When it's the chilly day after Christmas and everyone you know is out of town, you finally get around to walking through the Dyker Heights lights again. Doesn't take as long as you'd remembered, but it does get cold waiting for the bus home. And it's nice to return to your familiar streets for the opening night of an already-packed restaurant: Lea, owned by the same people whose wine bar is on your old street. It's crowded but there's space for you at the bar and all the cocktails are pretty inexpensive and made of amari. You're leaning toward pasta but someone enthusiastically recommends the pizza and so you pick that and you're not disappointed. It's like the Fornino's pies you miss from Park Slope, the almost-salad-esque layering of arugula and prosciutto on a perfectly crisped pie.
Christmas day, you and your father disparaged another new restaurant you went to once, where the service was unapologetically blase and the food was slow in coming and not that great. Not everything at Lea is 100% smooth yet but overall you are impressed by the speed and attentiveness of service, by everyone's genuine hopes that you will enjoy your meal. Especially since you're eating alone at the bar with a cheesy-covered novel, you appreciate it. It's nice to go someplace alone as a sort of special occasion and not have people look at you funny.
You feel old 'cause back in the days you lived closed to "up-and-coming" (gag) Cortelyou Road, Lea, packed full of the young and hip and tastefully dressed, was the comfortingly-grungy (maybe no less hip) Vox Pop. It was that cafe that really brought you to Ditmas Park in the first place, but it closed several years ago in several shades of infamy, its storefront dormant until now. Though if you feel old, try your bartender: he grew up in the neighborhood, so it must be even stranger for him.
But you can't resent the strangeness, really. Not when it's made of cocktails, redolent with aperol and cynar and
zucca and campari and so on and so forth. Next time maybe you'll try
the one with your boss's name. And you will have to bring back a whole
contingent of people so you can sample the tasty-sounding sweets platter of
pistachio balls and biscotti and cookies and more, which you couldn't
quite justify all by yourself. (Though you did make quick work of some
yogurt-flavored ice cream drizzled with orange syrup, yule log in the refrigerator be damned.)
Friday, December 27, 2013
Monday, July 8, 2013
bramble ramble
If you're feeling burned out and overheated, it can't hurt to take the train for an out-of-city journey's worth of reading, all the way up to the Cloisters. You can pick up fancy coffee and a decadent 3-cheese cachapa on the way. When you arrive, there's your old favorite, the unicorn tapestries, with a special exhibit all their own. And you can take a look at plants used in medieval brewing, if you are willing to brave the sun again, or look at tiny ornate books or hours, or take pictures of the light as it catches in hobbit-sized doors. Fort Tryon Park's hills are as steep as anything in the city; if you wander down the right tiny path you can find scores upon scores of raspberry bushes and eagerly pluck the ripened fruit, the likes of which you haven't seen in the wild since you were a child.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Nonstandard
If you're only going to like one new band a year, these days, my advice is to make it a good one. Luckily, I practice what I preach. After standing around Rockwood Music Hall for 2 hours and having a beer spilled on my coat and bag, I contemplated going home. But I'm glad I didn't because eventually the Spring Standards came on and it was all worth it.
The band's name makes me laugh since their songs are the mostly wildly divergent ones I've ever head. Some have a decidedly country feel, while others remind me of Fleetwood Mac, Paul Simon (they played a cover of "Peace Like a River" to confirm this feeling), the Wallflowers, and Metric. Maybe they manage to sound like such a wide range of other artists because all three of the members (who also have a bass player but seem to mostly consider themselves a trio) take turns singing. But they've got something unique as well. On their latest album, Yellow//Gold, I'd preferred some of the quieter pieces but live, they really rock out on the bigger tracks. Their performance was exactly what I'd hoped for--made me forget my tired feet and just lose myself in the music.
Go out and see some good music. It's an excellent way to usher in the spring.
The band's name makes me laugh since their songs are the mostly wildly divergent ones I've ever head. Some have a decidedly country feel, while others remind me of Fleetwood Mac, Paul Simon (they played a cover of "Peace Like a River" to confirm this feeling), the Wallflowers, and Metric. Maybe they manage to sound like such a wide range of other artists because all three of the members (who also have a bass player but seem to mostly consider themselves a trio) take turns singing. But they've got something unique as well. On their latest album, Yellow//Gold, I'd preferred some of the quieter pieces but live, they really rock out on the bigger tracks. Their performance was exactly what I'd hoped for--made me forget my tired feet and just lose myself in the music.
Go out and see some good music. It's an excellent way to usher in the spring.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
The Pines
Sometimes, if no one can celebrate the end of exams with you, you must take matters into your own hands. And find yourself at The Pines for a drink--you've been curious about it because you once attended its sister restaurant Littleneck on a similarly dark and dismal night. And you heard the cocktails are good and wintry, and the food sounds strange... and they let you in out of the storm, even though you're 15 minutes early, and make you a nice stiff drink of rye and pine and yuzu. Eventually, you add some food--you never imagined apples as the star of their own dish before, but the Pines-y rendition succeeds, a giant bowlful coated in sheep's milk and sesame seeds, whose taste shines through, and a little bit of vinegar. And maybe when you ordered it, you weren't thinking about how testa is basically headcheese, but it melts on the tongue and is accompanied with a pumpkin bread that's more like a loaf cake, and tart huckleberries. And there's the amuse-bouche of garbanzo beans with--could that be guava salt? Who knew! Your second round drink is also made of apple, and whiskey and smoke (this is not actually the first cocktail you've had with apple and whiskey and smoke, but this one holds the smoke longer). And your book is made out of winter and England and mystery and the dining room is cozy, and certainly your wallet feels the cost of the privilege of sitting here out of the cold for a couple hours, but it's money and time well spent.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Long time no see
Hello, world that is still reading!
I would like to write you a longer post about Red Rooster and Marcus Samuelsson and perhaps I will soon, but there's been a lot going on. For now, I'll just say that at last I've found an album that I like this year, and it's A.C. Newman's Shut Down the Streets. It's strange; though I've never really cared for the New Pornographers I do consistently like Newman's solo work. This album doesn't disappoint; it's catchy and jingly and a little bit sad and just the sort of thing to listen to as darkness closes in earlier each night. Who knew A.C. Newman sounded so much like a Belle & Sebastian for the wintertime?
I would like to write you a longer post about Red Rooster and Marcus Samuelsson and perhaps I will soon, but there's been a lot going on. For now, I'll just say that at last I've found an album that I like this year, and it's A.C. Newman's Shut Down the Streets. It's strange; though I've never really cared for the New Pornographers I do consistently like Newman's solo work. This album doesn't disappoint; it's catchy and jingly and a little bit sad and just the sort of thing to listen to as darkness closes in earlier each night. Who knew A.C. Newman sounded so much like a Belle & Sebastian for the wintertime?
