Unemployment blows. I still have a job, but my friend does not so I figured he and his Mrs. might need a little picker upper. And what could be happier than snapper? I got to the fish store before they had even put the fish out on display. Asked what was swimming. Snapper! They were big and red and bright and the fish monger cut ’em up for me. The better the ingredients, the less preparation required, so all I did was splash on a little olive oil and salt, then I tossed them in the broiler until they sang their little fishy song. Oh, and I invented a side dish: shredded apples and onions, sauteed in olive oil. Sort of a shiksa’s homage to Passover. For greenery I made a big spinach salad with goat cheese and slivered almonds.
But Linda provided the real spirit lifter: chocolate raspberry cake! She made it from scratch and decorated it with fresh raspberries and vanilla ice cream.
We all felt a little better. 5 bottles of wine helped, too.
It may or may not be called Zaragoza. It says that on the awning out front, but then it says a lot of things on the awning. It’s one of those little Mexican markets where you can get your Goya products and ripe avocados and corn tortillas and, most importantly, a decent taco. When we went in, still sober after a whiskey tasting, there was a small group of Mexican men watching the Mexico v. Iceland game, anchored to their large Coronas. I ate a tostada while a mean looking kitten sniffed my purse, probably looking for the whiskey snifter.
The refried beans on the side were creamy and salty and full of lardy goodness but, alas, they were black beans and not the pinto beans that I crave.
The pollo tostada used the beans as a base for shredded iceburg lettuce and a few slices of good avocado. I poured the salsa verde on top, which was just hot enough. The kitten wobbled away.
Johnny Walker decided to invite New Yorkers to sample their product for FREE, so there was a line out front that was made up of very sober men in suits. Pretty young women in black cocktail dresses asked us many questions about our drinking habits. Due to the extensive questioning, Lee was expecting a quick follow-up colostomy. We were directed downstairs for cocktail hour, cocktail being singular, just one, cut off before you get started. I had a very prettyold fashioned, made with Johnnie Walker Black.
Waiters carried around a few trays of very salty snacks. Eventually we were lead upstairs, still quite sober, to the formal presentation. Long benches were set up with pre-poured shots (drops, really) of Black, Red and Green label. First we saw a promo video of Robert Carlisle walking and talking through Scotland, then Marketing Dude guided us through the whiskey flight, each of which was preceded by a quick video dedicated to that particular spirit.
Black and Red Labels were taken straight and then with a drop of water. Both were smokey and a little harsh. Green Label was smoother and came with a side of strawberries which we dipped in pepper, which was quite snappy. The Colostomy Girls came oy with chilled Gold Label which was sweetish and smooth. All of this lead up to the big finale: the Blue Label, which the girls delivered in small snifters. It tasted of caramel and aggressive advertising. I stole the glass.
So this is where the post-frat boys are when they’re not picking up post-sorority girls in my neighborhood on Thursday nights. Seems that on Tuesdays they go to Five Napkin Burger for the obscenely monstrous burgers, and wash it down with rather petit beer while shouting to their dates about finance and linens and such. I ordered the Burger For Two, which comes with 2 sides.
We arm wrestled and settled on the baked beans and the creamed spinach sides. The burger was the size of a volleyball and pretty gooey, except for the bun, which was a little dry. The pickles were sweet and sliced long-ways. I liked that. Spinach still had some spinach integrity--not all cream, the way most steak houses serve it. It seemed vaguely healthy due to its density and intense green hue. The baked beans were mostly brown sugar, which made them perfect.
It was like bean dessert. Sweet creamy goodness. Oh, they also have sushi on the menu, which is just wrong.
Rebecca knew just how to deal with my St. Patrick’s Day hangover: a good, healthy meal, starting with spaghetti squash with tomatoes and basil and feta.
Spaghetti squash is one of those under-appreciated vegetables: tasty and simple and pretty. Dandelion greens sauteed with tahini were a one-two punch to restore my well-being and kidney function. And chicken with the secret, magical ingredient: ginger preserves. Sweet meat at its best. A big, nutty salad on the side. I left feeling almost human again. The cupcakes didn’t hurt, either.
As always, the rules are: bring a dish suggested by an Oscar-nominated movie and wear either formal attire or jammies. Entries were clever, tasty and sometimes a little gross, and carefully labeled: crazy artichoke hearts;
the milk of sorrow and the donuts of happiness;
inglorious basturma (pork product? skin disease? I do not know);
inglorious custerds;
lovely bones;
a simple manicotti;
mo’nique ’n’ cheese;
na’vi’quiris (surprisingly and fortunately the only blue food present);
green tennis balls in cones;
cookies in the shape of Oscar statuettes;
exploding beans;
and, though reluctant to tangle with any food with “turd” in it, Amy made turducken!
