ate pizza and salad in Crown Heights after a gig of hers at The Owl on Rogers Avenue, but it never did.
The day I see her again, so many months later--a phenomenon not unusual for anyone these days, I’m sure--we’re sitting under a peachy pink umbrella on a hot summer afternoon, drinking frose cocktails I’m sure meant for women who wear leggings to brunch and won’t shut up about SoulCycle. But we don’t care, it’s hot out, steamy, the kind of heat that makes your clothes cling to your chest, and a basic bitch cocktail is the perfect remedy.
*
The lightness I feel in my chest knowing B&H Dairy continues to survive the pandemic is practically levitating. SJT and I celebrate such a feat by dining there live and in person, and I am dunking my fresh mozzarella on challah bread into cold, cold borscht as if it hasn’t felt like decades since I was there last time. We slurp iced coffees and clink silver spoons against white ceramic bowls while young teens walk by dressed like they’re auditioning for The Craft. Ah youth, I smile, watching their Doc Martens amble past. I’m glad joy presents itself for me now less as trying to look cool and more like going shopping for vintage cookbooks at Bonnie Slotnick’s with SJT. While we are there, a woman named Jeannie tells us that eight short ribs is simply too many, how could you ever eat all of that. Later SJT promises to make me short ribs for my birthday, as many as I want.
*
HanOre returns from summer out of state and it’s jacket season, hers a red leather and mine the navy wool blazer I co-opted from my dad’s giveaway pile several years ago. We wrap them tighter around us as we sit at Amor y Amargo on East 6th Street in the East Village, nibbling on the roasted nuts we were required to buy by Governor Cuomo before sipping on smoky cocktails in high ball glasses. We talk about seduction and what it means to be a New Yorker, and how those things overlap. Somehow after two cocktails I am still standing and we go to Niagara a block away, the home of the Miss Manhattan reading. I miss my grungy weird little art bar and get a well drink in its honor with French fries lain across red and white checked wax paper. They’re too salty, but I don’t care. I’m just glad it’s still open.
*
Syd arrives to Le Moulin a Cafe and speaks French to the waiter. It’s so perfect he even laughs in French. I am drinking decaf iced coffee because I have been fighting insomnia but I miss the taste. The sun is hot but there’s a perfect chill in the air for my new emerald green chenille sweater, the one I love so much I have been wearing it for two days. I hardly remember what we ate because Syd--a history colleague I am delighted to also call my friend-- is so exuberant, joyful, vibrant I just remember laughing the whole time. Nobody ever comes up here, so it’s a treat when a friendly face appears. Later, we sit by the river and the sun shines and we talk about sex and television. Next to us, too close, even, an older woman undresses to absorb the sun and we’re reminded that New York is not dead.
*
As I’m preparing picnic goods for the park, I’m wondering when the last time it was that I truly entertained. It wasn’t going to be a big to-do, I was really just going to make a kugel for myself for Rosh Hashanah because last year’s turned out so well. But then I was reading Ruth Reichl’s Comfort Me with Apples and she was talking about dinners with groups of friends at Alice Waters’s house and I was inspired. I missed friends in groups and cooking for them, even with my limited skills. We found a spot near the river and unwrapped the noodle-y, dairy-full casserole laden with raisins (yes, RAISINS, because I LIKE THEM) and I gave out first then second then even third helpings. Later, I packed leftover challah and kugel into Ziploc bags for friends to take home like a real Jewish mother.
*
When Magali meets me in Long Island City, we go to a French bakery, a miraculously independent business trembling under the weight of all that too-new, too-nothing glass and concrete dotting the river and blocking the sun. I have a long, crusty (in a good way) ficelle with ham and butter and a chai tea and we sit in the sun, a parade of pups going by. I roll my eyes at dogs in strollers because honestly, what the hell is that even. Magali tells me about Zurich, where people have special bags they put their clothes and belongings in so they can swim home from work. I would never, ever want to swim in the East River, but I saw once in a documentary that people actually do it. I nibble on the ficelle as I consider the possibility. What doesn’t kill you makes you more of a New Yorker.
The day I see her again, so many months later--a phenomenon not unusual for anyone these days, I’m sure--we’re sitting under a peachy pink umbrella on a hot summer afternoon, drinking frose cocktails I’m sure meant for women who wear leggings to brunch and won’t shut up about SoulCycle. But we don’t care, it’s hot out, steamy, the kind of heat that makes your clothes cling to your chest, and a basic bitch cocktail is the perfect remedy.
*
The lightness I feel in my chest knowing B&H Dairy continues to survive the pandemic is practically levitating. SJT and I celebrate such a feat by dining there live and in person, and I am dunking my fresh mozzarella on challah bread into cold, cold borscht as if it hasn’t felt like decades since I was there last time. We slurp iced coffees and clink silver spoons against white ceramic bowls while young teens walk by dressed like they’re auditioning for The Craft. Ah youth, I smile, watching their Doc Martens amble past. I’m glad joy presents itself for me now less as trying to look cool and more like going shopping for vintage cookbooks at Bonnie Slotnick’s with SJT. While we are there, a woman named Jeannie tells us that eight short ribs is simply too many, how could you ever eat all of that. Later SJT promises to make me short ribs for my birthday, as many as I want.
*
HanOre returns from summer out of state and it’s jacket season, hers a red leather and mine the navy wool blazer I co-opted from my dad’s giveaway pile several years ago. We wrap them tighter around us as we sit at Amor y Amargo on East 6th Street in the East Village, nibbling on the roasted nuts we were required to buy by Governor Cuomo before sipping on smoky cocktails in high ball glasses. We talk about seduction and what it means to be a New Yorker, and how those things overlap. Somehow after two cocktails I am still standing and we go to Niagara a block away, the home of the Miss Manhattan reading. I miss my grungy weird little art bar and get a well drink in its honor with French fries lain across red and white checked wax paper. They’re too salty, but I don’t care. I’m just glad it’s still open.
*
Syd arrives to Le Moulin a Cafe and speaks French to the waiter. It’s so perfect he even laughs in French. I am drinking decaf iced coffee because I have been fighting insomnia but I miss the taste. The sun is hot but there’s a perfect chill in the air for my new emerald green chenille sweater, the one I love so much I have been wearing it for two days. I hardly remember what we ate because Syd--a history colleague I am delighted to also call my friend-- is so exuberant, joyful, vibrant I just remember laughing the whole time. Nobody ever comes up here, so it’s a treat when a friendly face appears. Later, we sit by the river and the sun shines and we talk about sex and television. Next to us, too close, even, an older woman undresses to absorb the sun and we’re reminded that New York is not dead.