Monday, July 9, 2012
Once more
Sometimes, if the weather is surprisingly breezy and you find yourself with not much to do, you may stand torn at the corner of your office building and then opt, resolutely, for home. Home, where you haven't been for a week. Where you can wrangle your bike away from the banister and hop on and ride up steep steep Mount Prospect Park and, prevailing, wend your way back down the Slope, through newly-navigable Grand Army Plaza, down to Christie's, home of the giantest $2.50 chicken patties you'll ever see and that curious New Yorky ice cream phenomenon, the grape nut. Flavor the nuts do not have in spades, but they do provide a nice crunchy counterpoint to the buttery eggnog ice cream in which they sit. And you too can sit, on a traffic island with a bench, and watch the cabbies and the yuppies and the hippies and the world glide by. On the return trip, you can coast down the park, only pedaling once, and take in the glory of the house-lined tree-lined streets of home. You can trot up the stairs, make a quick swap of bike for laptop, and step out once more into the perfect air, bound for a cafe and a too-expensive so-refreshing blueberry lemonade and a computer keyboard and the sensation of starting over, saying the same thing again and again, maybe better, maybe worse, but making it new once more on this July evening.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Pork! aaaand
I wonder how many days in a row I could eat pork for lunch before rebelling. A couple weeks ago I got Wah Fun #1 Fast Food's staggeringly enormous pile of roast pork, bitter greens, and rice for $3; there is also Big Wong's superior roast and ribs combo for $5.50, or #1's neighbor Kien Tuong, which unfortunately was out of roast pork when I swung by the other day.
And today there was oft-lauded Xi'an Famous Foods and their superlatively cheap and delicious (and greasy--nearly irreversibly stained an outfit once) pork burger for $2.72 including tax (I think last time I went there was no tax, but everything is going up).
There is also Shanghai Cafe of Mott Street and its miraculous soup dumplings (pork or pork and shrimp), introduced to me by my sister, if these delights are not enough.
I suppose there is also the kiosk outside, if you want to bask in this glorious weather with a salad. But how can it compare to sitting in Columbus Park with a pork burger--or perhaps the 5-for-$1.25 fried pork-and-chive dumplings from Tasty Dumpling?
Chinatown, lunchtime cheapskates salute thee!
And today there was oft-lauded Xi'an Famous Foods and their superlatively cheap and delicious (and greasy--nearly irreversibly stained an outfit once) pork burger for $2.72 including tax (I think last time I went there was no tax, but everything is going up).
There is also Shanghai Cafe of Mott Street and its miraculous soup dumplings (pork or pork and shrimp), introduced to me by my sister, if these delights are not enough.
I suppose there is also the kiosk outside, if you want to bask in this glorious weather with a salad. But how can it compare to sitting in Columbus Park with a pork burger--or perhaps the 5-for-$1.25 fried pork-and-chive dumplings from Tasty Dumpling?
Chinatown, lunchtime cheapskates salute thee!
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Salt and fat and persimmons oh my
It has been a while since I've been excited enough about a meal to tell you about it, but now that time is here. R.-- and I had been trying to go to Salt & Fat in Sunnyside for, oh, about eight months or so, but only managed it last night. Which may be for the best, because the reviews we read in June suggested it was a bit hit or miss, but now it is all hit.
S&F does small plates so R.-- and I started with three of them. (We later upgraded to a fourth, shocking no one, possibly not even our waitress.) The persimmon salad--my suggestion--was perfect: arugula's bitterness tamed by honey-citrus vinaigrette, sliced persimmons, goat cheese, and oh-so-candied walnuts. My only quibble is that there was not much speck atop the salad; I would've liked more than a small slice. I quickly forgot about that in the general abundance of persimmon and walnut though. Even R.--, who is not generally a persimmon fan, was impressed.
Next came R.--'s choice, the yellowtail. It is sooort of sashimi-style but that description does not convey the beauty of the dish. Presented with the plate, we oohed and aahed. Little hunks of yellowtail spread in a long rectangle across the middle, topped with radish, scallions, and some type of paste redolent of sesame; around the fish were perfectly round dollops of yuzu gel and spicy mayo. Mix it all together, our waiter told us, upon hearing we were new to the dish; after R.-- took a picture, we did, and plunked heaping forkfuls atop the crackly cassava chips served alongside.
Pork belly tacos were not as much of a revelation but did not disappoint. The pork flavor was perhaps a little faint but the fat was blessedly not overpowering, the topping kimchi salsa not my absolute favorite but an interesting twist on a familiar dish. The tacos came three to an order, and after some debate, I split the third one right down the middle, open-face sandwich style, revealing the intricate architecture of cheese on salsa on cabbage on pork. The pickled onions heaped alongside looked just like jalapenos but tasted sweeter; I wish I'd realized how much they enhanced the tacos before I was on my second one.
Unable to resist, we added a small dish of pappardelle. The noodles and mushrooms were good, with abundant enokis--another quibble, not enough of the other kind of mushroom for me to say with any certainty what it was--but the real star of the dish was the slow-cooked egg, resplendent with its unrunny orange yolk. I wish I could cook like that.
Decadent to the end, we split marshmallow ice cream with rice krispies, another winner. Two giant rice krispy squares, served warm, bookended ice cream the very apotheosis of marshmallow flavor, with little krispy shavings at its base. Often I find that restaurant desserts don't live up to the excitement promised by the menu, or the price tag. This one, at $6, more than delivered on both.
I hope that we will venture to Salt & Fat again before eight months have passed.
S&F does small plates so R.-- and I started with three of them. (We later upgraded to a fourth, shocking no one, possibly not even our waitress.) The persimmon salad--my suggestion--was perfect: arugula's bitterness tamed by honey-citrus vinaigrette, sliced persimmons, goat cheese, and oh-so-candied walnuts. My only quibble is that there was not much speck atop the salad; I would've liked more than a small slice. I quickly forgot about that in the general abundance of persimmon and walnut though. Even R.--, who is not generally a persimmon fan, was impressed.
Next came R.--'s choice, the yellowtail. It is sooort of sashimi-style but that description does not convey the beauty of the dish. Presented with the plate, we oohed and aahed. Little hunks of yellowtail spread in a long rectangle across the middle, topped with radish, scallions, and some type of paste redolent of sesame; around the fish were perfectly round dollops of yuzu gel and spicy mayo. Mix it all together, our waiter told us, upon hearing we were new to the dish; after R.-- took a picture, we did, and plunked heaping forkfuls atop the crackly cassava chips served alongside.
Pork belly tacos were not as much of a revelation but did not disappoint. The pork flavor was perhaps a little faint but the fat was blessedly not overpowering, the topping kimchi salsa not my absolute favorite but an interesting twist on a familiar dish. The tacos came three to an order, and after some debate, I split the third one right down the middle, open-face sandwich style, revealing the intricate architecture of cheese on salsa on cabbage on pork. The pickled onions heaped alongside looked just like jalapenos but tasted sweeter; I wish I'd realized how much they enhanced the tacos before I was on my second one.
Unable to resist, we added a small dish of pappardelle. The noodles and mushrooms were good, with abundant enokis--another quibble, not enough of the other kind of mushroom for me to say with any certainty what it was--but the real star of the dish was the slow-cooked egg, resplendent with its unrunny orange yolk. I wish I could cook like that.
Decadent to the end, we split marshmallow ice cream with rice krispies, another winner. Two giant rice krispy squares, served warm, bookended ice cream the very apotheosis of marshmallow flavor, with little krispy shavings at its base. Often I find that restaurant desserts don't live up to the excitement promised by the menu, or the price tag. This one, at $6, more than delivered on both.
I hope that we will venture to Salt & Fat again before eight months have passed.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Brown paper packages tied up with string...
