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.
Step 1: Move to New York. Step 2: Have experiences.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
Miss Manhattan Hangs Out...with Hannah Orenstein
Hannah Orenstein’s navy pleated skirt swings as we walk down Avenue A in the East Village. She eases a pair of circular tortoiseshell sunglasses onto her face then gestures toward a curio shop with a red leather -sleeved arm. “Have you ever been to Obscura? I love it here!”
Today, the Assistant Features Editor at Seventeen is taking me on a tour of some of her favorite spots in the neighborhood, the quirky and unusual places she has been known to frequent since moving to New York in 2011.
Hannah knows who she is down to the velour Juicy Couture sweatsuits I loathe but she loves without even the smallest trace of irony. Even if I hated her guts I would tell you she’s a great writer and a rising star in magazine publishing, with eloquence, elegance, and panache beyond her years. But I don’t, so I’ll also tell you she recently sold her debut novel, Playing With Matches, to Touchstone Books, a Simon & Schuster imprint. I’m delighted to be able to call her a friend, one with whom I continue to bond over a shared, undying love of New York, 1950s style, and good magazine writing.
We walk into antiquities and oddities store Obscura and my eyes dart from torn-apart baby dolls to vintage postcards to human skulls that may or may not have once been real. While my brain shivers at the thought of the latter, Hannah seems at home.
Traveling south, we go first to Enchantments, New York City’s oldest occult store, to peruse various candles and herbs and pet their pair of black cats. People ask sincere questions about the correct ingredients to use in spells and receive sincere answers.
Next we enter to Flower Power, a healing herbs store run by women who identify as Green Witches, to sniff more concoctions. Hannah picks up a jar of their Love Potion No. 9 mixture and inhales.
“Would you ever use a love potion?” I ask. She laughs, then considers. “Would I?”
We leave for coffee at The Bean on 1st Avenue. Her red lipstick sticks to the drink’s white lid between sips as we head down East 9th Street to Dusty Buttons, a vintage clothing store that has since closed. Hannah purrs with delight as she runs her hands over the cinched 1950s waists of sequined and plaid dresses while urging me to get a vintage Black Sabbath t-shirt. I chuckle. Hannah knows who we both are.
Peckish, we avoid the looming rain and duck into Cozy Soup N’ Burger, one of Hannah’s favorite haunts from her NYU days. In the unadorned diner, there since the 1970s, we order omelets—hers her usual Ranchero, mine mushroom—and chit chat, trying to avoid the going back into the rain. We do have to leave eventually, and as the downpour continues we jump into a cab, where she checks email, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat as we motor across the East Village. An umbrella just doesn't go with this outfit.
Follow Hannah on Twitter and Instagram.
Today, the Assistant Features Editor at Seventeen is taking me on a tour of some of her favorite spots in the neighborhood, the quirky and unusual places she has been known to frequent since moving to New York in 2011.
Hannah knows who she is down to the velour Juicy Couture sweatsuits I loathe but she loves without even the smallest trace of irony. Even if I hated her guts I would tell you she’s a great writer and a rising star in magazine publishing, with eloquence, elegance, and panache beyond her years. But I don’t, so I’ll also tell you she recently sold her debut novel, Playing With Matches, to Touchstone Books, a Simon & Schuster imprint. I’m delighted to be able to call her a friend, one with whom I continue to bond over a shared, undying love of New York, 1950s style, and good magazine writing.
We walk into antiquities and oddities store Obscura and my eyes dart from torn-apart baby dolls to vintage postcards to human skulls that may or may not have once been real. While my brain shivers at the thought of the latter, Hannah seems at home.
Traveling south, we go first to Enchantments, New York City’s oldest occult store, to peruse various candles and herbs and pet their pair of black cats. People ask sincere questions about the correct ingredients to use in spells and receive sincere answers.
Next we enter to Flower Power, a healing herbs store run by women who identify as Green Witches, to sniff more concoctions. Hannah picks up a jar of their Love Potion No. 9 mixture and inhales.
