Food as a remembrance of things past

Last week, while Carl and little one were in Washington D.C. from Wednesday to Saturday for the First Round of March Madness, I went traveling down memory lane here in Manhattan. In their absence, I unexpectedly journeyed back to the E. Village neighborhood where I first lived, and subsequently visited a few, old favorite haunts. It was a weekend of traveling without departures. Big daughter's friend I. is visiting from Belgrade and we walked around the city Friday and Saturday, while Big Daughter was working. Thursday evening, I met my good friend, Lady L. - also mother of little one's best friend/adopted sister little Miss A.- for a long-planned dinner. Lady L. has been wanting to hear first-hand about my daily life and I suggested eating at Hearth (12th Street/1st Avenue). Until I arrived at Hearth, I was still debating alternative dinner choices. Hearth is located directly across the street from the site of my first New York City home, and there-in lay my ambivalence. Home was a typical, top-floor railroad-style apartment with three rooms; entry through the kitchen, no bathtub and seriously slanted floors. There were three of us and we each paid $300 in rent. Those days are long gone. In 1982, E. 12th street was a dicey street to reside on and rent was cheap, many of my friends/neighbors were smoking heroin and dabbling in art. I found solace and comfort at De Robertis Bakery and Caffe, Sal Anthony's Lanza's and Sapporo East, a punked-out Japanese sushi spot -all which remain neighborhood fixtures (on First Avenue between 10th/11th streets). Brunetta's, a small family-run Italian restaurant, is now a restaurant called Tree. Back then, it was our spot for Sunday evening supper after a day at the beach. Early on a summer Sunday morning, my roommates and I would drive out to Amagensett, pay five dollars to park and spend the day at the beach. Around 3 p.m., we would get back on an empty Montauk Highway and zip down the Long Island Expressway for a quick trip back to the E. Village. While we waited for dinner, I would visit Brunetta's owners, a husband and wife who spoke mostly Italian, in the small kitchen in the back - my adopted version of a grandmother's kitchen. One time, they were stirring octupus in a rich tomato sauce. I remember the sight of the long pink tentacles floating in the water. The proximity of Hearth to these combined memories unnerved me. Despite a very tasteful experience, I couldn't reconcile the professionalism of Hearth with the grittiness of the neighborhood in which I came of age. While I waited for Lady L. (who apologized for taking a short, sweet nap with her little one) I ordered a glass of prosecco, requested some Creme de Cassis in it and made my own kir. It was fun to read the comprehensive and winsomely-written wine menu. I love to read about wine even though I barely drink it, an armchair wine connisseur. Lady L. was amenable to us sharing some appetizers -Yellow pepper soup with paddlefish caviar, Peekytoe crab salad with Meyer Lemon, potatoes and arugula and New Zealand Snapper crudo. We ordered one entree, Roasted Sturgeon with Braised Cabbage, Pork Sausage and chickpeas. We also ordered a side of homemade gnocchi. The Yellow pepper soup and caviar melded together in a very satisfying manner and the crudo tasted like sashimi. Neither of us had ever eaten Sturgeon. We found it to have a very clean taste. For dessert, we selected tea (courtesy of In Pursuit of Tea) and shared a tasting of tart, tangy homemade sorbets (blood orange, mango and banana)accompanied by two perfect crescent-shaped sugar cookies. I couldn't stop eating the mango sorbet. While we finished our conversation, I sipped Keemun, a black tea from China and mixed it with milk/sugar to ensure that I would be able to sleep, despite the caffeine. Lady L. was drinking her favorite, Gemaji, a barley-like Japanese tea. By the time we left, every seat was taken. The dining room featured an open kitchen space with a counter and stools for diners seeking a direct kitchen view. Lady L. and I were seated off to the side in an adjacent small, narrow room with a brick wall. It was not unlike an upscale, open version of my first apartment. The restaurant's front room had a bar at the entrance and opened into a large room with tables. Hearth was buzzing when we left, yet I was strangely bereft. A visit to a strange, new land. Lady L. was open to a quick stop at De Robertis Bakery and Caffe. It was time to buy little one's Easter basket and the ones for sale were not overly ornate. While paying for the Easter Basket, I spied a grain pie made with Ricotta cheese. According to my research, it's a Neapolitan Easter specialty called Pastiera and can contain wheat berries, wheat husks and even rice in addition to a custard of eggs/ricotta cheese. During my regular Friday afternoon tea, I mentioned the grain pie to Elspeth. She pulled out her Finnish cookbook and referenced a Finnish version but pronounced it "eggy". For an Easter treat, I decided to bring a grain pie to Podunk on Saturday, since I planned to escort I around the E. Village. When we visited De Robertis Bakery and Caffe on Saturday afternoon, it was packed with customers buying Easter treats and there was a quiet contentment underneath the hustle and bustle. Elspeth loved the grain pie, pronounced it not eggy at all, and savored the undertones of candied orange. Big daughter joined us for some coconut vanilla chai tea with heavy cream. My friend M dropped in as well. Lately, she divides her time between NYC and San Francisco and is in NYC for a few weeks. M. brought me a beautiful pair of hammered gold earrings. When a large group of French tourists came in, I suggested we beat a speedy exit so the next round of memories could get started.