It was my brother’s birthday and he requested Yang Chow. All the Chinese goodness one could hope for and I didn’t even get an MSG headache afterwards. They’re known for their slippery shrimp which is not very slippery at all, rather it is a sweet mound of shrimp and dough and fat that is completely irresistible.
All of our other chinese friends were there: fried wontons,
cashew chicken,
shrimpy things,
shredded beef,
shredded pork,
shredded diet.
Yeah, you try to pronounce it. Especially after a blood orange margarita.
I must admit, it is way better than the blood orange margarita I make. Yxta is in what used to be an industrial section of downtown L.A., but now there’s stuff there. Places to live. Bars. And cool restaurants like Yxta. They sent over some squash blossoms to start.
It made me wonder: who first figured it would be a good idea to fill squash blossoms with cheese and then deep fry them? Was a nice Mexican lady just holding a bouquet and then became very hungry and, having only a block of cheese and a deep frier nearby, decided to chuck ’em in to see what would happen? And what goes with deep fried flowers? Oh! Pork tacos! They go with everything!
Really succulent pork on top of the softest little tortilla pillows were magnificent. For some reason I decided I deserved bread pudding after that.
Cole’s says it originated the French Dip sandwich, which is just blasphemous. Every Angelino knows the French Dip was invented at Phillipe’s. I was so upset I had to drink a sazarac.
Well it was Mary’s memorial service and Mary really, REALLY liked her sugar treats, so they were abundant and extraordinarily good. Emphasis on the chocolate, of course. They came from Big Sugar Bakeshop in Studio City, where I would certainly like to visit in person some day.
Mary didn’t drink, but I do (I was one of her Designated Drinkers/Stunt Stomachs when she went to New Orleans to write the Froemmer’s Guides). So after the reception we all went over to Bob’s Frolic Room where, apparently, I had spent some time when I lived in L.A., though I couldn’t remember much. They did have a totally lo-tech popcorn maker when was endlessly fascinating and Janet ordered something called a Blow Job, which was one of the worst drinks I’ve ever slurped.
Dad made barbecued chicken and ribs and baked beans and potato salad and for Karla there was fetuccini alfredo because it was Friday in Lent so she couldn’t eat meat.
It was like a taste of early summer and since they don’t have winter in Los Angeles it was very appropriate. And delish.
Twice in a month! And still no heart attack! What good fortune! This Keen’s outing I went more trad: started with caesar salad, which is made with fresh romaine, tiny croutons, shredded parmesan and just a couple of anchovies peeking out from beneath the lettuce. Just enough dressing to blend everything together.
In between courses we went on the tour of the upstairs rooms. It just never gets old. I love seeing the playbill for “Our American Cousin” and all the Lincoln memorabilia. Our guide couldn’t get the light switch to work in the Bull Moose Room, so we just peered at the looming shadow of the mounted moose head. I’ve always imagined Teddy Roosevelt shot it himself and then ate the hind quarters. The Lily Langtree room was spooky as ever. I’ve heard the upstairs is haunted, but I’ve never encountered a ghost. Got back downstairs just in time for the chateaubriand to be placed gently before me. This is possibly the most tender meaty salty good thing I have ever tasted.
Pink inside, crisp and seared outside. I thanked the cow and counted my lucky stars. Of course we got spinach and asparagus on the side so we could pretend we were ever so healthy.
In addition to good champagne and 4 kinds of excellent red wine, Linda brought birthday cake from Black Hound Bakery. Oh, heavens, the things they do with marzipan. It was as if the almonds floated down from heaven to dance with chocolate. And it had little almond petal bees on it!
We all marked Steve’s half century on earth and wandered out into the night a little drunk and full meat and sweets and marzipan.
WD50 still serves up the weirdest stuff in town and it’s still delightfully inventive. In each dish there’s something that shouldn’t be there, but usually it works out just fine, through the delicate manipulation of ingredients, though at times I’m pretty sure they just use brute force. Really, the mean things they do to foie could get them arrested. So we started with the corned duck which, as our waiter confided to us, is an homage to the corned beef at Katz’s Deli.
Sure enough, the taste was reminiscent of a large and frightful pastrami sandwich, but you could easily wrap our mouth around it, and there was no need to call a cardiologist three weeks later. Their signature dish, eggs benedict, was ever so Willie Wonka: really just the essence of eggs benedict.