*
As I’m preparing picnic goods for the park, I’m wondering when the last time it was that I truly entertained. It wasn’t going to be a big to-do, I was really just going to make a kugel for myself for Rosh Hashanah because last year’s turned out so well. But then I was reading Ruth Reichl’s Comfort Me with Apples and she was talking about dinners with groups of friends at Alice Waters’s house and I was inspired. I missed friends in groups and cooking for them, even with my limited skills. We found a spot near the river and unwrapped the noodle-y, dairy-full casserole laden with raisins (yes, RAISINS, because I LIKE THEM) and I gave out first then second then even third helpings. Later, I packed leftover challah and kugel into Ziploc bags for friends to take home like a real Jewish mother.
*
When Magali meets me in Long Island City, we go to a French bakery, a miraculously independent business trembling under the weight of all that too-new, too-nothing glass and concrete dotting the river and blocking the sun. I have a long, crusty (in a good way) ficelle with ham and butter and a chai tea and we sit in the sun, a parade of pups going by. I roll my eyes at dogs in strollers because honestly, what the hell is that even. Magali tells me about Zurich, where people have special bags they put their clothes and belongings in so they can swim home from work. I would never, ever want to swim in the East River, but I saw once in a documentary that people actually do it. I nibble on the ficelle as I consider the possibility. What doesn’t kill you makes you more of a New Yorker.
Thursday, July 11, 2019
Have Some More
Our bowls of pasta arrived sometime recently, but I don’t remember because time began slowing once our broccoli rabe appetizer, accented with strips of crispy pancetta, arrived at our table.
I am with my friend NE, human glitter, a poet who brims with shine and sparkle and intellect and knows how to appreciate joy and pleasure in big and small bites. We will be having dinner at Fiaschetteria Pistoia, which I will soon learn is a sliver of Tuscan culinary heaven on Christopher Street, where a man with tattoos in the window makes fresh pasta by hand, BY HAND, spinning dough into strips that will eventually become spaghetti, pappardelle, and lord knows what else. Waiting for NE in the tiny hallway next to a kitchen cordoned off by glass, I watch as another man makes slabs of veal in a pan, tossing in generous heaps of olive oil while the cast iron sizzles the meat to a light brown. Small plates of pasta, artichokes, vegetables leave the tiny kitchen window and exit into the room decorated with exposed brick painted white. A Keith Haring poster of Rome and another for Italian ice cream dot the walls. When we sit down at a tiny gray marble table, the words “Fresh Pasta is Never Al Dente Because it Was Never Dried” float above our heads.
We rip slices of bread, offered to us in a tiny brown paper bag, into a olive oil from an equally tiny ramekin. A waiter offers us wine from a selection of empty bottles, each tagged with ‘White’ and ‘Red’ like Alice’s bottles in Wonderland are with ‘Eat Me’ or ‘Drink Me.’ We don’t, instead pouring ourselves water from a repurposed bottle etched with what look like window panes.
NE is talking when the broccoli rabe arrives, its green stalks and florets dipped deliciously in olive oil, but I don’t remember what she says because I slide a chunk of it into my mouth with a sliver of pancetta and my brain stops working, the broccoli falling apart next to the crunch of the pancetta, releasing flowers and spices onto my tongue. She stops mid-sentence, eager to “have what I’m having” as When Harry Met Sally would say, and takes a bite. We look at each other, eyes wide. Wow.
We make our way through the small plate loaded with the shiny green vegetable until there’s just a little bit left.
“Have some more,” NE says.
“You have some more!” I say back, pointing a fork at her.
We both giggle and take each other’s advice. A lone floret rests on the edge of the plate when a waiter tries to remove it, but I make him pause so I can give it to NE. A smile spreads wide across her face.
Our pasta arrives in two small bowls lined with blue trim. I slide mine toward me, ribbony pappardelle made yellow by the redness of a bolognese-style ragu. I'm careful not to “chow down,” and remember to taste. The silken pasta glides next to the chunky, meaty ragu and slowly my brain begins to stop working again. I have trouble forming sentences. I try not to speak because that means more time I’m not eating. And NE is having the same experience with her Cacio e Pepe, this hand-rolled spaghetti with pecorino and black pepper that’s tangy and creamy at the same time. I taste it and eat it with all manner of impropriety, nibbling the strands of pasta from my fork one by one.
We go back to our own dishes, but NE insists. “Have some more!”
When I hear her say it this time, I realize she is not just saying to keep indulging in Cacio e Pepe. Enjoy, she is saying. Take pleasure! Live! Taste! Be in and of your senses and this moment. The food is so good, she says I start blushing. She wants to marry every man in the restaurant, especially the one who makes the pasta. After a while we stop speaking altogether and just look at each other and shake our heads. We both feel a little drunk, despite having only water to drink. This food euphoria is something new, a buzz not unlike a strong glass of wine. The pleasures of good food shared with a friend extend beyond the stomach. We are tasting joy, and in good company.
I am with my friend NE, human glitter, a poet who brims with shine and sparkle and intellect and knows how to appreciate joy and pleasure in big and small bites. We will be having dinner at Fiaschetteria Pistoia, which I will soon learn is a sliver of Tuscan culinary heaven on Christopher Street, where a man with tattoos in the window makes fresh pasta by hand, BY HAND, spinning dough into strips that will eventually become spaghetti, pappardelle, and lord knows what else. Waiting for NE in the tiny hallway next to a kitchen cordoned off by glass, I watch as another man makes slabs of veal in a pan, tossing in generous heaps of olive oil while the cast iron sizzles the meat to a light brown. Small plates of pasta, artichokes, vegetables leave the tiny kitchen window and exit into the room decorated with exposed brick painted white. A Keith Haring poster of Rome and another for Italian ice cream dot the walls. When we sit down at a tiny gray marble table, the words “Fresh Pasta is Never Al Dente Because it Was Never Dried” float above our heads.
We rip slices of bread, offered to us in a tiny brown paper bag, into a olive oil from an equally tiny ramekin. A waiter offers us wine from a selection of empty bottles, each tagged with ‘White’ and ‘Red’ like Alice’s bottles in Wonderland are with ‘Eat Me’ or ‘Drink Me.’ We don’t, instead pouring ourselves water from a repurposed bottle etched with what look like window panes.
NE is talking when the broccoli rabe arrives, its green stalks and florets dipped deliciously in olive oil, but I don’t remember what she says because I slide a chunk of it into my mouth with a sliver of pancetta and my brain stops working, the broccoli falling apart next to the crunch of the pancetta, releasing flowers and spices onto my tongue. She stops mid-sentence, eager to “have what I’m having” as When Harry Met Sally would say, and takes a bite. We look at each other, eyes wide. Wow.
We make our way through the small plate loaded with the shiny green vegetable until there’s just a little bit left.
“Have some more,” NE says.
“You have some more!” I say back, pointing a fork at her.
We both giggle and take each other’s advice. A lone floret rests on the edge of the plate when a waiter tries to remove it, but I make him pause so I can give it to NE. A smile spreads wide across her face.