“Would you ever use a love potion?” I ask. She laughs, then considers. “Would I?”
We leave for coffee at The Bean on 1st Avenue. Her red lipstick sticks to the drink’s white lid between sips as we head down East 9th Street to Dusty Buttons, a vintage clothing store that has since closed. Hannah purrs with delight as she runs her hands over the cinched 1950s waists of sequined and plaid dresses while urging me to get a vintage Black Sabbath t-shirt. I chuckle. Hannah knows who we both are.
Peckish, we avoid the looming rain and duck into Cozy Soup N’ Burger, one of Hannah’s favorite haunts from her NYU days. In the unadorned diner, there since the 1970s, we order omelets—hers her usual Ranchero, mine mushroom—and chit chat, trying to avoid the going back into the rain. We do have to leave eventually, and as the downpour continues we jump into a cab, where she checks email, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat as we motor across the East Village. An umbrella just doesn't go with this outfit.
Follow Hannah on Twitter and Instagram.
Saturday, March 4, 2017
Columbia Loves Eddie
“What should we do for our anniversary?” I asked SE.
The truth was, we had already thought of a fantastic idea to celebrate one year since our first date, an idea that was “us”—staying at the Waldorf Astoria before it closed last month. We had fallen in love with the hotel on my birthday, and as soon as we left we wanted to go back. But we dragged our feet and the opportunity passed us by.
But surely there had to be something else that would be just as good an option?
There were. And we ended up coming up with not just one idea, but five. Sort of.
The first idea wasn’t ours and, technically, it wasn’t even “really” part of our anniversary celebration. J & R invited us to see Rocky Horror Picture Show in Chelsea and only when we sat down in the theatre did SE realize that this was the most “us” thing we could have been doing—beyond the Waldorf, beyond all the other things we had planned that day. Sitting in a theatre yelling obscenities with the rest of the crowd at Richard O’Brien’s 1975 cult classic (because, if you’ve never been, that’s what you do), while a group of college students acted out Brad and Janet and, of course, Dr. Frank-n-Furter in front of the screen, doing the Time Warp, and listening to first-time Rocky viewers (“virgins”) make faux-orgasm noises to an audience of people they’ve never met.
SE has before spoken of another couple we’re friends with. “You know how they’re kind of sweet and cute and 1950s?”
I nodded.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’re not that.”
And I happily agree. I feel like our regular state of mind is less in a 1950s living room and more backstage at an ‘80s comedy club. But without all the coke.
Both of us had gone to Rocky Horror in high school. Which, it seemed, was also the case this evening as young goth kids waited in line behind us to get in, swapping fake IDs to see who looked most like the picture on the card. They wore corsets and white pancake makeup and combat boots, and there we were, already or nearly 30, sensible sweaters under sensible coats, noshing on popcorn, very possibly the oldest people there. I’m happy the children continue to find out about Rocky Horror; in some ways, I think it draws the people who need to see it, to know they’re not freaks in a world where being weird isn’t cool yet (read: high school). Maybe in a “sweet transvestite from Transsexual, Transylvania” they can find part of themselves.
Neither of us were goth kids at our respective high schools, but I wouldn’t say we also fit perfectly into any categories—I was an overachiever and aspiring punk, he a lacrosse player who also sang in an emo band—but I know for me at least it helped to learn there were other cool, weird kids out there who became cool, weird adults and maybe found other cool, weird adults to spend time with and, if they were lucky, even love.
*
But don’t get me wrong, the rest of our day was amazing, too.