The egg yolks were removed, congealed and shaped into tiny columns while, somewhere across the plate, the hollandaise had been roughed up a bit, cubed and fried into submission. Brutal, but tasty. Hanger tartare had it a little easier, merely rolled around, chopped in half and given a hibiscus to suck on.
Aerated foie, however was not treated so kindly: whipped, fluffed, tossed about until it was light and frothy and the strangest color, like salmon about to faint.
You could taste the goose, but it was a stage whisper. Ye tthe delicate sponginess of the froth was ultimately appealing. The weirdness in the Mediterannean bass was halva. That’s right: halva. That bass wandered a little to far east and got what it deserved.
It was hiding out near some charming artichokes and bamboo rice that had been fried and placed on top of a vegetable that is as of yet unidentified, but most delicious. Pork neck was tender and plump with an endive leaf just sitting on top of it, completely unmolested.
Venison chop was our favorite: plump and fresh as if it had just been bagged as it was crossing 14th Street. Polenta that for some reason had been freeze dried, was nudging asian pear slices and it was all wading in a shallow pool of sweet dark sauce, probably the blood of an endangered species. Sweet and savory made peace with each other and made it look easy.
We had to go for the soft chocolate dessert: baby choco-logs and peppermint ice cream on a bed of dark, dark toffee with cardamom flavoring, like winter in Bombay.
I still don’t know what that edible wire was that ran through the dessert, but surprisingly it did not carry an electric current. Caramelized brioche was quite bready
and the apricot bits scattered about reminded me of a summer festival in an alternate universe where food is art and art is food.
And what says President’s Day better than short ribs? Ira braised them and cooked them with some winter vegetables until they were tender and fell of the bone: a perfect mid-winter treat.
Gravy on top, cute little potatoes on the side and some fresh green beans for color and vitamins. First, though, Kris brought out meats and olives and sweet pickles and parmesan, which went very well with the new Charlotte Gainsbourg album.
Then Ira presented an appetizer of polenta with sauteed shiitake mushrooms and a green salad cuddled next to that.
Good California wine all around and macaroons for dessert.
You know what’s good after sledding in the morning? A nap. You know the best way to a nap? Through a big fat burger at The Charcoal Pit and a perfect vanilla milkshake and a pile of french fries.
The place has been open since 1956 and has little juke boxes at each table. Thankfully, they were broken and Elvis did not mar my dining experience.
When I arrived in Wilmington, it was still covered in 2 feet of snow and the natives were a little giddy. Fortunately, someone had dug out the steep steps to Moro, a sophisticated “New American” place. The best place to start is always a martini. Mine was made with Hendricks gin and the cucumber round floating inside was already drunk.
The cucumber recommended oysters on the half shell and we complied.
First course was pan seared foie gras which was relaxing on a tall bed of something resembling thanksgiving stuffing, but rejiggered for late winter.
Marscapopne gnocchi were grandmotherly in a good way.
The spectacular entree combined scallops and squash/vanilla risotto: soft and sweet enough to dispel winter blues, though lacking the power to melt 2 feet of snow.
The lush Molly Dooker Verdelho made us think of warmer climates. Dessert was a little bit obscene. The highlight was the Chocolate-Valpolicella Crema. Pretty much a chocolate bar melted together with a chocolate and formed into the shape of a chocolate bar.
We drank dessert wine which tasted a little like apple cider at a royal wedding. Content, we didn’t even stop at the speed metal bar on the way home.
When we arrived at The Spotted Pig, the himbo at the door told us it would be an hour wait and, sure enough, it was a little longer. Drank a bottle of Riesling at the bar and got knocked around by the other patrons, but everyone is so pretty there, I didn’t even mind. The four of us finally got seated at table for two, which would have been cute, had it not been so uncomfortable. But then the food arrived and all discontent melted into a puddle of fat and salty goo, starting with devils on horseback.
So simple, I could make it myself (in fact I DID make it myself: see the February 6 entry) yet so succulent. They wrapped up prunes and poached pears in bacon and, as we know, one cannot go wrong with bacon. At the same heart-stopping moment, they delivered chicken liver toast while our arteries screamed in protest.
We ignored the squeaking pleas. Next course was sheep’s ricotta gnudi: little pillows of dough so light they floated off the plate.
Entrees included beef cheeks which were topped with something that reminded me of a Mexican beach vacation--there may have been cumin involved, or possibly opium
and tongue from a cow that can no longer speak.
I have not tasted tongue since childhood, and I was delighted to be reacquainted with this gross-out dish. Determined to shut down any functioning organs ala La Grande Bouffe, we went in for dessert: ginger cake, which was the perfect combination of not-too-sweet and wintery-spicy;
and a prune and armagnac tart that was simultaneously elegant and homey.