The Sweet Taste of Just Desserts

In our household, we are officially dwelling in Love in the Time of Basketball. We are not talking love in the traditional sense. All bets are off -except for those that involve March Madness and events like the Big East tourney etc. Thursday Night Date Night is once again off the books. As far as Carl is concerned, I am a distant mirage. Maybe that's why I just ordered some hip, new summer sandals. I tend to buy shoes when I'm feeling stressed. And no, I don't have a closet stuffed with shoes, maybe just a shelf or two. These days, I am a crazed, working mother rushing madly through life, trying desperately to find just a little more time in the day. Basketball addictions will do that. The household is upside down. Carl is officially disappeared. Big Daughter is in the midst of mid-terms and little one is completely, and utterly, sleep deprived. Bed time is akin to climbing Mount Everest. I'm thinking celebration and Carl is thinking Washington, as in first round of the Final Four, then possibly Charlotte and after that who knows. In the meantime, I continue to think celebration. Last year, after Carl returned from Atlanta - I forget what round of the Final Four it was - I finagled a visit to Del Posto at 15th Street/10th Avenue. I reasoned that chocolate was needed after I single-handedly ran things for several months while Carl buzzed about on a basketball high. His trip to Atlanta had added another layer to my sacrifice. It was a perfect opportunity. I was intrigued by Del Posto's chocolate tasting -several types of dark chocolate served with rum. After a steady diet of basketball, Carl was in an expansive mood. He agreed a thank you was in order (and then almost didn't arrive!). That's usually part of the process. At Del Posto, I appreciated the staff's gracious manner when they didn't quibble with my request for only chocolate. Little one and I were seated in the Enoteca, a less formal seating area near the bar. A grand space, Del Posto evokes an old-style, no-holds-barred Italian restaurant with a dramatic staircase and huge flower arrangements strategically placed. The Enoteca retains the elegance with perfectly-ironed white tablecloths and silverware with significant heft. Little one asked for ice cream. The waiter - who doted on her for the duration of the meal - brought her the perfect serving of one scoop each of vanilla and chocolate on a gleaming silver dish. After finishing her ice cream, little one decided she was hungry. We ordered a side of pasta for her but the true centerpiece was the bread basket. The bread sticks and several kinds of rolls were presented with a delicious degree of warmth. Little one was so entranced, she worked her way through two bread baskets. When the waiter brought the second bread basket, it was as if we were eating edible gold. I suggested that Carl order the goat cheese cheesecake and he was not unhappy. A little later in the summer, I craved Del Posto's thick white tablecloths and genteel service. I convinced Big Daughter and little one to accompany me for an early summer supper. I remember seeing a young man dressed in camouflage. He was clearly enjoying a good-bye dinner with his girlfriend before being deployed to Iraq. I hope he made it back home. The staff treated the couple with the utmost respect. Big Daughter enjoyed the dinner but squirmed a little under the attentive service. She complained of feeling like we'd left town. I replied that was my goal exactly. To achieve a feeling of having traveled in the short distance from Tribeca to 15th and 10th. Before Del Posto and the chocolate tasting, Carl, little one and I had visited Chicago for the NCAA First and Second Round of March Madness. I seized the opportunity to do some serious eating. I suggested that we visit Hot Doug's, a unique hot dog stand operated by a gregarious New York City exile. I don't know who we loved more: the hot dogs or Doug, the proprietor. Carl was not up for Moto (one of my favorite restaurants in the entire universe). He agreed to try Green Zebra, a minimalist, zen-like, contemporary vegetarian restaurant in West Town. I thought about architecture and food while I was eating at Green Zebra -the food was constructed like beautiful buildings. My good friend John, who lives in Chicago, joined us for dinner. He and I laugh a lot when we're together. We see the irony in a lot of things. John's laugh is contagious. When we were at Purdue, his mantra was that less is always more. John spent some time during dinner teasing me about introducing him to restaurants in his home city. While Carl and I were driving back and forth from the United Center between games, I spotted a place called Sip and forced Carl to pull over. Sure enough, it was a Chicago version of Grounded, the very cool tea/coffee place on Jane Street in the West Village. I am already contemplating my thank you dinner for this year. I plan to finagle a visit to Wd-50 but just for desserts. The big question is the five dessert tasting or just three. Sometimes less really is more.