Though it's been nearly a year since I quit the hard stuff (read: caffeine), sometimes the thought of a latte is enough to get me out of bed. And so I reluctantly shoved off the covers in the early morning dark, thinking, You'll be glad later, and hopped on a B68 to Park Slope to try new cafe De Luxe. And it is in fact the perfect morning destination: delicious latte (decaf for noobs like me) and teeny-tiny butter and jam breakfast baguette in a neat paper-and-string package. There were two choices of jam today, mixed berry and apple; the very welcoming fellow behind the counter complimented my choice of apple. Sitting here before the workday begins, munching away on the perfect combination of sweet and creamy and crunchy sandwich, I too am glad of my decision.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Top Ten 2011
I did not think I would make it to liking ten whole rock albums this year, but it turns out I just made it. A somewhat abbreviated list:
2. I had a song from Metric before (thanks, S.--!) but never appreciated the full-length brilliance of an album until I was sent Grow Up and Blow Away by M.--. Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge on a groggy morning, frantically trying not to be late, would not be the same without the pulsing backbeat of Metric. I can't choose just one favorite, usually letting most of the album wash over me in a propulsive stream. I love the cockiness of "On the Sly" and the soaring heights of "Soft Rock Star," the cryptic elegance of "The Twist." Even if I sometimes feel like I'm in a trendy Thai restaurant when I listen to "Rock Me Now," I wouldn't change a thing.
1. Surprising no one (certainly not surprising myself, anyway), my number-one album of the year is the long-awaited Where Are the Arms, by Gabriel Kahane. Ever since discovering his self-titled debut last year, I eagerly looked forward to his next album, reminding myself it was coming soon in what turned out to be a disappointing year for me, music-wise. Arms didn't disappoint, in both gorgeous studio recording and amped-up live performance. Opener "Charming Disease" grew from a simple piano piece that didn't really move me that much in a live performance to this year's most chilling, beautiful, and haunting piece. And of course Kahane is backed by a fabulous crew of rock/classical musicians (notice a theme here?) including my beloved yMusic. Nothing not to like, except for the time I went to a concert and forgot that the album has 11 tracks, not 13. I could sure use two more songs like these.
10. I'm counting this one as the tenth because I'm not quite sure it counts as rock, even though I really enjoy it. yMusic's debut CD, Beautiful Mechanical, is instrumental--the ensemble encompasses players of the violin (and sometimes guitar), viola, cello, flute, trumpet, and clarinet. These fine folk appear on many a release in this top ten--if you ask me, they're the group to watch for the future of classical/rock hybrids. Beautiful Mechanical has playful tracks like "Proven Badlands," a rogue western by Annie Clark (aka Saint Vincent), a slightly Copland-inflected "Dawn Dance" by Judd Greenstein, and a bit of electric rock guitar composed by Gabriel Kahane. I was pleased to be a Kickstarter supporter of this album and receive a copy in the mail; the record release show at Rockwood was great fun and I only wished the album was longer.
9. I did not love all of Holcombe Waller's Into the Dark Unknown, but it certainly intrigued me. C.--, listening along with me one morning, assumed I'd been changing albums from song to song; indeed, they vary tremendously. There's the catchy "Risk of Change," haunting "Atlas" and hummable "Qu'Appelle Valley, Saskatchewan." I think perhaps Mr. Waller has confused unicorns with vampires in his track about one, but since he has a piercing voice and a creative lyric-writing style, I'll forgive him his Twilight-y trespasses. (Apparently he worked with Bryce Dessner in the past, too? Observant readers will sense a theme or two in this post.)
8. Paul Simon's new album, So Beautiful or So What, is not his best but that is an impossibly high bar. I love "Questions for the Angels," with its misty evocation of a walker on the Brooklyn Bridge; I wish I could whistle along to "Rewrite." Seeing him in concert in Philadelphia was incredible; I was pleased also to see Bang on a Can's Mark Stewart in his more famous capacity, and in awe of Simon's talented ensemble generally. I'm glad to see he's still rockin' after all these years.
7. My friend M.-- introduced me to Margot & the Nuclear So and So's (I think because I was so taken by their name). The Dust of Retreat helped fill the National-sized void in my new listening for much of the early year, with their dense instrumentation and deep voiced catchy songs. I found myself thinking, "I'm alive, and that's the best that I can do" on many a morning and musing about skeleton keys and paper kittens.
6. Broken Records, who I found in a Metafilter thread about music similar to The National's, also helped fill this void. Let Me Come Home eerily embodies the substance, if not quite the heart, of my favorite group's aesthetic, and provide a fine soundtrack for traipsing across a quiet botanical garden on an early fall morning. These fine 4AD labelmates of you-know-who caused me to ponder the fine line between similarity and imitation (though I do not really accuse them of copying The National; they've been around for a few years, and their sound is perhaps more High Violet-y than anything else).
5. Apparently I liked Bon Iver's new self-titled album more than I thought I did (or it was a tough year for me, musicwise; or, okay, probably both). I think the record suffered from a summertime release date; the music made me think of cold and rain and snow and in fact resonated more with me as winter (sort of) rolled around. It's all very 80s, but in a mostly not too cheesy way. I often muse on "Holocene"'s "once I knew I was not magnificent" lyric, and there's a nice rockin' out build-up in Calgary. I saw Bon Iver live in Prospect Park this summer and of course part of the highlight was seeing some members of good ol' yMusic violining, guitaring, and trumpeting away.
4. I'm having trouble ranking the next two, but let's put Frightened Rabbit's Year of Mixed Drinks here, if only because I came to it later in the year and I'm less familiar with Frightened Rabbit's output as a whole. If Broken Records embodies the letter of what I love about The National, Frightened Rabbit has the spirit, which I was beginning to suspect I would not see at all this year. The voice is very different but the drums and horns and such are the pure jolt that I get from, say, Bloodbuzz Ohio, and the static is truly a joyous noise. Frightened Rabbit and Broken Records (to say nothing of last-year favorite Belle and Sebastian) are both Scottish. Should The National move to Scotland? More saliently, should I?
3. I am in a somewhat special position to comment on My Brightest Diamond's All Things Will Unwind because I have watched its trajectory from premiere performance to full-fledged album. Shara Worden, labelmate and buddy of Sufjan Stevens and vocalist with Clogs and on The Long Count, has grown on me considerably, despite my natural aversion to operatic female vocalists. She's a talented songwriter as well as a powerful singer, and the tracks on All Things have a really eternal, classic feel. I love the trumpet solo (yes, courtesy of dear yMusic) on "High Low Middle" and the eerie drums of "Be Brave." From the Ecstatic Music Festival to River to River in Battery Park to the CD release party at Littlefield, I watched My Brightest Diamond's ascension from kooky colorful ensemble to full-scale costumed rock star extravaganza. I'm excited to see what they'll do next.
9. I did not love all of Holcombe Waller's Into the Dark Unknown, but it certainly intrigued me. C.--, listening along with me one morning, assumed I'd been changing albums from song to song; indeed, they vary tremendously. There's the catchy "Risk of Change," haunting "Atlas" and hummable "Qu'Appelle Valley, Saskatchewan." I think perhaps Mr. Waller has confused unicorns with vampires in his track about one, but since he has a piercing voice and a creative lyric-writing style, I'll forgive him his Twilight-y trespasses. (Apparently he worked with Bryce Dessner in the past, too? Observant readers will sense a theme or two in this post.)