Our pasta arrives in two small bowls lined with blue trim. I slide mine toward me, ribbony pappardelle made yellow by the redness of a bolognese-style ragu. I'm careful not to “chow down,” and remember to taste. The silken pasta glides next to the chunky, meaty ragu and slowly my brain begins to stop working again. I have trouble forming sentences. I try not to speak because that means more time I’m not eating. And NE is having the same experience with her Cacio e Pepe, this hand-rolled spaghetti with pecorino and black pepper that’s tangy and creamy at the same time. I taste it and eat it with all manner of impropriety, nibbling the strands of pasta from my fork one by one.
We go back to our own dishes, but NE insists. “Have some more!”
When I hear her say it this time, I realize she is not just saying to keep indulging in Cacio e Pepe. Enjoy, she is saying. Take pleasure! Live! Taste! Be in and of your senses and this moment. The food is so good, she says I start blushing. She wants to marry every man in the restaurant, especially the one who makes the pasta. After a while we stop speaking altogether and just look at each other and shake our heads. We both feel a little drunk, despite having only water to drink. This food euphoria is something new, a buzz not unlike a strong glass of wine. The pleasures of good food shared with a friend extend beyond the stomach. We are tasting joy, and in good company.
Saturday, June 10, 2017
The World is My Oyster(s)
On Tuesday night, SJT and I find ourselves in the tunnels of Grand Central Station, below the walkways leading to the street, for a trip to an iconic New York landmark, perhaps as iconic as the building that houses it. The Grand Central Oyster Bar has been just below street level for over 100 years, its curved archways, countertops, and dark wooden bars delightfully from an era not our own. Though in 1974 it had become simply a rundown coffee shop, it was taken over that year by Jerome Brody, a restaurateur who transformed the space back to its former glory. It's now owned by an Employee Stock Ownership Program, and continues to be one of the city's most beloved spots--even if you'd never been there, you knew about it. You may even recognize it from previous years' cast introductions to Saturday Night Live, and it recently won the Design Icon James Beard Award.
And yet, SJT and I were among the group who knew about the legendary restaurant but had never gone. We resolved to remedy this with their new(ish) happy hour, which is held Monday-Wednesday from 4:30-7pm, and Saturdays from 1-5pm in their Lounge and Saloon spaces. The Lounge, with its modern white tables and chairs and banquette seating, gave us a view of the entire restaurant, so we waited patiently for one to open (they're first-come, first-serve). It felt vulture-like to prey upon the tables of people slowly putting on their jackets and leaving their empty wine glasses behind, but we knew it had to be done. He watched over one entrance and I the other and with a combined magic of occasional nods and eyebrow arches we wound up with a table vacated by four older, athleisure-clad women.
We sat, observing the three curved lunch counters to our left, with another one in the back, resolving to sit at one of them next time for the sandwiches that are only served there. I love sitting at lunch counters, with their spinning stools and handwritten menus overhead, for that feeling of being in another time.
From the happy hour menu, we chose Bluepoint Oysters and wine, a rose for SJT and a chardonnay for me. Normally, the Oyster List at the Oyster Bar is about five pages long, including not just the oyster name, but the geographic origin, size, and flavor profile. I have since learned that Bluepoints are regular sized, of mild flavor, and hail from New York's Long Island and Connecticut's Copps Island.
More older women in athleisure commandeered spaces around us, as did men in suits and women in neutral work attire. Grand Central Station is smack in the middle of midtown, of course, so it draws both tourists and businesspeople in great abundance. And yet here we were, two freelancers awaiting their giant plate of oysters.
I did not eat oysters until after I moved to New York, fearful from a young age of what might happen if one eats a bad one based on a story my mother had told me of her own experiences many moons ago. But after I ate one oyster and didn't die or end up in the hospital, I figured for a while I would continue trying them. I find them less fishy, less slimy than clams, with a meat that's just the right amount of slippery and chewy. I notice that I don't order them of my own volition (I wonder if this is a side effect of that original deep-seated fear), but if someone wants to eat oysters, I am happy to tag along. And since SJT has been on an oyster kick for the last few months, I have been happy to tag along. The Oyster Bar was his latest selection, and what would not be fun about testing out a New York icon?
I realized after coming back from L.A. that what most interested me about the city was what was left over from what I'm going to call its golden age, the '40s, '50s, and '60s. Restaurants like Musso & Frank with their famous steaks and Dal Rae with Cherries Jubilee prepared tableside are legendary spots I would have been excited to check out had there been time. But what about in my own city? There were so many incredible, historic places I had yet to visit and perhaps it was time to start digging in, to not take them for granted and try them while I was able.
It is a delight that the Oyster Bar was one of the first places I visited in this new view of the city I'm trying to have. Cracked open and laid on ice, the oysters arrived with tangy cocktail sauce, mignonette (a tangy, almost mauve sauce made of vinegar and shallots), lemons, and a big container of horseradish. We squeezed lemons and dipped sauces, but the oysters were perfectly lovely on their own, too--mild indeed, almost pillowy, and chilly. It was like being in another era for a while, so much that I imagined fixing my imaginary pillbox hat and rushing out to catch a train in my kitten heels. But alas, I was wearing cowboy boots which, I think, part of me still ultimately prefers.
And yet, SJT and I were among the group who knew about the legendary restaurant but had never gone. We resolved to remedy this with their new(ish) happy hour, which is held Monday-Wednesday from 4:30-7pm, and Saturdays from 1-5pm in their Lounge and Saloon spaces. The Lounge, with its modern white tables and chairs and banquette seating, gave us a view of the entire restaurant, so we waited patiently for one to open (they're first-come, first-serve). It felt vulture-like to prey upon the tables of people slowly putting on their jackets and leaving their empty wine glasses behind, but we knew it had to be done. He watched over one entrance and I the other and with a combined magic of occasional nods and eyebrow arches we wound up with a table vacated by four older, athleisure-clad women.
We sat, observing the three curved lunch counters to our left, with another one in the back, resolving to sit at one of them next time for the sandwiches that are only served there. I love sitting at lunch counters, with their spinning stools and handwritten menus overhead, for that feeling of being in another time.
From the happy hour menu, we chose Bluepoint Oysters and wine, a rose for SJT and a chardonnay for me. Normally, the Oyster List at the Oyster Bar is about five pages long, including not just the oyster name, but the geographic origin, size, and flavor profile. I have since learned that Bluepoints are regular sized, of mild flavor, and hail from New York's Long Island and Connecticut's Copps Island.
More older women in athleisure commandeered spaces around us, as did men in suits and women in neutral work attire. Grand Central Station is smack in the middle of midtown, of course, so it draws both tourists and businesspeople in great abundance. And yet here we were, two freelancers awaiting their giant plate of oysters.
I did not eat oysters until after I moved to New York, fearful from a young age of what might happen if one eats a bad one based on a story my mother had told me of her own experiences many moons ago. But after I ate one oyster and didn't die or end up in the hospital, I figured for a while I would continue trying them. I find them less fishy, less slimy than clams, with a meat that's just the right amount of slippery and chewy. I notice that I don't order them of my own volition (I wonder if this is a side effect of that original deep-seated fear), but if someone wants to eat oysters, I am happy to tag along. And since SJT has been on an oyster kick for the last few months, I have been happy to tag along. The Oyster Bar was his latest selection, and what would not be fun about testing out a New York icon?