Saturday afternoons of tea and clarity with Miss E.

A few Saturdays ago, my friend Miss E. and I met, as is our weekly ritual, for lunch and art. Miss E. is happy to let me organize our food adventures and so agreed to meet me at Danal (recently relocated from 10th street between 2nd/3rd to Fifth Avenue/13th street). Many years ago - 19 to be exact- I took Big daughter's Serbian grandmother to the 10th street Danal for lunch. Big Daughter was still a tiny little thing (she still is) nestled in her stroller. At this larger, new improved Fifth Avenue Danal, the walls were a beautiful Provencal yellow and the space was significantly bigger. There was a pleasing mix of mismatched wooden chairs and tables and little chotchkes scattered around. Unfortunately the tea was cold, and when I stirred my spoon around the pot searching for tea leaves, I came up with a grand total of three. I asked a passing waitress for hot water and more tea leaves and there was definitely some attitude when she whisked the pot away. The tea pot returned with a small bang a few minutes later, but there were more tea leaves and hot water.

Lunch was not a success for either of us, and I won't mention the food. Our many table mates all seemed to either attend NYU, or teach there and looked happy enough. Most of them were drinking glasses of either champagne or white wine along with their coffees and cappucinos so maybe that was the thing to do. When it comes to tea, the bar has been set mighty high at Podunk, Grounded, Chae An and Gramstand and life is no longer simple.

Miss E. had a terrible migraine and I could see she was in pain. Despite that, she gamely decided to accompany me to the Alexandre art gallery (41 E. 57th street) featuring paintings from the estate of a painter called Loren MacIver. I had read about the show in the previous Friday New York Times Art Section and loved the idea of a painting where flowers wreathe a woman's head. I also loved that Ms. MacIver lived in Greenwich Village, traveled to Paris, exhibited in Pierre Matisse's gallery, and was close friends with the poets Elizabeth Bishop and Marianne Moore and married to a poet herself.

Interestingly enough at the show, I fell in love with a painting of a purple crocus. It was a small, perfect wash of powerful, but muted colors and of course it was sold - there was a little red dot next to it. The purple of the flowers and the blue-green background were hypnotic. If I had $8,000 extra dollars, I would have gladly spent it on the painting so I could look at it every day for the rest of my life. Miss E. also thought the paintings were quite beautiful and was momentarily distracted from the pain of her migraine.