8. Paul Simon's new album, So Beautiful or So What, is not his best but that is an impossibly high bar. I love "Questions for the Angels," with its misty evocation of a walker on the Brooklyn Bridge; I wish I could whistle along to "Rewrite." Seeing him in concert in Philadelphia was incredible; I was pleased also to see Bang on a Can's Mark Stewart in his more famous capacity, and in awe of Simon's talented ensemble generally. I'm glad to see he's still rockin' after all these years.
7. My friend M.-- introduced me to Margot & the Nuclear So and So's (I think because I was so taken by their name). The Dust of Retreat helped fill the National-sized void in my new listening for much of the early year, with their dense instrumentation and deep voiced catchy songs. I found myself thinking, "I'm alive, and that's the best that I can do" on many a morning and musing about skeleton keys and paper kittens.
6. Broken Records, who I found in a Metafilter thread about music similar to The National's, also helped fill this void. Let Me Come Home eerily embodies the substance, if not quite the heart, of my favorite group's aesthetic, and provide a fine soundtrack for traipsing across a quiet botanical garden on an early fall morning. These fine 4AD labelmates of you-know-who caused me to ponder the fine line between similarity and imitation (though I do not really accuse them of copying The National; they've been around for a few years, and their sound is perhaps more High Violet-y than anything else).
5. Apparently I liked Bon Iver's new self-titled album more than I thought I did (or it was a tough year for me, musicwise; or, okay, probably both). I think the record suffered from a summertime release date; the music made me think of cold and rain and snow and in fact resonated more with me as winter (sort of) rolled around. It's all very 80s, but in a mostly not too cheesy way. I often muse on "Holocene"'s "once I knew I was not magnificent" lyric, and there's a nice rockin' out build-up in Calgary. I saw Bon Iver live in Prospect Park this summer and of course part of the highlight was seeing some members of good ol' yMusic violining, guitaring, and trumpeting away.
4. I'm having trouble ranking the next two, but let's put Frightened Rabbit's Year of Mixed Drinks here, if only because I came to it later in the year and I'm less familiar with Frightened Rabbit's output as a whole. If Broken Records embodies the letter of what I love about The National, Frightened Rabbit has the spirit, which I was beginning to suspect I would not see at all this year. The voice is very different but the drums and horns and such are the pure jolt that I get from, say, Bloodbuzz Ohio, and the static is truly a joyous noise. Frightened Rabbit and Broken Records (to say nothing of last-year favorite Belle and Sebastian) are both Scottish. Should The National move to Scotland? More saliently, should I?
3. I am in a somewhat special position to comment on My Brightest Diamond's All Things Will Unwind because I have watched its trajectory from premiere performance to full-fledged album. Shara Worden, labelmate and buddy of Sufjan Stevens and vocalist with Clogs and on The Long Count, has grown on me considerably, despite my natural aversion to operatic female vocalists. She's a talented songwriter as well as a powerful singer, and the tracks on All Things have a really eternal, classic feel. I love the trumpet solo (yes, courtesy of dear yMusic) on "High Low Middle" and the eerie drums of "Be Brave." From the Ecstatic Music Festival to River to River in Battery Park to the CD release party at Littlefield, I watched My Brightest Diamond's ascension from kooky colorful ensemble to full-scale costumed rock star extravaganza. I'm excited to see what they'll do next.
2. I had a song from Metric before (thanks, S.--!) but never appreciated the full-length brilliance of an album until I was sent Grow Up and Blow Away by M.--. Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge on a groggy morning, frantically trying not to be late, would not be the same without the pulsing backbeat of Metric. I can't choose just one favorite, usually letting most of the album wash over me in a propulsive stream. I love the cockiness of "On the Sly" and the soaring heights of "Soft Rock Star," the cryptic elegance of "The Twist." Even if I sometimes feel like I'm in a trendy Thai restaurant when I listen to "Rock Me Now," I wouldn't change a thing.
1. Surprising no one (certainly not surprising myself, anyway), my number-one album of the year is the long-awaited Where Are the Arms, by Gabriel Kahane. Ever since discovering his self-titled debut last year, I eagerly looked forward to his next album, reminding myself it was coming soon in what turned out to be a disappointing year for me, music-wise. Arms didn't disappoint, in both gorgeous studio recording and amped-up live performance. Opener "Charming Disease" grew from a simple piano piece that didn't really move me that much in a live performance to this year's most chilling, beautiful, and haunting piece. And of course Kahane is backed by a fabulous crew of rock/classical musicians (notice a theme here?) including my beloved yMusic. Nothing not to like, except for the time I went to a concert and forgot that the album has 11 tracks, not 13. I could sure use two more songs like these.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Cherry Jones
Every time I go to Paulie Gee's, I muse that it would be a great restaurant for a date night. Though I've yet to take my significant other there, it provides a pleasant experience for a family meal as well. Rushing from Chanticleer's Christmas concert at the Met (the true harbinger of the holiday season), I vaulted up from the Greenpoint Avenue G platform, down the two blocks toward the river that bring Paulie Gee's in view, and into the cozy arms of the restaurant with its long wooden tables (I commented to my mom that the decor feels a bit like you're eating at someone's hunting lodge).
As with so many culinary adventures, I was spurred to try out Paulie Gee's pizza by a Serious Eats article about Paulie's rejection from a pizza job he applied for, followed by the remarkable success of his own restaurant. Throughout the whole story, you're struck by what a nice guy he is, and pleased he got the last laugh on the whole pizza-management thing.
To start with, you don't even need pizza. One of the dense salads--Gates of Eden with dried cherries, perfectly-sweetened walnuts, and little morsels of blue cheese; Chick Corea with chickpeas and tiny rings of pasta--will suit you just fine. Soup from Sea Bean (of "soup shot" fame at various markets around the city) is a perfect autumnal quaff for the end of November, with pumpkin and apple and squash oh my--not too dense and creamy, leaving you with room for the pizza.
The first time I tried a pizza, I split a Gates of Eden and the cleverly-named Anise and Anephew, with anisette cream, fennel, and guanciale, with my mom; I was delighted to have some leftovers which heated up surprisingly well in the toaster oven for lunch the next day. This time, we shared a Cherry Jones, and there was not a morsel of leftover to be had.
Cherry Jones contains, as I informed my parents at the table, all the essential food groups: fruit, pork, and cheese. A fior di latte pie with a hint of gorgonzola is topped with dried cherries (yum, them again) and prosciutto, as well as orange blossom honey, giving it a sweet creamy taste. Paulie himself came by the table to see how we liked things; I trust he was not disappointed by our response.
My mom, having scoped out the menu online, informed us there was an array of ice cream sundaes to be had; dutifully we contemplated the options and decided on a dark chocolate baconmarmalade (yup, it's what it sounds like) concoction, and put in for a Nutella and pear pizza as well. The sundae was tasty but not my favorite (Van Leeuwen's ice cream rarely fails to underwhelm, unfortunately); the pizza, a work of art, cut into 8 neat rectangles with a slice or two of pear lined up across each. My parents praised the pizza's lightness, suggesting it contained Nutella-based sauce, or a thin layer of the stuff; me, I felt it as the gut bomb it surely was, mouth thickened by hazelnut, but I could not complain.