I realized after coming back from L.A. that what most interested me about the city was what was left over from what I'm going to call its golden age, the '40s, '50s, and '60s. Restaurants like Musso & Frank with their famous steaks and Dal Rae with Cherries Jubilee prepared tableside are legendary spots I would have been excited to check out had there been time. But what about in my own city? There were so many incredible, historic places I had yet to visit and perhaps it was time to start digging in, to not take them for granted and try them while I was able.
It is a delight that the Oyster Bar was one of the first places I visited in this new view of the city I'm trying to have. Cracked open and laid on ice, the oysters arrived with tangy cocktail sauce, mignonette (a tangy, almost mauve sauce made of vinegar and shallots), lemons, and a big container of horseradish. We squeezed lemons and dipped sauces, but the oysters were perfectly lovely on their own, too--mild indeed, almost pillowy, and chilly. It was like being in another era for a while, so much that I imagined fixing my imaginary pillbox hat and rushing out to catch a train in my kitten heels. But alas, I was wearing cowboy boots which, I think, part of me still ultimately prefers.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Cheese and Sugar
RaGo's birthday was four months ago, but I didn't have a chance to celebrate with her until this week. There are few things in the world the woman loves more than cheese--especially gooey, melted cheese on top of, well, whatever you got--so I gave her a list of options of places I'd like to take her that might feature such an experience.
From the list, she chose Raclette in the East Village, where they do the real deal raclette thing: the edge of half a wheel of cheese heated and bubbling then scraped with a special knife onto your plate of potatoes, meat, salad, vegetables, you name it. I had never had raclette before, but I once flirted with a man on the train who was from Switzerland and told me it was huge there. Just cheese on cheese on cheese scraped for your life onto your plate. It was the perfect place to take RaGo.
What's interesting about Raclette is that they only do reservations online--I've become aware, at my old age, that this is not in fact unusual, but this was my first encounter with the experience. I even tried to call and there was a message saying the equivalent of "nah, you can't do that here" but, you know, a lot nicer than that. The other interesting part about this is that, though RaGo and I made these plans literally weeks ago, I did not find out until the day of that you even needed a reservation (though, to their credit, it does say so rather largely on their website, so the onus is totally on me). So there I was, hours before we were supposed to meet, frantically perusing their website for reservations and trying to call, but to no avail. I saw that they did, in fact, accept walk-ins, so I resolved to go down there early--like, way, way early--to see if I could snag us a table. I had made a promise to RaGo and there was no way I was going to mess it up. Just in case, I scoured Google for "fondue east village" and "melted cheese east village" only to find the most consistent recommendation was still Raclette. And I gathered my life together and headed down, arriving at about 6:45pm (we initially wanted to meet at 8). I explained my plight to the gal at the hostess stand, inhaling the scent of pungent cheese as soon as I walked in. She asked when we wanted to come in, looked down at her iPad, and found us a table. And that was it! I had done it! Praise RuPaul.
The evening was brisk, and I walked over to The Bean to have an iced tea and read from my book for a while. I returned to Raclette later and our table was ready, and they even let me sit down though RaGo wasn't there yet, something I find more and more is a rare occurrence these days. Shortly she came in through the door, though, and we began staring at the piles of cheese gliding onto plates, mouths watering in anticipation. We both decided on the Suisse plate, which included roasted potatoes, pearl onions, cornichons, arugula, and a meat of your choice (she chose prosciutto, I jambon de Paris). And what sort of birthday would it be without a bottle of wine, Cabernet Sauvignon, which we split.
Soon it was our turn to be cheesed, and our plates came out followed by a gal holding that giant half-wheel we both stared at lovingly. We watched as the waterfall of cheese fell first on my plate then, after another heating session perhaps, on her plate. The waterfall somehow expertly fell over the whole plate of food, and we began digging in, mouths somehow still watering as we continued to eat. We drank our wine, we ate our cheese, we chitted and chatted and after the bottle was finished (don't worry, mom, my liver is fine) we had spent nearly two hours in the restaurant, perhaps in true European style.
But RaGo's birthday was not done yet, and we made our way to Chikalicious, a dessert bar where you can get a prix fixe dessert menu featuring an amuse bouche, "entree," and petit fours (there's also the Dessert Club across the street where you can get funky a la carte items like black sesame ice cream in a churro cone). The menu changes every day, but we got the Warm Chocolate Tart with Pink Peppercorn Ice Cream and Red Wine Sauce, preceded by orange and brown sugar sorbet and followed by a teeny coconut marshmallow, teeny alfajor (Argentinian caramel cookie), and teeny vanilla ice cream on top of a teeny chocolate cookie. Praise RuPaul yet again.
Everyone deserves a little bit of luxury on their birthdays, I think. Whether that's in the form of melted cheese or not is entirely up to you.
From the list, she chose Raclette in the East Village, where they do the real deal raclette thing: the edge of half a wheel of cheese heated and bubbling then scraped with a special knife onto your plate of potatoes, meat, salad, vegetables, you name it. I had never had raclette before, but I once flirted with a man on the train who was from Switzerland and told me it was huge there. Just cheese on cheese on cheese scraped for your life onto your plate. It was the perfect place to take RaGo.
What's interesting about Raclette is that they only do reservations online--I've become aware, at my old age, that this is not in fact unusual, but this was my first encounter with the experience. I even tried to call and there was a message saying the equivalent of "nah, you can't do that here" but, you know, a lot nicer than that. The other interesting part about this is that, though RaGo and I made these plans literally weeks ago, I did not find out until the day of that you even needed a reservation (though, to their credit, it does say so rather largely on their website, so the onus is totally on me). So there I was, hours before we were supposed to meet, frantically perusing their website for reservations and trying to call, but to no avail. I saw that they did, in fact, accept walk-ins, so I resolved to go down there early--like, way, way early--to see if I could snag us a table. I had made a promise to RaGo and there was no way I was going to mess it up. Just in case, I scoured Google for "fondue east village" and "melted cheese east village" only to find the most consistent recommendation was still Raclette. And I gathered my life together and headed down, arriving at about 6:45pm (we initially wanted to meet at 8). I explained my plight to the gal at the hostess stand, inhaling the scent of pungent cheese as soon as I walked in. She asked when we wanted to come in, looked down at her iPad, and found us a table. And that was it! I had done it! Praise RuPaul.
The evening was brisk, and I walked over to The Bean to have an iced tea and read from my book for a while. I returned to Raclette later and our table was ready, and they even let me sit down though RaGo wasn't there yet, something I find more and more is a rare occurrence these days. Shortly she came in through the door, though, and we began staring at the piles of cheese gliding onto plates, mouths watering in anticipation. We both decided on the Suisse plate, which included roasted potatoes, pearl onions, cornichons, arugula, and a meat of your choice (she chose prosciutto, I jambon de Paris). And what sort of birthday would it be without a bottle of wine, Cabernet Sauvignon, which we split.
