Heavenly Tastes in NYC

2009-05-27T12:16:00.000-07:00

The estimable Miss K,(aka Big Daughter), and I just had a blow-out fight. As we screamed briefly and loudly at each other, I was wondering what Miguel, our long-time neighbor was thinking. The fight was ostensibly over my missing Kiehl's mascara -but in actuality, much bigger things. The walls of the apartments in our East Village are so thin, at times it seems like we are all one communal family. Most days, I might catch a whiff of Miguel's amazing cooking, or hear my other neighbor running a bath, late at night. For some reason, the upstairs neighbor always walks around late at night, but I'm used to it. Memorial Day weekend brought the sudden disappearance of Young Sir C, Miss K's long-time boyfriend. He headed upstate for the three day weekend, and drove out of her life with just one phone call. It's hard to fight with Miss K when she's been stunned by such a painful event. Yet, as her mother, I want her to experience joy in her life -a tall order. I watch her working so hard at school, and her two jobs, and worry that she gives nothing to herself. I am learning that the hard part of parenting is wanting your child to be happy, while knowing it's none of your business - at a certain point. Sunday evening, I stopped in to visit Miss K. at Cafe Habana, at 17 Prince Street in Nolita, to see how she was doing. On the spur of the moment, I decided to have dinner at the bar. That way, I could lend Miss K. some love without distracting her at work. The shredded pork was pretty good, and I even ate the rice and beans. The real surprise was the chelada, a Corona mixed with lime juice and salt. It was pretty refreshing, even after a few sips -since I have no tolerance or taste for more than that. The bartender approved of my brief visit, and noted that few parents come in to see their kids working. As usual, the place was packed. But getting back to our fight. This afternoon, Miss K was certain I was in a snit, due to my burgeoning romance of a few weeks. I was equally certain that our fight had nothing to do with Mr. Delicious, and said as much. The larger issue of having things has been on my mind for awhile now. A large part of leaving Tribeca stemmed from a sense that each family member had lost their sense of joy, due to the ongoing tension between Carl and I. Since it's inception, this blog has always been about food -certainly something that gives me joy. It's hard to say which it was; the food, the discovery of a particular place, or the overall journey. That has changed in the past six months. Economics is just one part of it. In a larger way, the need to travel in search of new tastes is gone. It's been replaced by the real issues of life: the idea of home, friendship and love. Food has become more of a backdrop to those things. Since moving back to the East Village, I have been meeting my closest girlfriends for lunch - and good conversation- at least twice a week. Lady E. and I eat at Saravannas Bhavan, a vegetarian South Indian restaurant at 26th and Lexington, every Saturday. I'm so hungry to talk to her, I usually eat only the desserts on the South Indian Thali. In the past months -prior to making the acquaintance of Mr. Delicious, I might add - there have been many conversations with friends about the new truths of our lives. While our family constellation remains the same, i.e. the players are still there, the truths are different now. In late April, the delectable Miss E. took me to Macondo, 157 E. Houston below Second Avenue, for a belated birthday present. We discussed her upcoming nuptials, and my second time around the block as a single mother. I was pleased to see that I was not feeling so alone. It also helped that the hot chocolate at Macondo was as amazing as I expected, thick, glossy and with hints of ginger. More recently, Lady M. and I finally made it to the Smile, a general store, cafe and tattoo parlor at 26 Bond Street, between Lafayette and Bowery. It had a Williamsburg vibe, which I liked, with wooden tables and chairs and an eclectic design. The candles in the front of the store smelled pretty good, and the staff was very welcoming. We shared a chocolate brioche, the cheese plate and the mozzarella and tomato on seven grain toast, as we talked about her third pregnancy, and my fears about romance. A week prior, we stumbled on Emporio, an Italian restaurant, 231 Mott Street near Prince Street, that's related to Aurora on Broome and West Broadway. I had the gnocchi with pork ragu, and Lady M. tried a panini. Both were very good. We talked about the nice farmhouse vibe at Emporio. On Memorial Day, Carl and I took Salena to her paternal grandmother's house for breakfast. Of course, en route, we stopped at the original Egg Custard King at Forsyth and Grand, for my favorite iced milk tea, and little one's noodles. Carl was slightly surprised to hear that they didn't have change for a twenty -and I had only $2 of the $4. He had planned to go in and get his own coffee anyway. I had specified milk last time, but they added sugar -and he was loath to repeat the experience. For breakfast, Carl's mother made Matzo brei, matzo dipped in egg and fried. It's very comforting -and she'd kept it warm in the oven. Along with the applesauce, I kept sprinkling sugar on mine. Afterwards, little one played the piano with her grandmother, and they watered plants. This is their usual routine. Soon after, we headed out to the beach. Sunken Meadow was not too crowded, and I decided to brave the chilly water. It was like swimming in ice cubes. On the way home, as little one slept in the back seat, I told Carl about Mr. Delicious. He was not surprised, and commented that I had seemed nervous in recent days, and understood that I might feel guilty. Both of us acknowledged our intention to remain good friends, and continue spending periodic quality time together with Salena.