Near the end of our meal, we had a nice chat with the pizza maker (I should mention we had a front-row seat on the assembly line of dough shaping, topping sprinkling, and massive wood-burning oven--exciting if a bit overly warm). It seems that many tourists from out of town come in to visit; and indeed the place was quite crowded for a Wednesday night. But we're neighbors, more or less, and my dad was pleased to finally drive down the Brooklyn end of the Greenpoint Avenue he's passed in Queens for decades. I trust we will make the journey again soon.
As with so many culinary adventures, I was spurred to try out Paulie Gee's pizza by a Serious Eats article about Paulie's rejection from a pizza job he applied for, followed by the remarkable success of his own restaurant. Throughout the whole story, you're struck by what a nice guy he is, and pleased he got the last laugh on the whole pizza-management thing.
To start with, you don't even need pizza. One of the dense salads--Gates of Eden with dried cherries, perfectly-sweetened walnuts, and little morsels of blue cheese; Chick Corea with chickpeas and tiny rings of pasta--will suit you just fine. Soup from Sea Bean (of "soup shot" fame at various markets around the city) is a perfect autumnal quaff for the end of November, with pumpkin and apple and squash oh my--not too dense and creamy, leaving you with room for the pizza.
The first time I tried a pizza, I split a Gates of Eden and the cleverly-named Anise and Anephew, with anisette cream, fennel, and guanciale, with my mom; I was delighted to have some leftovers which heated up surprisingly well in the toaster oven for lunch the next day. This time, we shared a Cherry Jones, and there was not a morsel of leftover to be had.
Cherry Jones contains, as I informed my parents at the table, all the essential food groups: fruit, pork, and cheese. A fior di latte pie with a hint of gorgonzola is topped with dried cherries (yum, them again) and prosciutto, as well as orange blossom honey, giving it a sweet creamy taste. Paulie himself came by the table to see how we liked things; I trust he was not disappointed by our response.
My mom, having scoped out the menu online, informed us there was an array of ice cream sundaes to be had; dutifully we contemplated the options and decided on a dark chocolate baconmarmalade (yup, it's what it sounds like) concoction, and put in for a Nutella and pear pizza as well. The sundae was tasty but not my favorite (Van Leeuwen's ice cream rarely fails to underwhelm, unfortunately); the pizza, a work of art, cut into 8 neat rectangles with a slice or two of pear lined up across each. My parents praised the pizza's lightness, suggesting it contained Nutella-based sauce, or a thin layer of the stuff; me, I felt it as the gut bomb it surely was, mouth thickened by hazelnut, but I could not complain.
Near the end of our meal, we had a nice chat with the pizza maker (I should mention we had a front-row seat on the assembly line of dough shaping, topping sprinkling, and massive wood-burning oven--exciting if a bit overly warm). It seems that many tourists from out of town come in to visit; and indeed the place was quite crowded for a Wednesday night. But we're neighbors, more or less, and my dad was pleased to finally drive down the Brooklyn end of the Greenpoint Avenue he's passed in Queens for decades. I trust we will make the journey again soon.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Two (more) tales of a city
I recently had the serendipitous good (?) fortune to read two tales of a future downtown New York back-to-back. You may not be surprised if I tell you that neither of them--Gary Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story and Colson Whitehead's Zone One--is particularly optimistic about what's coming down the pipeline to us.
I have taken to describing Super Sad, which I read first, as Woody Allen meets the future. It is the story of mostly-endearing middle-aged Lenny, a Jewish guy terrified of death, living on the edge of the Lower East Side (quite a feat--most of the hip young folk had to migrate over to Staten Island), and Eunice, the much younger Asian lady he falls in love with. In Lenny and Eunice's world, technology and corporations rule the day. Everyone has an äppärät, a sort of glorified iPhone which will do fun things like tell you the entire life story of whoever it's pointed at and rank the people in a bar according to attractiveness. Just about every other character is scandalized by Lenny's love for "printed, bound media artifacts" with their funny smell and overly long stories that can't fit on a GlobalTeens screenshot. Meanwhile, as everyone frantically thumbs through their social media profiles, a sinister future is rising in the form of increased checkpoints, riots in public parks, and a shadowy security force. Oh, and China is the world financial leader as the US struggles to stay afloat. Sound vaguely familiar?
Zone One is more of a straightforward apocalypse story, where zombies ("skels," in Whitehead's world) have taken over--the country? the world?--while protagonist Mark Spitz and the other survivors try to maintain Zone One, carved out of lower Manhattan. Spitz and his comrades are sweepers, searching once-prime real estate for rabid skels and the somewhat less violent but no less disturbing stragglers, who remain caught in reveries of their everyday routines--the guy at the photocopier, the woman staring entranced at a television that hasn't switched on in a long, long time. Total meltdown skel-immersion is never far away.
Though I am generally not a fan of zombies (even if I once proofread a book about The Walking Dead), I wound up liking Zone One more than Super Sad. The breezy pace and charmingly oblivious and quixotic protagonist of Super Sad won me over for a while, but eventually his story dragged. Zone One, in contrast, never really picked up speed--but the beauty of Whitehead's sentences (which I've applauded before) is truly awe-inspiring, rendering any type of event rich and complex. It was almost too much for me--I was reminded of my college assertion that reading Nietzsche is like eating chocolate cake and reading the entire Genealogy of Morals at once is like eating a whole chocolate cake in one sitting--but I prevailed and grew to care for PASD (the A's for "Apocalyptic") survivor Spitz and his thoughtful, if at times confusing, interweaving of past and present events.
Writing style is certainly one reason for my preference (and one that shows off my winning erudite side, right, right?) but I suspect it's not the whole story for why Zone One sat easier with me. Shteyngart's no slouch in the writing department either, of course (I felt that the seven pages of rave reviews in the front of the book were a bit excessive, but I guess you should take advantage of what you got) but rather than imbuing me with the beauty of the city, no matter how tenuous, he gave me a jolt of visceral fear. Skels are scary but I don't really think they're coming for me. An äppärät, though, even for an avowed anti-smartphonist such as me? A security force ruling over the country while protesters holed up in parks fall prey to violence? It's only a matter of time.
I have taken to describing Super Sad, which I read first, as Woody Allen meets the future. It is the story of mostly-endearing middle-aged Lenny, a Jewish guy terrified of death, living on the edge of the Lower East Side (quite a feat--most of the hip young folk had to migrate over to Staten Island), and Eunice, the much younger Asian lady he falls in love with. In Lenny and Eunice's world, technology and corporations rule the day. Everyone has an äppärät, a sort of glorified iPhone which will do fun things like tell you the entire life story of whoever it's pointed at and rank the people in a bar according to attractiveness. Just about every other character is scandalized by Lenny's love for "printed, bound media artifacts" with their funny smell and overly long stories that can't fit on a GlobalTeens screenshot. Meanwhile, as everyone frantically thumbs through their social media profiles, a sinister future is rising in the form of increased checkpoints, riots in public parks, and a shadowy security force. Oh, and China is the world financial leader as the US struggles to stay afloat. Sound vaguely familiar?
Zone One is more of a straightforward apocalypse story, where zombies ("skels," in Whitehead's world) have taken over--the country? the world?--while protagonist Mark Spitz and the other survivors try to maintain Zone One, carved out of lower Manhattan. Spitz and his comrades are sweepers, searching once-prime real estate for rabid skels and the somewhat less violent but no less disturbing stragglers, who remain caught in reveries of their everyday routines--the guy at the photocopier, the woman staring entranced at a television that hasn't switched on in a long, long time. Total meltdown skel-immersion is never far away.