Soon it was our turn to be cheesed, and our plates came out followed by a gal holding that giant half-wheel we both stared at lovingly. We watched as the waterfall of cheese fell first on my plate then, after another heating session perhaps, on her plate. The waterfall somehow expertly fell over the whole plate of food, and we began digging in, mouths somehow still watering as we continued to eat. We drank our wine, we ate our cheese, we chitted and chatted and after the bottle was finished (don't worry, mom, my liver is fine) we had spent nearly two hours in the restaurant, perhaps in true European style.
But RaGo's birthday was not done yet, and we made our way to Chikalicious, a dessert bar where you can get a prix fixe dessert menu featuring an amuse bouche, "entree," and petit fours (there's also the Dessert Club across the street where you can get funky a la carte items like black sesame ice cream in a churro cone). The menu changes every day, but we got the Warm Chocolate Tart with Pink Peppercorn Ice Cream and Red Wine Sauce, preceded by orange and brown sugar sorbet and followed by a teeny coconut marshmallow, teeny alfajor (Argentinian caramel cookie), and teeny vanilla ice cream on top of a teeny chocolate cookie. Praise RuPaul yet again.
Everyone deserves a little bit of luxury on their birthdays, I think. Whether that's in the form of melted cheese or not is entirely up to you.
Saturday, February 11, 2017
Mr. Donahue's
I've been on a kick lately where, call me crazy, I think food can be delicious, not terrible for you, and relatively inexpensive. One of my most recent jaunts on this new food journey of mine was the incredible Mr. Donahue's in Nolita, which I wrote about briefly last week. I was pointed toward the restaurant by the wonderful Pete Wells in his New York Times roundup of the best new restaurants in New York, shared with me by SJT. I'm not a person who needs a many-hundred (or even just one hundred) dollar tasting menu to be happy, nor have I ever been, so it was a pleasure to see a place like Mr. Donahue's on his list. Each entree on the small but well-planned menu is $20, and with it comes two sides and a choice of sauce (if you get the roast beef it's a little more at $26). I like Mr. Wells's style when it comes not just to writing (those Guy Fieri and Per Se takedowns are truly the stuff of legend at this point) but how he thinks about food--having had the pleasure of meeting the man last summer, I was pleased to find him unpretentious and considerate--so I was curious to see what Mr. Donahue's was all about.
SE and I rolled up to the restaurant on a very snowy Saturday, snowflakes sticking, as The Sound of Music would have it, to our noses and eyelashes. The space was teeny tiny, just two lunch counters and a four-top table, and it looked like it fell out of a 1970s television show set in the Midwest. Gold marbled mirrors, a browned Pepsi sign with white detachable letters, a vintage silver fan, brown leather barstools and brown wooden chairs next to white marble tables and doilies upon doilies caught my eye as we hovered by the doorway and waited for a place to sit. The restaurant doesn't take reservations, so we hungrily eyed the adorable clear glass or flowered china plates (they looked like they belonged to someone's grandmother--this restaurant may be small but it is brimming with style) filled with food of the patrons slowly making their way through their meals. We had both been studying the menu for weeks, mouths watering at the prospect of '70s-style home cooking in the form of Dry Aged Meatloaf, Duchess Potatoes, Crab Imperial, Banana Rum Pudding or a multitude of other options. Shortly our friends, K&O, arrived, and we took a seat at the only four-top that had magically appeared as they walked in.
As delicious as literally everything on the menu looked, both SE and I found ourselves drawn to the roast beef. I ordered mine with acorn squash, a watercress, endive, pomegranate seed and pistachio salad with mustard vinaigrette, and an herb garlic sauce. He chose the rotisserie red cabbage with Caesar dressing and croutons along with the Brussels sprouts Almondine topped with brown butter vinaigrette. Our "slabs of meat" as SE called them arrived swiftly, two perfectly pink, juicy rectangles with just enough fat teasing our eyeballs. We dug in to the slices, their edges salted and peppered for a savory tang. Having seen this item online for two weeks then in the flesh (pardon the pun), it was a delight to have it taste exactly as I hoped it would. Our table fell silent as everyone dug into their dishes (O ordered the steelhead trout and K ordered the chicken-fried pork cheeks), enjoying them too much to speak. The gingerbread crumble made my squash crackle with sweetness, and SE's rotisserie red cabbage was really the stuff dreams are made of. We realized we had literally seen the tiny red cabbages on the spit with the chickens when we walked in, and SE was served a quarter of one as his side. The cabbage, spun on that spit for god knows how long, slid apart with the slice of a fork, its subtle spice complemented by the creamy Caesar dressing. I could have just sat there and eaten a whole cabbage, if I'm honest, though I'm not sure what that would have done to my stomach. Oy.
It was one of those meals where I was sad to see everything go. You mean...it's all gone? We don't get to eat anymore? But O&K ordered a banana rum pudding topped with sweet, cloud-like whipped cream and brimming with firm bananas coated in a caramelized sugar glaze and our mouths were happy once more. I'm still sad the meal is over but I'm happy to know that Mr. Donahue's will be there whenever I want it to be, hopefully for a while.
SE and I rolled up to the restaurant on a very snowy Saturday, snowflakes sticking, as The Sound of Music would have it, to our noses and eyelashes. The space was teeny tiny, just two lunch counters and a four-top table, and it looked like it fell out of a 1970s television show set in the Midwest. Gold marbled mirrors, a browned Pepsi sign with white detachable letters, a vintage silver fan, brown leather barstools and brown wooden chairs next to white marble tables and doilies upon doilies caught my eye as we hovered by the doorway and waited for a place to sit. The restaurant doesn't take reservations, so we hungrily eyed the adorable clear glass or flowered china plates (they looked like they belonged to someone's grandmother--this restaurant may be small but it is brimming with style) filled with food of the patrons slowly making their way through their meals. We had both been studying the menu for weeks, mouths watering at the prospect of '70s-style home cooking in the form of Dry Aged Meatloaf, Duchess Potatoes, Crab Imperial, Banana Rum Pudding or a multitude of other options. Shortly our friends, K&O, arrived, and we took a seat at the only four-top that had magically appeared as they walked in.
As delicious as literally everything on the menu looked, both SE and I found ourselves drawn to the roast beef. I ordered mine with acorn squash, a watercress, endive, pomegranate seed and pistachio salad with mustard vinaigrette, and an herb garlic sauce. He chose the rotisserie red cabbage with Caesar dressing and croutons along with the Brussels sprouts Almondine topped with brown butter vinaigrette. Our "slabs of meat" as SE called them arrived swiftly, two perfectly pink, juicy rectangles with just enough fat teasing our eyeballs. We dug in to the slices, their edges salted and peppered for a savory tang. Having seen this item online for two weeks then in the flesh (pardon the pun), it was a delight to have it taste exactly as I hoped it would. Our table fell silent as everyone dug into their dishes (O ordered the steelhead trout and K ordered the chicken-fried pork cheeks), enjoying them too much to speak. The gingerbread crumble made my squash crackle with sweetness, and SE's rotisserie red cabbage was really the stuff dreams are made of. We realized we had literally seen the tiny red cabbages on the spit with the chickens when we walked in, and SE was served a quarter of one as his side. The cabbage, spun on that spit for god knows how long, slid apart with the slice of a fork, its subtle spice complemented by the creamy Caesar dressing. I could have just sat there and eaten a whole cabbage, if I'm honest, though I'm not sure what that would have done to my stomach. Oy.