We admired a painting of snow falling through a window and found it quite compelling. As we left, Miss E. and I looked at Bretagne, a painting near the entrance of the gallery. I thought it was a magical meadow in the colors of an early summer evening with its swirls of deep blues and pinky white hues. It was hard for me to walk away from it. If it were possible (and it's definitely not) I would have immediately handed over $75,000 to own it. Instead, I contented myself with buying the catalog so I could take a little piece of Ms. MacIver home with me.

A few Saturdays later, I invited Miss E. to accompany me to the Milk Gallery (450 W. 15th Street) to look at a show of Buddhas created by an aeronautical engineer turned Buddhist priest. The exhibit lasts until March 30 of this year, and was brought to New York City by the Shinjo Ito Foundation. One recent Friday evening, I realized that I was walking by the foundation's information center at 489 Broome Street just above W. Broadway. I made the connection as I glanced through the large glass windows and saw photos of the same Buddhas I'd viewed at the Milk Gallery.

Miss E. met me at my 11th street office and we walked together to the West Village. It was cold and the wind blew through us as we walked west. On the way to the Buddhas, I suggested we stop and eat at Arium, a tea room at 31 Little West 12th Street. I needed to warm up. I'd walked by Arium, a few years ago when Big Daughter, little one and I took a walk in the Meat Market after learning that my father had died. It's complicated, but fitting that we did that and I bought Big Daughter a beautiful coat that day. She still wears the coat and I borrow it once in a while.

That warm September day, the three of us sat outside and had tea and sweets at the now-closed Sashas on Gansevoort Street. But back to Arium, it is a large elegant space that is a combination tea room and hair salon. It also functions as an exhibition space, and there were colorful paintings on the walls. The waiter said they have music concerts some evenings as well (there was a large grand piano on one side of the room), and theme nights like Moroccan movie night with related cuisine.

We selected our choice of tea from an comprehensive tea list. I'm embarrassed to admit I can't remember the name of my tea, but it was good. I ordered an open-faced salmon sandwich with green apples and Miss E. ordered a quiche with a salad. The quality and freshness of our food was very good. The tea was served in beautiful little china teapots and tea cups and the waiter refilled our tea pots with more warm water. I asked to look at the high tea menu and there was a variety of combinations of tea and sandwiches/tea and sweets etc.

Arium was pretty empty when we visited, save for the hair stylists coming and going and the occasional customer, but that added to its charm. When our meal ended, our waiter gave us a little scrap of paper that said $45. He explained that the register didn't work. For some reason, he was unable to get our change for about twenty minutes. We were slightly confused by this but the setting was pleasant and so we waited. When he finally did bring the change, he had another little scrap of paper that said $47. At that point, our waiting seemed pointless as Miss E. realized that she could have left the change. We were mystified by the little scraps of paper with changing amounts.

We then decided it was time to visit the Buddhas. I had read that the exhibition at the Milk Gallery sought to communicate to the viewer, the love and compassion experienced by the priest who created the Buddhas. When we arrived there, a steady stream of people were walking in. I noticed that everyone had a pleasant expression on their face, especially an older woman walking around the gallery with her small dog. The Japanese guard looked at the dog but didn't say anything. A little later, I observed him looking at the dog and owner and quietly conferring, in a tranquil low-key manner with the man handing out brochures at the gallery entrance.

Miss E. and I were both impressed with the Buddhas in the show. We agreed that the overall effect was indeed quite soothing. There were several small gold and black Buddhas exhibited throughout the space and one large, reclining one which could be viewed from all sides. There was also a gift shop in which we browsed and I bought little one a book that explained the meaning of different symbols in Buddhism which I've been occasionally perusing at home. The large, reclining Buddha was the one that possibly provided the viewer some serenity. I certainly felt more tranquil after viewing it.

I'll admit that I was seeking something although I'm not a Buddhist and do believe in God, which is not necessarily a contradiction. As we walked in the rain this afternoon, I realized it was knowing when to let go of angry feelings and move on.