We started with pastrami salmon sandwiches at Barney Greengrass on the Upper West Side. All of the synagogue services were getting out at the same time, but luckily we beat the rush to this legendary, hundred-year old appetizing spot (“appetizing” the noun, not the adjective—it’s a store in the Jewish tradition where fish and dairy products are sold. Learn more here!), to which neither of us had actually been before. We were seated by a table near the fish counter, to which pregnant moms wobbling with toddlers in tow sidled up and ordered whitefish salad to go. Our waiter, maybe in his late forties with graying hair and chunky metal bracelets on his wrists, was decked out in a head-to-toe white uniform and hustled our orders out of us with an old-school New York accent (“What can I get for ya? Orange juice, coffee, just water? Open face sandwich or closed? Onions, tomato, capers?”), then ambled across the linoleum floor to retrieve them. We dove into fluffy but not dense bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese, and I added a little crunch of red onion later on for some extra spice.
Then we made our way to Levain Bakery for their renowned chocolate chip walnuts cookies. The place, open over 20 years, has become an institution for their cookies. They’ve been written up in almost every major publication and somehow neither of us had never been there, either. We expected to wait in line, but given what I had heard about how long it usually takes and how the line can extend down the block, I was expecting much worse than the maybe 15 minute wait that we actually encountered. And praise RuPaul and all that is holy, was it worth it. We got two cookies and headed to Central Park before sitting down to eat them on some rocks near a lake, breaking open the still-warm gooey cookies with our hands. It was so rich, a little crunchy on the outside and mushy on the inside, absolutely perfect. And I don’t even usually go for cookies with nuts in them, but these were the business.
Later on that night, we went to another iconic New York spot, Minetta Tavern. The restaurant opened in the ‘30s and used to be a hangout for writers like Ezra Pound and Dylan Thomas, but it was bought and renovated by chef Keith McNally in 2009. It has since become known for its Black Label Burger, a patty blended of three different cuts of beef (prime ribeye, skirt steak, and brisket) then topped with clarified butter and onions. Your arteries may be screaming after reading such a thing, but until you’ve tried it (and maybe you did or did not stop talking immediately after eating it, felt a weight in your heart when you realized half of it was gone, and can still taste it in your mouth) keep an open mind. We went there explicitly for the burgers and ended up also ordering the famed roasted bone marrow appetizer, and…I have to say I have never known such decadence in my life. I had never eaten bone marrow before but I didn’t know its texture was basically fat that melts in your mouth, to be utterly cliche about it. And then when the burgers arrived we took our first bites and it was just as mouth-melty and wonderful, the juicy yet somehow creamy and still totally cooked???? meat of the burger in my mouth, pressing against the thick brioche bun that prevented all of this lusciousness from rushing down my chin. AND THEN we put some leftover bone marrow on them and I thought my brain was going to fall out. WHAT IS HAPPENING I DON’T UNDERSTAND. Such decadence! And from a burger, no less! My brain was melting along with the bone marrow. It was our anniversary but while we were eating we barely spoke, this experience freaking out our mouths in the best way possible.
“Oh my god,” we said in turns in the back of a cab, minds still reeling from these burgers, as we headed to the Waldorf for cocktails. The next weekend would be the last weekend of its existence for a while and we wanted to take it all in and say goodbye. We clinked our glasses and sipped on some liquid artistry, looking around at the glass and wood and leather that made up this place we had known for such a short time but had only begun to adore. I almost didn’t want to leave as we finished our cocktails and took pictures in the lobby. “How can a place we’ve only been a few times mean so much?” SE said to me. With any luck, after its renovation it will be just as wonderful as we remember, and maybe for another anniversary in the future we’ll be able to go back.
The truth was, we had already thought of a fantastic idea to celebrate one year since our first date, an idea that was “us”—staying at the Waldorf Astoria before it closed last month. We had fallen in love with the hotel on my birthday, and as soon as we left we wanted to go back. But we dragged our feet and the opportunity passed us by.
But surely there had to be something else that would be just as good an option?
There were. And we ended up coming up with not just one idea, but five. Sort of.