Though I am generally not a fan of zombies (even if I once proofread a book about The Walking Dead), I wound up liking Zone One more than Super Sad. The breezy pace and charmingly oblivious and quixotic protagonist of Super Sad won me over for a while, but eventually his story dragged. Zone One, in contrast, never really picked up speed--but the beauty of Whitehead's sentences (which I've applauded before) is truly awe-inspiring, rendering any type of event rich and complex. It was almost too much for me--I was reminded of my college assertion that reading Nietzsche is like eating chocolate cake and reading the entire Genealogy of Morals at once is like eating a whole chocolate cake in one sitting--but I prevailed and grew to care for PASD (the A's for "Apocalyptic") survivor Spitz and his thoughtful, if at times confusing, interweaving of past and present events.
Writing style is certainly one reason for my preference (and one that shows off my winning erudite side, right, right?) but I suspect it's not the whole story for why Zone One sat easier with me. Shteyngart's no slouch in the writing department either, of course (I felt that the seven pages of rave reviews in the front of the book were a bit excessive, but I guess you should take advantage of what you got) but rather than imbuing me with the beauty of the city, no matter how tenuous, he gave me a jolt of visceral fear. Skels are scary but I don't really think they're coming for me. An äppärät, though, even for an avowed anti-smartphonist such as me? A security force ruling over the country while protesters holed up in parks fall prey to violence? It's only a matter of time.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Speakeasy
I am fairly certain that in upcoming weeks Sons of Essex will become too crowded and trendy for the likes of me, but I will enjoy its relative obscurity until that time comes. After a three-hour bus ride from Philadelphia, it was a relief to sink into one of SoE's mismatched chairs and gobble up some complimentary cornbread and Lower-East-Side-born pickles. The aptly titled "Bowery Mission" with its Maker's Mark and honey peppercorn syrup further eased the way into a relaxing, speakeasy sort of end to a stressful ride.
The real star of the menu is probably the grilled cheese, a concoction so dense and buttery that the menu recommends it "for the table," rather than as a one-person meal. We had the truffle variety, and I never met a mushroom I didn't like; on other days, there's apple, Cuban, a whole promising array. The grilled cheese comes with a little cast-iron pot of tomato soup for dipping (Brussels sprouts and caraway-flavored cabbage also come in these nice compact vessels)--perfect comfort food. The ambiance, too, is comforting, hidden behind a deli storefront and full of wood, books, and portraits that look imbued with historical significance. I can imagine settling in here on a snowy winter day and being reluctant to enter the outdoors again.
My "entree" (technically an appetizer, but we ordered so many things to share that a real main seemed daunting) was less sensational than the grilled cheese but tasty in its own right. Regular readers of this blog will know I can never turn down chicken and waffles, a technique that can occasionally backfire but usually works out just fine, as it did at SoE. The hen in my hen and waffles was perhaps no Riverpark fried chicken, but the skin was flavorful and the meat moist. I liked the way the three pieces nested, Russian-doll-like, on top of the waffle. And the waffle itself wasn't your usual overdone giant monstrosity (or an Eggo like the winsome Queens Comfort's) but instead a sweet bite, gaufre liegeois-style. A nice dense twist on a perennial favorite of mine.
The dessert menu looked tasty, but we were too full. Never too full to pick up a cupcake, though--in fact, I'm ashamed to say that cupcakes are how I heard of SoE in the first place--and I look forward to eating the chocolate graham cracker cake later today, but for now it is nestled in a perfect little cupcake-sized container, a perfect analogue to the cozy space of the restaurant itself, if you will.
The real star of the menu is probably the grilled cheese, a concoction so dense and buttery that the menu recommends it "for the table," rather than as a one-person meal. We had the truffle variety, and I never met a mushroom I didn't like; on other days, there's apple, Cuban, a whole promising array. The grilled cheese comes with a little cast-iron pot of tomato soup for dipping (Brussels sprouts and caraway-flavored cabbage also come in these nice compact vessels)--perfect comfort food. The ambiance, too, is comforting, hidden behind a deli storefront and full of wood, books, and portraits that look imbued with historical significance. I can imagine settling in here on a snowy winter day and being reluctant to enter the outdoors again.
My "entree" (technically an appetizer, but we ordered so many things to share that a real main seemed daunting) was less sensational than the grilled cheese but tasty in its own right. Regular readers of this blog will know I can never turn down chicken and waffles, a technique that can occasionally backfire but usually works out just fine, as it did at SoE. The hen in my hen and waffles was perhaps no Riverpark fried chicken, but the skin was flavorful and the meat moist. I liked the way the three pieces nested, Russian-doll-like, on top of the waffle. And the waffle itself wasn't your usual overdone giant monstrosity (or an Eggo like the winsome Queens Comfort's) but instead a sweet bite, gaufre liegeois-style. A nice dense twist on a perennial favorite of mine.
The dessert menu looked tasty, but we were too full. Never too full to pick up a cupcake, though--in fact, I'm ashamed to say that cupcakes are how I heard of SoE in the first place--and I look forward to eating the chocolate graham cracker cake later today, but for now it is nestled in a perfect little cupcake-sized container, a perfect analogue to the cozy space of the restaurant itself, if you will.
Friday, October 28, 2011
How 'bout them apples?
Perhaps you're not crazy enough to detour to Midtown in the middle of the lunch rush. Luckily, you know someone who is, and I will be your guide to what turned out to be a more or less successful gambit. Despite a long wait for a 4 train and not one but two poundingly loud pandhandling drummers, I made it to the 41st St. branch of Cambodian sandwich shop Num Pang just in time to grab lunch, wolf it down, and make it back to the office.
I was not wild about Num Pang's 12th St. location, which I tried twice, but the Midtown one had some special sandwiches that sounded intriguing. Plus ginger apple cider with bourbon-soaked apple chunks. Perfect for a crisp fall excursion. I did not pick the fig and bacon sandwich (shame on me?) but instead opted for the roast chicken. I liked that you can place your order at a window outside; waiting in a long crowded not-well-demarcated line just to get my order in fills me with an nameless existential dread. Inside, it was crowded, and the order numbers weren't exactly called out sequentially, but I got my cider instantly--the ginger burning a bit while the soft apple chunks glide gently down--and leaned on the counter with Zone One (demi-subject of a new post soon) in hand.
When the sandwich arrived, I removed the fresh-looking-yet-vile cucumbers (sorry, cuke fans) and awkwardly maneuvered to eat (sure wish Num Pang had some seating). The roast chicken was just right, clean on the inside and a little bit crispy on the skin. The standard cilantro and carrots mixed with it pretty well, somewhat to my surprise; I couldn't really sense anything special about the chili yogurt mayo. The pickled apple slices sure were tasty. Next time I don't have any company for lunch, I may well had back into the lunchtime hordes of the 40s and see if there's a fig or a turkey sandwich with my name on it.
I was not wild about Num Pang's 12th St. location, which I tried twice, but the Midtown one had some special sandwiches that sounded intriguing. Plus ginger apple cider with bourbon-soaked apple chunks. Perfect for a crisp fall excursion. I did not pick the fig and bacon sandwich (shame on me?) but instead opted for the roast chicken. I liked that you can place your order at a window outside; waiting in a long crowded not-well-demarcated line just to get my order in fills me with an nameless existential dread. Inside, it was crowded, and the order numbers weren't exactly called out sequentially, but I got my cider instantly--the ginger burning a bit while the soft apple chunks glide gently down--and leaned on the counter with Zone One (demi-subject of a new post soon) in hand.