The sameness of change, lighthouses and lemon poppyseed biscotti

2009-04-23T04:34:00.000-07:00

The funny thing about change is that most things still stay the same. This past weekend, little one, Carl and I -along with Gigi, the dog-took a beautiful walk along the Hudson River. Our destination was the Saugerties Lighthouse, a historic lighthouse located at the mouth of the Esopus Creek on the Hudson River. It was the perfect way to celebrate my 48th birthday. The walk was simple and took us through the woods, as we meandered along the Hudson River. Gigi was in heaven. He was straining at the leash, as he nosed his way down the path, sniffing like a little mad hatter. I was surprised to see how much the Hudson River resembles a small ocean, with its wide expanse of beach. We met several other dog owners who had the same idea. All of them were friendly. The walk ends at the Saugerties Lighthouse, which is reached by a wooden boardwalk. It is also a bed and breakfast and I could definitely understand the appeal of staying there. Especially at night, with the water lapping gently at the moorings. There were tables and benches situated around the lighthouse for those who chose to have a small picnic. We may well do that -although I worried that Gigi would jump into the Hudson River. Gigi is like Curious George, the adventurous monkey, just the dog version and he likes to swim. Afterwards, as we drove through Saugerties, I spied the Hudson Dessert Company, 264 Main Street, Saugerties. Somehow, I know that this would be a bakery after my heart. It was. I picked up some lemon, poppyseed biscotti which had a wonderful taste of lemon and poppyseed -and were low in sugar and carbohydrates. Little one and Carl loved their ginger spice cookies, and I even got Carl's coffee right. Afterwards, we drove back down to the city and collected Big Daughter. She was just finishing her shift at Cafe Habana. As a treat, I walked Gigi over to see her. Big Daughter couldn't pet him, due to hygiene concerns -but she was thrilled to see him. We dropped Gigi off at the East Village and headed out to Astoria for Greek food. I had researched a place, but at the last minute, as we were parking, we were directed to a place at 33rd Avenue and 21st street. Our referral source, an amiable man celebrating Greek Orthodox Easter with friends, described the place as "down home Greek cooking." He couldn't recall the name, and said "you'll see the lamb roasting on the spit in the window." There was a brief Taxi Driver moment, when a skinhead looking man tried to take Carl's parking spot. For a minute, we all thought he'd take it. Carl does not like confrontation, but valiantly honked his horn to indicate he was taking the spot. The man looked at him and all of us, and then left. I think Big Daughter intimidated him with her beauty. Anyway, the check said Anna's Greek Restaurant and the awning said Psitoplio. Whatever the name, it was packed with Greeks celebrating Orthodox Easter, and random neighborhood types eating Sunday dinner. We ordered two Greek salads, which were fresh -and sparing with the feta. When Young Sir C. arrived, he had some salad and agreed to share the small butcher plate with us. This was a platter of sliced chicken, lamb, and pork with toasted pita triangles and tzatziki sauce, the thick yogurt and cucumber dip often put on souvlaki. Essentially, it was a make your own miniature souvlaki- and really good. The waitress was impressed with how much we ate. Big Daughter ordered some homemade sausage, and we also got an appetizer plate of the traditional dips: taramosalata, tzatziki and skordalia, the garlic and potato dip. It was all good. Little one and her big sister both started with a bowl of chicken lemon soup. The waitress said there was no dessert, so we drove back to the city. Since I was full, I suggested we stop in at Chikalicious Dessert Bakery, 204 E. 10th Street. The big and little kids had vanilla softserve with fudge and chocolate pearls in that order. I had a chocolate shake and Carl had coffee. They managed to sneak a cupcake with a candle, and everyone joined in the happy birthday song. Little one is happy to be with her entire family in one setting. She also loves spending time with Carl and I. We try to ensure that this happens a few times a week. A few weeks ago, I forgot about early pick-up before the Easter break, so we ended up eating Vietnamese on Baxter. Little one was tickled -although she said "I cried, that you forgot." Carl said he was worried that I was hit by a car. I have trouble remembering all the early dismissals sometimes. Anyway, during our weekly lunch date on Monday, my dear friend Lady M. obs served that children love to spend time with both parents. We were both rattled to discover the closing of Amai Tea Cafe, at 16th and 3rd Avenue. Lady M. and I had been in the habit of going there for good tea and conversation. After a few false starts, we finally ended up at Cafe Pick Me Up, at the corner of E. 10th and Avenue A. It's been in my neighborhood forever, and as the rain began to fall in earnest, we were momentarily warm and safe.