It was one of those meals where I was sad to see everything go. You mean...it's all gone? We don't get to eat anymore? But O&K ordered a banana rum pudding topped with sweet, cloud-like whipped cream and brimming with firm bananas coated in a caramelized sugar glaze and our mouths were happy once more. I'm still sad the meal is over but I'm happy to know that Mr. Donahue's will be there whenever I want it to be, hopefully for a while.
Saturday, May 21, 2016
A Weeknight in the Life
I've been finding more often than not that all the nights of my week are jam packed. There was a time when I eschewed any activity in favor of yoga, but I seem to have deviated from this path in the last few months or so (don't worry, I still exercise during the day) in favor of a host of other activities. Below is a sampling of what this looks like from this week:
Monday
SC, B, and I gather at Boxers in Chelsea for the season 8 finale of RuPaul's Drag Race. The evening was hosted by she of the towering hair and perfect hourglass figure, drag queen Alexis Michelle. We were supposed to meet at the delightfully grungy Boots & Saddle in the West Village, but it was sadly closed due to flooding after a rainstorm. The next best option was Boxers, which is always packed for Drag Race, and we knew it would be especially so tonight for the finale, perhaps even more than it would have been because people who were also going to Boots & Saddle may have also ended up in Chelsea that evening instead. The venue was swarming with people, but B managed to find us some real estate in the center of something like five different televisions. This, after all, was our playoffs, or World Cup, our Super Bowl of Drag. Not only that, but I had been in the house all day so it was nice to be out interacting with other humans. Our beloved Bob the Drag Queen was in the top three representing our city. Hashtag #TeamBob was everywhere, and Alexis told stories of performing with Bob around town. And at the end of the hour and a half finale, Bob won! The bar let out an enormous cheer followed by bursts of applause. We walked out into the night, pretending to "walk into the club purse first" as Bob had done on the show.
"I expected to be running into people and high-fiving them!" SC said as we made our way down a rather quiet 20th Street. "But I forget not everybody watches Drag Race." It's an insular world, maybe, but it's ours.
TuesdayI had the distinct pleasure of being asked to be a judge at The Prose Bowl, a monthly literary event at Pete's Candy Store in Brooklyn. Founded by writers John Hague and Christopher Green, the premise of the series is that four people, all of whom enter their names in a hat at the beginning of the evening, are picked at random read a work of fiction that's 900 words or about five minutes long. The story is then judged by a panel, and the top two writers enter a lightning round, where they tell a story that's about as along as a tweet. The winner is decided by audience applause and given a free drink and a "doo-dad of infinite impracticability."
On the judging panel with Green and another regular judge Jordan Zolan, I was worried I would be too mean, the Simon Cowell of the group, if you will. Listening to the stories, immensely creative for a few short minutes, I really enjoyed the challenge of coming up with a (somewhat? hopefully?) insightful critique to share at the end. I did at one point say "more fangirling, less sadgirling" in one of my critiques, which rather comically ended up on The Prose Bowl's Twitter later. The winning story was a hilarious tale about purchasing a couch from a Craigslist ad that ended up covered in cat pee. It included the wonderful line "She stays thin because she lies so much," in reference to the seller of the couch, who vehemently denied the cat urine incident. If you love free, interesting literary events, it's definitely one worth checking out. You can also read a recap of Tuesday's event on their blog here.
Wednesday
I actually did go to yoga.
Thursday
SE knows I love surprises and though he doesn't, he managed to keep a secret our plans for Thursday night for a few weeks.
"Meet me on the corner of 45th and 8th at 6:30pm sharp!" he said.
We met on the southeast corner, and he pointed to a pizza joint across the street. "I thought we could go and check out some of this amazing Times Square pizza," he said, possibly joking but I wasn't sure. I raised my eyebrows and said okay, befuddled yet amused. "But first I thought we could go see American Psycho." Ohhhhhhhhh! We had discussed the musical previously, so it was fun to be surprised with tickets.
During the show, SE told me he had made reservations at a restaurant uptown, but apparently the kitchen closed at 10pm and if the show got out later than 9:30, he wasn't sure we'd make it. It didn't matter to me, I said, that I'd be happy with Papaya King, but I knew he wanted this evening to be special. Magically, as we were making our way up 8th Avenue after the show amongst throngs of other people, a cab stopped right in front of us to let two women out. We got in and made our way very quickly uptown, to 70th and Columbus. "Ye of little faith!" I said, patting his shoulder as we got in the cab. The restaurant, it turned out, was Parm, one of my new favorite spots that now had a location on the Upper West Side as well as in Nolita. We had walked past it one evening and I had told him about the amazing eggplant parmagiana sandwiches and he had remembered. We arrived at Parm with about 10 minutes to spare, maybe less, before the kitchen closed. Our waitress, perhaps eager to leave, came over and asked for our order quickly--two eggplant parmagiana heroes, please--and soon we were chowing down into the crispy, tomato-y goodness on perfect sesame-covered bread. It was heaven. And SE, who isn't really even an eggplant or tomato fan, loved it just as much as I did.
Friday
I am on deadline, as ever, and I am a little late to meet SJT and L at Le Poisson Rouge, where we will shortly see the goddess, the high priestess, the Divine Miss P, the one and only Patti Smith. I realize that this is the fourth time I have seen her royal radness in person, and I am just as excited as I have been every other time. The evening is a benefit for a retreat community upstate and Patti is the star act, with her daughter Jesse on piano and her son Jackson on guitar. She is a warm and funny presence onstage, and sometimes when she's speaking I feel like she's my mom, too. She covers Prince's "When Doves Cry," and it's incredible, as is everything else she does with her voice. The stage lights turn a slight purple and bounce off of her silver hair, making it look purple too. Afterward she simply says "Prince!" with a smile, raising her hands upward to the sky. I could listen to her sing, talk, recite poetry forever while she wears one of those black blazers she always wears and her custom boots made for her by Johnny Depp to look like those he wears as the Mad Hatter in Tim Burton's films.
After the concert, we head to the Olive Tree Cafe for sandwiches, hummus, and a carafe of wine. We gossip and discuss theatre and SJT tells a story about when he accompanied a singer at a synagogue and really enjoyed the deli platters afterward.
Eyes heavy with wine, we part ways and I traipse into a cab and then, eventually, my bed.