When the sandwich arrived, I removed the fresh-looking-yet-vile cucumbers (sorry, cuke fans) and awkwardly maneuvered to eat (sure wish Num Pang had some seating). The roast chicken was just right, clean on the inside and a little bit crispy on the skin. The standard cilantro and carrots mixed with it pretty well, somewhat to my surprise; I couldn't really sense anything special about the chili yogurt mayo. The pickled apple slices sure were tasty. Next time I don't have any company for lunch, I may well had back into the lunchtime hordes of the 40s and see if there's a fig or a turkey sandwich with my name on it.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Warm me up, buttercup
If you are feeling chilly and a bit under the weather early on an October morning, you could do worse than hop the train to Iris Cafe. Several blocks and a world away from the bustle of Borough Hall (and the kerfuffle that ensues on all green trains when a 6 derails), it's a quiet little shop with a Brooklyn Bridge-shaped bench in front. They're out of blackcurrant apple cider, unfortunately, and the cappuccino has maybe a bit of a medicinal aftertaste (something about trendy Stumptown never quite does it for me). But stir a packet of brown sugar into your caramel apple oatmeal and sense the sun rising ever higher over the Heights, and you'll feel better already.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
All things will unwind
A last minute change of plans...and a perfect fall day for a walk. Check it out!
Ooookay, I didn't walk from Crown and New York to Fulton and Nostrand the first time 'round, but I did walk everyplace else. Shara Worden is a good walking companion; I like All Things Will Unwind and it's suitably autumnal, but I'm not intimidated to play it the way I am when faced with Gabriel Kahane's Where Are the Arms, the way I vaguely feel about all music I love. Last night at a party someone told me they listened to High Violet while writing papers. Yikes! I can put on a trouper like All Things as a sort of graceful background hum, but The National requires some attention.
On my walk, I had some food woes but whoever invented the almond chocolate croissant is a genius. The cafe with the five different flavors of apple cider is promising, too. It is good to walk down Eastern Parkway to the library in the fall with a warm cider in your hand and a song in your ears.
Ooookay, I didn't walk from Crown and New York to Fulton and Nostrand the first time 'round, but I did walk everyplace else. Shara Worden is a good walking companion; I like All Things Will Unwind and it's suitably autumnal, but I'm not intimidated to play it the way I am when faced with Gabriel Kahane's Where Are the Arms, the way I vaguely feel about all music I love. Last night at a party someone told me they listened to High Violet while writing papers. Yikes! I can put on a trouper like All Things as a sort of graceful background hum, but The National requires some attention.
On my walk, I had some food woes but whoever invented the almond chocolate croissant is a genius. The cafe with the five different flavors of apple cider is promising, too. It is good to walk down Eastern Parkway to the library in the fall with a warm cider in your hand and a song in your ears.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
It's a nuclear show and the stars are gone
I've never broken into Broken Social Scene, but I do like some of its associated acts including Stars, introduced to me by the lovely S.--. I got a ticket to see them at the Music Hall of Williamsburg tonight and I was ultimately glad that I did, though it took me a while to warm up to the show.
Part of the difficulty stemmed from technical issues. Last time I went to MHW, to see the Hold Steady with I.--, I was nearly deafened. I have been to plenty of loud concerts but no others where my ears were still ringing the next morning. So I picked up a pair of the handy-dandy earplugs that MHW sells at the bar, which did the trick...sort of. They dampened the sound effectively but did not, of course, account for the woeful bass thump. I am not sure if all shows, or all MHW shows, are like this, but I couldn't hear a damned thing over the rattling in my bones from the amps. So I suffered--grantedly, in a non-deaf manner--through the opening band and some Stars songs I didn't know so well.
But when the ones I did know came on, I wound up ditching the earplugs for the rest of the show (which was not remotely as loud as the Hold Steady's in any event). Stars is one of those bands where I don't love or even like every song, but a few are really stunning. In particular, two of them run the full range of emotion for me. "Dead Hearts" always makes me want to cry; tonight's version, midway through the show, was no exception. Other songs--"We Don't Want Your Body," "One More Night" in the encore--were fun to rock out to. Amy Millan's voice can be truly eerie, which must help when you've most recently released an album about ghosts, including the haunting "Changes." And Torquil Campbell can hold a note with the best of them; his performance had me thinking of Stephin Merritt's glorious crescendoing conclusion to "The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side."
"Changes," several songs into an encore, seemed like a high note to end on, but then Stars launched into "Elevator Love Letter," which has got to be one of the songs that fills me with the most joy--a perfect counterpoint to "Dead Hearts." I walked to the L humming the tune, not even minding the crush of hipsters and the latening hour.
Part of the difficulty stemmed from technical issues. Last time I went to MHW, to see the Hold Steady with I.--, I was nearly deafened. I have been to plenty of loud concerts but no others where my ears were still ringing the next morning. So I picked up a pair of the handy-dandy earplugs that MHW sells at the bar, which did the trick...sort of. They dampened the sound effectively but did not, of course, account for the woeful bass thump. I am not sure if all shows, or all MHW shows, are like this, but I couldn't hear a damned thing over the rattling in my bones from the amps. So I suffered--grantedly, in a non-deaf manner--through the opening band and some Stars songs I didn't know so well.
But when the ones I did know came on, I wound up ditching the earplugs for the rest of the show (which was not remotely as loud as the Hold Steady's in any event). Stars is one of those bands where I don't love or even like every song, but a few are really stunning. In particular, two of them run the full range of emotion for me. "Dead Hearts" always makes me want to cry; tonight's version, midway through the show, was no exception. Other songs--"We Don't Want Your Body," "One More Night" in the encore--were fun to rock out to. Amy Millan's voice can be truly eerie, which must help when you've most recently released an album about ghosts, including the haunting "Changes." And Torquil Campbell can hold a note with the best of them; his performance had me thinking of Stephin Merritt's glorious crescendoing conclusion to "The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side."
"Changes," several songs into an encore, seemed like a high note to end on, but then Stars launched into "Elevator Love Letter," which has got to be one of the songs that fills me with the most joy--a perfect counterpoint to "Dead Hearts." I walked to the L humming the tune, not even minding the crush of hipsters and the latening hour.
Friday, October 7, 2011
And an Elvis redux
Last week I had some time to kill before seeing The (very impressive) Lion King on Broadway with a friend, and found myself wandering the East Village in search of a good dinner. I quickly remembered that 7th Street and St. Marks Place are really exemplary for this sort of mission. Caracas Arepas Bar, site of my main course, unfortunately did not live up to my hopes and dreams. I've had this experience there before, but I'm always hoping it'll turn around, because, hey, a restaurant devoted to one of my favorite foodstuffs can't be all bad, right? Alas, my reina pepiada was not so good as the one I got at another (lamentably closed) arepa joint in Williamsburg; the chicken and avocado were mixed together in a scoop of tuna-salad-like texture, cold and with a bite of some aftertaste I couldn't quite place but didn't like.