The first idea wasn’t ours and, technically, it wasn’t even “really” part of our anniversary celebration. J & R invited us to see Rocky Horror Picture Show in Chelsea and only when we sat down in the theatre did SE realize that this was the most “us” thing we could have been doing—beyond the Waldorf, beyond all the other things we had planned that day. Sitting in a theatre yelling obscenities with the rest of the crowd at Richard O’Brien’s 1975 cult classic (because, if you’ve never been, that’s what you do), while a group of college students acted out Brad and Janet and, of course, Dr. Frank-n-Furter in front of the screen, doing the Time Warp, and listening to first-time Rocky viewers (“virgins”) make faux-orgasm noises to an audience of people they’ve never met.
SE has before spoken of another couple we’re friends with. “You know how they’re kind of sweet and cute and 1950s?”
I nodded.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’re not that.”
And I happily agree. I feel like our regular state of mind is less in a 1950s living room and more backstage at an ‘80s comedy club. But without all the coke.
Both of us had gone to Rocky Horror in high school. Which, it seemed, was also the case this evening as young goth kids waited in line behind us to get in, swapping fake IDs to see who looked most like the picture on the card. They wore corsets and white pancake makeup and combat boots, and there we were, already or nearly 30, sensible sweaters under sensible coats, noshing on popcorn, very possibly the oldest people there. I’m happy the children continue to find out about Rocky Horror; in some ways, I think it draws the people who need to see it, to know they’re not freaks in a world where being weird isn’t cool yet (read: high school). Maybe in a “sweet transvestite from Transsexual, Transylvania” they can find part of themselves.
Neither of us were goth kids at our respective high schools, but I wouldn’t say we also fit perfectly into any categories—I was an overachiever and aspiring punk, he a lacrosse player who also sang in an emo band—but I know for me at least it helped to learn there were other cool, weird kids out there who became cool, weird adults and maybe found other cool, weird adults to spend time with and, if they were lucky, even love.
*
But don’t get me wrong, the rest of our day was amazing, too.
We started with pastrami salmon sandwiches at Barney Greengrass on the Upper West Side. All of the synagogue services were getting out at the same time, but luckily we beat the rush to this legendary, hundred-year old appetizing spot (“appetizing” the noun, not the adjective—it’s a store in the Jewish tradition where fish and dairy products are sold. Learn more here!), to which neither of us had actually been before. We were seated by a table near the fish counter, to which pregnant moms wobbling with toddlers in tow sidled up and ordered whitefish salad to go. Our waiter, maybe in his late forties with graying hair and chunky metal bracelets on his wrists, was decked out in a head-to-toe white uniform and hustled our orders out of us with an old-school New York accent (“What can I get for ya? Orange juice, coffee, just water? Open face sandwich or closed? Onions, tomato, capers?”), then ambled across the linoleum floor to retrieve them. We dove into fluffy but not dense bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese, and I added a little crunch of red onion later on for some extra spice.
Then we made our way to Levain Bakery for their renowned chocolate chip walnuts cookies. The place, open over 20 years, has become an institution for their cookies. They’ve been written up in almost every major publication and somehow neither of us had never been there, either. We expected to wait in line, but given what I had heard about how long it usually takes and how the line can extend down the block, I was expecting much worse than the maybe 15 minute wait that we actually encountered. And praise RuPaul and all that is holy, was it worth it. We got two cookies and headed to Central Park before sitting down to eat them on some rocks near a lake, breaking open the still-warm gooey cookies with our hands. It was so rich, a little crunchy on the outside and mushy on the inside, absolutely perfect. And I don’t even usually go for cookies with nuts in them, but these were the business.