SC, B, and I gather at Boxers in Chelsea for the season 8 finale of RuPaul's Drag Race. The evening was hosted by she of the towering hair and perfect hourglass figure, drag queen Alexis Michelle. We were supposed to meet at the delightfully grungy Boots & Saddle in the West Village, but it was sadly closed due to flooding after a rainstorm. The next best option was Boxers, which is always packed for Drag Race, and we knew it would be especially so tonight for the finale, perhaps even more than it would have been because people who were also going to Boots & Saddle may have also ended up in Chelsea that evening instead. The venue was swarming with people, but B managed to find us some real estate in the center of something like five different televisions. This, after all, was our playoffs, or World Cup, our Super Bowl of Drag. Not only that, but I had been in the house all day so it was nice to be out interacting with other humans. Our beloved Bob the Drag Queen was in the top three representing our city. Hashtag #TeamBob was everywhere, and Alexis told stories of performing with Bob around town. And at the end of the hour and a half finale, Bob won! The bar let out an enormous cheer followed by bursts of applause. We walked out into the night, pretending to "walk into the club purse first" as Bob had done on the show.
"I expected to be running into people and high-fiving them!" SC said as we made our way down a rather quiet 20th Street. "But I forget not everybody watches Drag Race." It's an insular world, maybe, but it's ours.
TuesdayI had the distinct pleasure of being asked to be a judge at The Prose Bowl, a monthly literary event at Pete's Candy Store in Brooklyn. Founded by writers John Hague and Christopher Green, the premise of the series is that four people, all of whom enter their names in a hat at the beginning of the evening, are picked at random read a work of fiction that's 900 words or about five minutes long. The story is then judged by a panel, and the top two writers enter a lightning round, where they tell a story that's about as along as a tweet. The winner is decided by audience applause and given a free drink and a "doo-dad of infinite impracticability."
On the judging panel with Green and another regular judge Jordan Zolan, I was worried I would be too mean, the Simon Cowell of the group, if you will. Listening to the stories, immensely creative for a few short minutes, I really enjoyed the challenge of coming up with a (somewhat? hopefully?) insightful critique to share at the end. I did at one point say "more fangirling, less sadgirling" in one of my critiques, which rather comically ended up on The Prose Bowl's Twitter later. The winning story was a hilarious tale about purchasing a couch from a Craigslist ad that ended up covered in cat pee. It included the wonderful line "She stays thin because she lies so much," in reference to the seller of the couch, who vehemently denied the cat urine incident. If you love free, interesting literary events, it's definitely one worth checking out. You can also read a recap of Tuesday's event on their blog here.
Wednesday
I actually did go to yoga.
Thursday
SE knows I love surprises and though he doesn't, he managed to keep a secret our plans for Thursday night for a few weeks.
"Meet me on the corner of 45th and 8th at 6:30pm sharp!" he said.
We met on the southeast corner, and he pointed to a pizza joint across the street. "I thought we could go and check out some of this amazing Times Square pizza," he said, possibly joking but I wasn't sure. I raised my eyebrows and said okay, befuddled yet amused. "But first I thought we could go see American Psycho." Ohhhhhhhhh! We had discussed the musical previously, so it was fun to be surprised with tickets.
During the show, SE told me he had made reservations at a restaurant uptown, but apparently the kitchen closed at 10pm and if the show got out later than 9:30, he wasn't sure we'd make it. It didn't matter to me, I said, that I'd be happy with Papaya King, but I knew he wanted this evening to be special. Magically, as we were making our way up 8th Avenue after the show amongst throngs of other people, a cab stopped right in front of us to let two women out. We got in and made our way very quickly uptown, to 70th and Columbus. "Ye of little faith!" I said, patting his shoulder as we got in the cab. The restaurant, it turned out, was Parm, one of my new favorite spots that now had a location on the Upper West Side as well as in Nolita. We had walked past it one evening and I had told him about the amazing eggplant parmagiana sandwiches and he had remembered. We arrived at Parm with about 10 minutes to spare, maybe less, before the kitchen closed. Our waitress, perhaps eager to leave, came over and asked for our order quickly--two eggplant parmagiana heroes, please--and soon we were chowing down into the crispy, tomato-y goodness on perfect sesame-covered bread. It was heaven. And SE, who isn't really even an eggplant or tomato fan, loved it just as much as I did.
Friday
I am on deadline, as ever, and I am a little late to meet SJT and L at Le Poisson Rouge, where we will shortly see the goddess, the high priestess, the Divine Miss P, the one and only Patti Smith. I realize that this is the fourth time I have seen her royal radness in person, and I am just as excited as I have been every other time. The evening is a benefit for a retreat community upstate and Patti is the star act, with her daughter Jesse on piano and her son Jackson on guitar. She is a warm and funny presence onstage, and sometimes when she's speaking I feel like she's my mom, too. She covers Prince's "When Doves Cry," and it's incredible, as is everything else she does with her voice. The stage lights turn a slight purple and bounce off of her silver hair, making it look purple too. Afterward she simply says "Prince!" with a smile, raising her hands upward to the sky. I could listen to her sing, talk, recite poetry forever while she wears one of those black blazers she always wears and her custom boots made for her by Johnny Depp to look like those he wears as the Mad Hatter in Tim Burton's films.
After the concert, we head to the Olive Tree Cafe for sandwiches, hummus, and a carafe of wine. We gossip and discuss theatre and SJT tells a story about when he accompanied a singer at a synagogue and really enjoyed the deli platters afterward.
Eyes heavy with wine, we part ways and I traipse into a cab and then, eventually, my bed.
Saturday, April 18, 2015
Noreetuh: A Playground for Your Mouth
Not too long ago, a headline from The Village Voice online included the phrase "Hawaiian food." I was intrigued, and clicked to find images of bright yet minimalist presentations of the creations from Noreetuh, a new restaurant in the East Village. Always excited about food that veers away from the ordinary, I added it to a mental list of places to try.
Last week I had the pleasure of being able to partake in an evening at Noreetuh with SJT. I was excited that the menu appealed to him and we made our way there. The restaurant opened last month at 128 First Avenue, between St. Mark's and 7th Streets. It defines itself as "casual Hawaiian," and features a menu created by Chef Chung Chow, a former sous chef at the legendary Per Se, who grew up in Hawaii and spent time in Japan. Chow and his partners Gerald San Jose and Jin Ahn all co-own Noreetuh, which means "playground" in Korean, and which SJT and I would learn fits the cuisine so, so well.
We were welcomed by the host (who I'd later find out was San Jose himself) at the door with a warmth that carried through with the rest of the staff the entire evening. I felt like I was talking to an old friend! Interestingly, that made me even more excited about the food. SJT and I sat down at a sleek wooden table for two and began casting our eyes about the menu. We resolved to share all of our courses, but we had some questions for our waiter (food appreciators though we are, we are not experts). What is musubi? What is a torchon? He answered knowledgeably and kindly: musubi is sushi-like, in that it involves rice wrapped with seaweed, but their version is more of a handroll. I've since learned that Spam musubi is a common Hawaiian snack, though at Noreetuh they prepare it with brined corned beef tongue, cilantro, and peanuts. We will have that please! And torchon, it turns out, is a kind of pate; in this case, made from the liver of a monkfish, served with pear, cilantro, and passionfruit with toasted King's Hawaiian roll slices for spreading. We will also have that, please! For our main course, we decided on the mochi-crusted fluke served with bok choy, kabocha squash, and black bean.