Upon leaving to peer in the window of the Big Gay Ice Cream Truck's new shop, I realized I should've gone to Porchetta, of course--no doubt that sublime perfection of a sandwich deserves its own point--but just as well, because I couldn't bring myself to tell C.-- I'd gone there without him.
Instead of Big Gay Ice Cream I opted for a People's Pop from the stand they set up near the corner of 7th and 1st; I got the apple pie flavor, with whipped cream swirled within its boundaries; it was a refreshing take on a usually warm and comforting dessert.
But I didn't even realize my best luck until Monday morning, when I ate a final confection I'd kept aside for breakfast. Jane's Sweet Buns is an East Village newcomer featuring cinnamon buns inspired by cocktails. A blueberry bun would not disappoint; but for the true decadent sublime you really need a bun sandwich. Which I consumed with relish at my desk during the post-weekend blues, letting the peanut butter and bacon drip out into the spilled milk bowl R.-- got me for my birthday. Like the leftover fried chicken from Riverpark I was lucky enough to make my lunch on Friday, this Elvissy bun rendered all other breakfast options woefully obsolete.
Upon leaving to peer in the window of the Big Gay Ice Cream Truck's new shop, I realized I should've gone to Porchetta, of course--no doubt that sublime perfection of a sandwich deserves its own point--but just as well, because I couldn't bring myself to tell C.-- I'd gone there without him.
Instead of Big Gay Ice Cream I opted for a People's Pop from the stand they set up near the corner of 7th and 1st; I got the apple pie flavor, with whipped cream swirled within its boundaries; it was a refreshing take on a usually warm and comforting dessert.
But I didn't even realize my best luck until Monday morning, when I ate a final confection I'd kept aside for breakfast. Jane's Sweet Buns is an East Village newcomer featuring cinnamon buns inspired by cocktails. A blueberry bun would not disappoint; but for the true decadent sublime you really need a bun sandwich. Which I consumed with relish at my desk during the post-weekend blues, letting the peanut butter and bacon drip out into the spilled milk bowl R.-- got me for my birthday. Like the leftover fried chicken from Riverpark I was lucky enough to make my lunch on Friday, this Elvissy bun rendered all other breakfast options woefully obsolete.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Stuffed
Hidden between 1st Avenue and the FDR on a hospital-filled stretch is a secret I can just about bring myself to share with you. Part of Tom Colicchio's restaurant empire ('Wichcraft sandwiches in the Lincoln Center atrium, anyone?), Riverpark looks out on the East River at the end of an elegant stone-paved street. It's housed within a glass office building, abutting a farm patch that grows vegetables for the restaurant on a long-stalled construction site. Entering the vestibule with my parents, I feel like a millionaire--it seems like all the hostesses and waiters know them, make excited conversation, eagerly bring us our menus as we settle in beneath the tiny ceiling lights like stars.
Riverpark has a main menu that reminds me of my neighborhood class act The Farm on Adderley, full of chicken and pork and fish and steak with seasonal veggie accompaniments. It also boasts an exciting cocktail menu and a separate bar menu of food. Someone, and I won't name any names, perfidiously informed me that the bar menu items are small and so I should order an appetizer; I chose a consommé salad, a delicate bed of greens over which the waiter poured a dark fragrant mushroom broth. The bread rolls were crisp, warm, and delicious, especially with a dab of butter. In honor of C.-- I ordered Riverpark's take on a Manhattan, the (West of), studded with apple brandy and cocoa and chile bitters. Waiting for the main course to unfold, we chatted with my parents' many fans (my mom suspects they have mistaken her for a princess) and took in the dark but still commanding view of the Long Island City skyline.
And then the main course arrived--what I'm told were delicious burgers, with certainly delicious fries; and my own perfect fried chicken and biscuits. The chicken was moist and its fried covering perfectly seasoned and flavorful; the biscuits fluffy and perfect with a coating of fresh butter and honey enhanced by black pepper flecks. A messy and even more fulfilling option was to join their forces, open-faced sandwich style; I was glad of my napkins.
More bread was offered; alas, I had to decline. I could barely finish my plate, even after giving one of the three chicken pieces and a smattering of biscuit to my parents; but I somehow found the strength to soldier on. Dishes cleared, a waiter proffered the dessert menu--sounded divine, but I couldn't possib--and they brought out the pièce de résistance, three free desserts for us to share. My father didn't lie; the vanilla cream for the beignets was probably the airiest, tastiest part of the ensemble. The lemon steamed pudding with blueberry ice cream was tart and delicate. A couple of tiny homemade oreos on the side of the pot de crème didn't hurt either.
I left so full of food and thanks I swore I would never eat again. Those who raised me expressed their doubts, however.
Riverpark has a main menu that reminds me of my neighborhood class act The Farm on Adderley, full of chicken and pork and fish and steak with seasonal veggie accompaniments. It also boasts an exciting cocktail menu and a separate bar menu of food. Someone, and I won't name any names, perfidiously informed me that the bar menu items are small and so I should order an appetizer; I chose a consommé salad, a delicate bed of greens over which the waiter poured a dark fragrant mushroom broth. The bread rolls were crisp, warm, and delicious, especially with a dab of butter. In honor of C.-- I ordered Riverpark's take on a Manhattan, the (West of), studded with apple brandy and cocoa and chile bitters. Waiting for the main course to unfold, we chatted with my parents' many fans (my mom suspects they have mistaken her for a princess) and took in the dark but still commanding view of the Long Island City skyline.
And then the main course arrived--what I'm told were delicious burgers, with certainly delicious fries; and my own perfect fried chicken and biscuits. The chicken was moist and its fried covering perfectly seasoned and flavorful; the biscuits fluffy and perfect with a coating of fresh butter and honey enhanced by black pepper flecks. A messy and even more fulfilling option was to join their forces, open-faced sandwich style; I was glad of my napkins.
More bread was offered; alas, I had to decline. I could barely finish my plate, even after giving one of the three chicken pieces and a smattering of biscuit to my parents; but I somehow found the strength to soldier on. Dishes cleared, a waiter proffered the dessert menu--sounded divine, but I couldn't possib--and they brought out the pièce de résistance, three free desserts for us to share. My father didn't lie; the vanilla cream for the beignets was probably the airiest, tastiest part of the ensemble. The lemon steamed pudding with blueberry ice cream was tart and delicate. A couple of tiny homemade oreos on the side of the pot de crème didn't hurt either.
I left so full of food and thanks I swore I would never eat again. Those who raised me expressed their doubts, however.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Bubbles
While a friend's friend once apparently called me "bubbly," that's hardly an adjective I'd use to describe myself. But there is certainly a place for bubbles, and that place is bubble tea. I've sampled many over the years, mostly in Chinatown, and just wanted to bring to your attention a nice new place I've been to a few times called Bubbly Tea. While I've not yet tried the eponymous effervescent beverage, I have tasted a few others, including a pretty good strawberry iced tea with actual strawberry pieces and, today, an Oreo milk tea. I got it since I was craving an Oreo drink (somehow the cookies are so much better blended than on their own) and, after my previous experience with a taro milk, was pretty sure it'd taste like straight up cookies and milk.
To my pleasant surprise, it tastes not only of Oreos but also distinctly of black tea. Perfect thing to comfort and revitalize in the midst of this cranky weather we've been having.
To my pleasant surprise, it tastes not only of Oreos but also distinctly of black tea. Perfect thing to comfort and revitalize in the midst of this cranky weather we've been having.
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