Later on that night, we went to another iconic New York spot, Minetta Tavern. The restaurant opened in the ‘30s and used to be a hangout for writers like Ezra Pound and Dylan Thomas, but it was bought and renovated by chef Keith McNally in 2009. It has since become known for its Black Label Burger, a patty blended of three different cuts of beef (prime ribeye, skirt steak, and brisket) then topped with clarified butter and onions. Your arteries may be screaming after reading such a thing, but until you’ve tried it (and maybe you did or did not stop talking immediately after eating it, felt a weight in your heart when you realized half of it was gone, and can still taste it in your mouth) keep an open mind. We went there explicitly for the burgers and ended up also ordering the famed roasted bone marrow appetizer, and…I have to say I have never known such decadence in my life. I had never eaten bone marrow before but I didn’t know its texture was basically fat that melts in your mouth, to be utterly cliche about it. And then when the burgers arrived we took our first bites and it was just as mouth-melty and wonderful, the juicy yet somehow creamy and still totally cooked???? meat of the burger in my mouth, pressing against the thick brioche bun that prevented all of this lusciousness from rushing down my chin. AND THEN we put some leftover bone marrow on them and I thought my brain was going to fall out. WHAT IS HAPPENING I DON’T UNDERSTAND. Such decadence! And from a burger, no less! My brain was melting along with the bone marrow. It was our anniversary but while we were eating we barely spoke, this experience freaking out our mouths in the best way possible.
“Oh my god,” we said in turns in the back of a cab, minds still reeling from these burgers, as we headed to the Waldorf for cocktails. The next weekend would be the last weekend of its existence for a while and we wanted to take it all in and say goodbye. We clinked our glasses and sipped on some liquid artistry, looking around at the glass and wood and leather that made up this place we had known for such a short time but had only begun to adore. I almost didn’t want to leave as we finished our cocktails and took pictures in the lobby. “How can a place we’ve only been a few times mean so much?” SE said to me. With any luck, after its renovation it will be just as wonderful as we remember, and maybe for another anniversary in the future we’ll be able to go back.
Monday, February 20, 2017
Backstage Beauty, Fall/Winter 2017
As ever, some sights and scenes from backstage at New York Fashion Week.
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, February 4, 2017
Treats
I have three words for you.
And here are some ways you can do that in New York, whether you're a "cashmere velvet candy cane" or not. If you're stressed, remember to take care of yourself and blow off some steam--if not, you can wear yourself down and you'll be unable to take action when you want and need to. I know I'm particularly guilty of this, so perhaps this list can be of help when you need some ideas.
Free:
Go for a walk! In nature! Or as much as we have of it in New York...
It seems like a no-brainer, but people don't say they're "going to get some fresh air" without reason. Some of my favorite walks are:
It seems like a no-brainer, but people don't say they're "going to get some fresh air" without reason. Some of my favorite walks are:
Visit an art gallery. Here are some of my favorites:
Or try a museum! There are several really interesting spaces in the city, like the Museum of the Fashion Institute of Technology, the Bronx Museum of the Arts, or the American Folk Art Museum that are always free. Here is a more comprehensive list.
Dance yourself clean (or dirty) at the deliciously trashy Hell's Kitchen gay bar/club The Ritz. The last time I went, I was there until closing and covered in sweat in the middle of November. It was awesome.
And of course, remember to laugh. There are always *good* free comedy shows listed in The Skint. If there's a show with Myq Kaplan, Phoebe Robinson, Khalid Rahmann, Jo Firestone, Sam Taggart, Julio Torres, or Joel Kim Booster on the lineup, I *highly* recommend going.
Under $5:
A Brooklyn Blackout Cupcake from Two Little Red Hens on the Upper East Side: it has chocolate pudding in the middle. Sweet Jesus. $3
A ride on Jane's Carousel at Brooklyn Bridge Park: ride the restored antique overlooking the water and pretend you're a (very well kept Park Slope) kid again (or for the first time). $2
A hot dog from Papaya King/Gray's Papaya on the Upper East Side/East Village and Upper West Side: these salty/crunchy dogs are New York classics for a reason. $3/$1.75
Ride the Roosevelt Island Tramway: for the cost of a MetroCard swipe, you can get out of town (sort of) for a little while and explore Roosevelt Island.