The corned beef musubi was salty, but in a fantastic way--the blend of the seaweed, the brine and the natural meat flavor with the cilantro was killer, and that extra crunch of those slightly sweet crushed peanuts took it to a more thoughtful level and broke up the salt. In the order there were two pieces--I don't know about SJT but I may or may not have actually licked my fingers when I was finished.
The queen of my heart this evening was far and away our next course, the monkfish liver torchon. And to think, at the beginning of dinner I didn't even know what torchon was! The pate was smooth and, to use the waiter's words, "oceanic," in that it tasted slightly of ocean water, but wasn't at all fishy. The buttery King's Hawaiian bread, even as an inside joke of sorts, was a perfect compliment, as were the acidic sweetness of the pear and passion fruit. I had visions of SJT and I popping in there on an evening after work to have glasses of wine (from their extensive wine list curated by General Manager Jin Ahn) and monkfish liver torchon as if we were ladies who lunch having caviar and champagne. But really, the former was just as good as the latter, and at least the torchon had a sense of humor! I found myself carving the plate with my fork so none of it would be left uneaten. Thankfully SJT didn't judge me.
The mochi-crusted fluke was light and slightly crunchy, and it was lively dipped into the subtle squash and black bean drizzles. All of that together on a fork with the tangy bok choy, though, was the best--loud and quiet flavors (and sounds! Ha!) all in one mouthful. "Come to me, bok choy!" SJT said as he scooted a stalk to his plate.
We didn't know if maybe we'd have another savory dish after the fluke, but we decided on something sweet instead, in the form of a brûléed Hawaiian pineapple. Served in a quarter of the fruit, leaves and all, the flesh was scored and topped with lime zest and 'alaea salt. 'Alaea salt is often referred to as Hawaiian salt, and is unrefined sea salt mixed with red alae volcanic clay. We cracked into the top with spoons as if it were creme brûlée--sour, sweet, and fun!
If you have the opportunity, I highly recommend checking out Noreetuh. I love how they take Hawaiian traditions and the cuisine's Japanese, Korean, and Filipino influences and make them their own--for example, there's aformentioned corned beef musubi, but there's also a Spam tortelloni. And honestly, I'd normally be turned off by the sound of anything involving Spam, but after seeing how they look at and prepare food, I'm not scared anymore. I'll even try the tripe, for goodness sake! Noreetuh has earned my trust, my tastebuds and definitely my loyalty.
Noreetuh
128 1st Avenue
New York, NY 10009
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Last week I had the pleasure of being able to partake in an evening at Noreetuh with SJT. I was excited that the menu appealed to him and we made our way there. The restaurant opened last month at 128 First Avenue, between St. Mark's and 7th Streets. It defines itself as "casual Hawaiian," and features a menu created by Chef Chung Chow, a former sous chef at the legendary Per Se, who grew up in Hawaii and spent time in Japan. Chow and his partners Gerald San Jose and Jin Ahn all co-own Noreetuh, which means "playground" in Korean, and which SJT and I would learn fits the cuisine so, so well.
We were welcomed by the host (who I'd later find out was San Jose himself) at the door with a warmth that carried through with the rest of the staff the entire evening. I felt like I was talking to an old friend! Interestingly, that made me even more excited about the food. SJT and I sat down at a sleek wooden table for two and began casting our eyes about the menu. We resolved to share all of our courses, but we had some questions for our waiter (food appreciators though we are, we are not experts). What is musubi? What is a torchon? He answered knowledgeably and kindly: musubi is sushi-like, in that it involves rice wrapped with seaweed, but their version is more of a handroll. I've since learned that Spam musubi is a common Hawaiian snack, though at Noreetuh they prepare it with brined corned beef tongue, cilantro, and peanuts. We will have that please! And torchon, it turns out, is a kind of pate; in this case, made from the liver of a monkfish, served with pear, cilantro, and passionfruit with toasted King's Hawaiian roll slices for spreading. We will also have that, please! For our main course, we decided on the mochi-crusted fluke served with bok choy, kabocha squash, and black bean.
The corned beef musubi was salty, but in a fantastic way--the blend of the seaweed, the brine and the natural meat flavor with the cilantro was killer, and that extra crunch of those slightly sweet crushed peanuts took it to a more thoughtful level and broke up the salt. In the order there were two pieces--I don't know about SJT but I may or may not have actually licked my fingers when I was finished.
The queen of my heart this evening was far and away our next course, the monkfish liver torchon. And to think, at the beginning of dinner I didn't even know what torchon was! The pate was smooth and, to use the waiter's words, "oceanic," in that it tasted slightly of ocean water, but wasn't at all fishy. The buttery King's Hawaiian bread, even as an inside joke of sorts, was a perfect compliment, as were the acidic sweetness of the pear and passion fruit. I had visions of SJT and I popping in there on an evening after work to have glasses of wine (from their extensive wine list curated by General Manager Jin Ahn) and monkfish liver torchon as if we were ladies who lunch having caviar and champagne. But really, the former was just as good as the latter, and at least the torchon had a sense of humor! I found myself carving the plate with my fork so none of it would be left uneaten. Thankfully SJT didn't judge me.
The mochi-crusted fluke was light and slightly crunchy, and it was lively dipped into the subtle squash and black bean drizzles. All of that together on a fork with the tangy bok choy, though, was the best--loud and quiet flavors (and sounds! Ha!) all in one mouthful. "Come to me, bok choy!" SJT said as he scooted a stalk to his plate.
We didn't know if maybe we'd have another savory dish after the fluke, but we decided on something sweet instead, in the form of a brûléed Hawaiian pineapple. Served in a quarter of the fruit, leaves and all, the flesh was scored and topped with lime zest and 'alaea salt. 'Alaea salt is often referred to as Hawaiian salt, and is unrefined sea salt mixed with red alae volcanic clay. We cracked into the top with spoons as if it were creme brûlée--sour, sweet, and fun!
If you have the opportunity, I highly recommend checking out Noreetuh. I love how they take Hawaiian traditions and the cuisine's Japanese, Korean, and Filipino influences and make them their own--for example, there's aformentioned corned beef musubi, but there's also a Spam tortelloni. And honestly, I'd normally be turned off by the sound of anything involving Spam, but after seeing how they look at and prepare food, I'm not scared anymore. I'll even try the tripe, for goodness sake! Noreetuh has earned my trust, my tastebuds and definitely my loyalty.
Noreetuh
128 1st Avenue
New York, NY 10009
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