I contemplated calling an ambulance instead of a taxi, but didn’t think the himbo would let the EMS guys in.
Keens Steak House is my favorite place in New York City. Not my favorite restaurant. My favorite PLACE. I like it better than home. Stepping inside is like a trip to the late 1800s. Warm, clubby, and smelling of seared cow flesh, I just want to put on my bustle, crawl upstairs and wait for someone to bring me a porterhouse. The decor is remarkable: look up and you’ll see 90,000 clay pipes dangling from the ceiling. Back in the days before lung cancer, patrons would keep their personal pipes in-house and go there to dine and smoke and drink. When a regular died, his pipe was broken in half and displayed in perpetuity. On this particular visit, I tried a bold experiment and ordered from the pub menu. Not as pricey, but still superb. My steak salad
was piled high with steak cooked to my liking and the greens made me feel almost healthy.
I’d been intrigued by Rice to Riches since it opened some time ago, but I'd avoided it because I was so pissed off they were charging $5 for a bowl of rice pudding. Seriously: it’s rice, milk and sugar. But after a supper of Brooklyn Lager at Spring Lounge, I was feeling peckish and needed some pudding comfort. The whole place is shaped like a grain of rice. The bowls are rice-shaped, the tables are rice-shaped, the lighting fixtures are rice-shaped, and the place has the futuristic atmosphere of a wholesome Korova Milk Bar. The servers are cute Eastern European girls who will look back on their days in retro Pan Am stewardess uniforms and laugh, but for now they’re not all that amused. There are many, many varieties of rice pudding to choose from.
I got vanilla, of course. With caramel topping. Sweet, but not too sweet. Thick, rich, satisfying. It would have been better if it didn’t cost $5.
Steve’s shrimp etouffee propelled the Saints to their first Super Bowl victory ever, and he started with a roux. He sang a little second line song while it was cooking, and by the time it was dark brown it was ready to meet the shrimp and rice in a harmonious union.
Much “Who Dat” was bandied about, and though I still don’t really know what that means, it’s still fun to say, particularly after 3 or 4 margaritas.
Last year, Meryl gave me a book called “Spice & Ice: 60 Tongue-Tingling Cocktails.” This called for a party, of course. I picked three of the featured cocktails in the book: the lemon-pepper martini, which was quite summery;
the spiced tangerine caipirinha, flavored with nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves, which tasted like a winter holiday;
and the blood-orange jalapeño margarita, by far the most popular of the three.
Much infusing of rum and vodka ensued. They didn’t come out quite hot enough, but Meryl brought a small bottle of Frostbite Hot Sauce. She also brought the book’s author, Kara Newman, who didn’t even mind that I changed a few things around for ease of serving. To go along with spicy cocktails, I made some soothing snacks: scallops with grapes, hanging out together in little endive boats like fishing buddies on the high seas;
red pepper, goat cheese and radicchio crackers: very savory and a little too grown-up for me;
baked camembert with sun dried tomatoes that looked alarmingly like Side Show Bob’s hair;
artichoke and spinach relish; creamy salmon spread, which goes well on bagels on a hungover morning;
caramelized onion and apple tarts which were autumnal and went well with the caipirinha;
and bacon-wrapped apricots with sage.
I don’t really know why I bothered to make anything besides the bacon-wrapped apricots. We all know that anything in wrapped bacon makes all other food unnecessary. For dessert, Becca brought the prettiest Indian sweets from Jackson Heights
and Mary Ann supplied a luscious apple tart which got pounced upon before I could reach my camera.
This was Jack’s experience:
I got to Brigid’s party and I immediately had to memorize three drinks and it was hard cause I knew Brigid would get mad if I picked the wrong one but I picked the right one and she was happy and then I could relax and eat a bacon snack. Then I learned about Botswana (good) and Zimbabwe (bad, need to carry a weapon). Then I ate a round cracker snack which was very good. Then Mary Ann and Paul put on funny hats and took pictures of each other looking like goofballs. Then I ate an onion- apple (yuk!) snack and it was really good which was a surprise. Then I learned about penguins and dutch soccer hats. I drank beer. I ate a little egyptian endive boat snack. Then Steve and Linda came and took their coats off then put them back on and left. Then I drank more beer. Then I ate some artichoke dip and some salmon snack spread. By then I had lost my turtle plate and I dropped food on the carpet but I picked it up real fast and Brigid didn't see me do it. Then I drank more beer and told everybody about the problem of soil salinization in Australia. Then I went home.
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