A Pretzel Croissant from City Bakery near Union Square: it's everything you wish a pretzel was. $4
Go to the American Museum of Natural History (Upper West Side) or The Metropolitan Museum of Art (Upper East Side): these classic museums are donation-based for permanent exhibitions, so there's a suggested donation but you can give whatever you like. Other museums are donation-based, too
An egg cream at Russ & Daughters: my favorite in the city, it's bubbly, sweet and made with seltzer shot out of a siphoned bottle like they were originally. $3.75
Under $10:
I still love the cheap-ass jewelry at Claire's. Don't judge me.
A giant bowl of hot borscht with sour cream at kosher vegetarian lunch counter B&H in the East Village: perfect if you're feeling especially Jewish in the winter. They'll give you free buttered challah, too. $9.50
A small Cheeseburger Mac at MacBar in Soho: gooey, creamy, cheesy, meaty goodness from a tiny storefront. You are not avoiding carbs today. Plus: a small is really filling. $7.99
Pernil Asado at Casa Adela in Alphabet City: Roast pork served with beans and rice, Puerto Rican-style and made by somebody's grandmother. My mouth waters just thinking about it. $9.95
Funky keychains, notepads, and pencils from Greenwich Letterpress in the West Village: They have the Dr. Frank-n-Furter notepad you didn't know you needed.
Any show at Bizarre Bushwick: for under $10, there are amazing burlesque and drag performers and musicians nearly every night of the week.
Any show at Bizarre Bushwick: for under $10, there are amazing burlesque and drag performers and musicians nearly every night of the week.
Take a yoga class at Yoga to the People. It's a $10 donation for their hot and non-hot classes. They believe "Yoga is meant to help strengthen and stretch your arms and legs, not cost you one!" In Brooklyn and multiple locations in Manhattan.
Under $20:
Under $20:
Buy yourself a book or a journal at McNally Jackson in Nolita or The Strand by Union Square and support independent bookstores.
Go to a luxe foreign, classic, cult, or indie film at Film Forum, Anthology Film Archives, the IFC Center, Sunshine Cinemas, or The Metrograph. Or just see a blockbuster at an AMC/Loews. About $15.
Grab a meal at the fabulous, yet very tiny, Mr. Donahue's in Nolita. It's a '70s inspired diner with doilies on the table and almost every entree on the menu is $19.99--and you get two sides with it. I want to write a whole blog post about it at some point...it's that good.
Go for a cocktail at the wonderful Suffolk Arms on the Lower East Side. The menu is practically book-length, and they're masters of their craft.
Listen to jazz, blues and funk at 55 Bar in the West Village. Cover charges vary but are low, they have a full bar, and you never know who will stop by.
Grab oysters and bubbly at The Mermaid Inn's happy hour. With $1 east coast oysters and wine, beer, and cocktails all under $10, you can eat like a king even if you're only royalty in your mind.
Under $50:
See a show at Joe's Pub. From wild cabaret performances to concerts to comedy, the acts are always high quality in the intimate space.
A 16.9 oz bottle of handmade shower gel from Lush to relieve stress, inspire positive energy, and more. $29.95
Luxe Jo Malone scented candles at Bloomingdale's on 59th and Lexington in a variety of clean scents. $35
Go to a concert and sing your heart out. Here's a listing of all the ones coming through NYC in the Village Voice.
A pitcher of refrescos at Huertas in the East Village. Enough for two, the super delicious and refreshing Spanish cocktails made with wine and soda. Serves two. $30.
Dinner at the utterly delicious Filipino restaurant Jeepney in the East Village. Order family style from this menu filled with meats, citrus flavors, noodles, fried awesomeness...you'll love it here even if you've never had Filipino food before.
Cashmere socks if you really want to be like Tom: $14-30 at Bloomingdale's.
Sunday, January 22, 2017
Women's March on NYC
Protests are the foundation of America. Here are some pictures of people standing up for what they believe in.
January 21, 2017
1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza
New York, NY
January 21, 2017
1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza
New York, NY
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