Safe Havens in stormy ports

2009-04-05T13:17:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago Monday, I noticed that the Mott Street Egg Custard King II was closed, and there were workmen in front. By that Tuesday, the sign was gone, and Egg Custard King II was no more. I was bereft. In these times of change, the familiar is the norm. Last fall, we developed the habit of stopping in for a snack, after little one's ballet classes on Saturday afternoon. In recent months, as Carl and I have constructed our separate lives, the tradition has continued, now that he accompanies her to ballet. Even so, whenever I stopped in with little one, the staff always set the table for three. No matter the weather, I always have a taste for their iced milk tea. The staff at my local Chase branch, next door at Mott and Canal, had no idea what happened, so I walked over to the original Egg Custard King at 271 Grand Street at Forsyth. It took some effort, but finally the manager was able to tell me that the Mott street cafe had relocated to Eighth Avenue in Sunset Park. She reassured me that the Grand street location had no plans to close. Continuing on the theme of the familiar, my friend Lady L., invited me to dinner a few weeks ago. Being a fan of Chanterelle, 2 Harrison Street at Hudson Street, I chose Macao Trading Co, a much-heralded collaboration between Chanterelle and Employees Only, 510 Hudson Street, a restaurant well-known for its cocktails. The food was good at Macao Trading Co -chorizo with chunks of melon, shrimp wrappers, Chinese-style, and rice pudding with port-soaked fruit. Early on a Tuesday evening, the place was buzzing with a mixed clientele. Funnily enough, I had no idea of the x-rated decor at Macao Trading Co. Nonetheless, while waiting for Lady L. at the bar, I detected an undertone of decadence in the stylized post-colonial setting. As the man next to me struck up a conversation, I found myself referencing my two girls. Normally, I am home supervising little one's homework on a Tuesday evening. That evening, however, she and Carl were in Boston for March Madness. Call me old-fashioned, but my heart will always remain with Chanterelle. In a recent review of Macao Trading Co, Frank Bruni, the New York Times restaurant critic, described Chanterelle as "stodgy and stately." I beg to differ. Chanterelle is not a place I visit often. But when I do, I am assured of a particularly unique experience. For a few short hours, I am transported into a world that is about good food and people actually talking to each other. During our dinner at Macao Trading Co., Lady L. gave me a book, The Last Chinese Chef, by Nicole Mones (who also wrote Lost in Translation) Lady L. picked it up on a recent business trip to San Francisco, and thought I would enjoy it. In a nutshell, the book is set in contemporary China, with a theme of loss and growth, against a back story about respect and tradition for food. After dinner, Lady L. and I said our good nights. It felt good to step into the chilly night air. Walking quickly through Soho, I was grateful to be heading home, as I walked past the cube at Astor Place. Speaking of tradition, Big Daughter's father, the Big N., has been in NYC for the past month and a half. During this time, our reconstituted family has fallen into a pattern of eating dinner together. Despite a full course load at New School, and her part-time work at Cafe Habana, 17 Prince Street at Elizabeth, Big Daughter has been cooking up a storm. Our meals have become a safe harbor during these turbulent times.

Jelly donuts and diamond rings

2009-03-11T18:31:00.000-07:00

There is something about jelly donuts and diamond rings that seems compatible. I was the recipient of both this week -and each came at the perfect moment. When times are tough -and they do feel tough - food becomes only about comfort. En route to work the other morning, I decided it was time for a jelly donut at the Polish G.I. Delicatessen, 101 First Avenue, between 6th and 7th streets. Years ago, when Big Daughter was a small, beautiful jumping bean, we loved getting our cheese, ham, kielbasa, and different types of sweets there. Sometimes we also bought flavored syrups, which I mixed with seltzer for her summer drinks. The other day, Big Daughter brought home some of their kielbasa and sauerkraut. A whiff of those long-ago days motivated me to make a visit to purchase ham, and more kielbasa. The store had been remodeled since then. It didn't feel so cramped, and the same sweet ladies were still working there. I was making black bean soup from scratch, and wanted to add some smoked kielbasa to it. As I left, I eyed the jelly donuts in the front window. Most mornings, little one and I still have breakfast in Chinatown before school, unless she's spent the night at Carl's. On the mornings we aren't together, I usually walk over to Egg Custard King to get an iced milk tea. Luckily, they have two locations -one at Mott Street, between Canal and Bayard, and the other, Egg Custard King Two Cafe at 271 Grand Street. I find walking very zen, as long as I have my Ipod, which Big Daughter loaded with an eclectic mix of songs. That, mixed with walks in different neighborhoods, makes me feel like I'm traveling. Since I am presently working on the Lower East Side, around FDR and Clinton street, I structure my route around my taste buds. Hence the jelly donut -also known as Paczki. I looked it up and found an entry on the Serious Eats website. Good thing I didn't read about it until I had eaten it. Apparently, it's loaded with calories and eaten on Fat Thursday -as a pre-Lenten treat. I can say that it tasted great -although I did have a stomachache afterwards. Lately, I've been ruminating on a shift in my eating habits. Going out for dinner has lost its appeal. It has been replaced by going out for favorite breakfast foods. Perhaps eating out is directly related to economic comfort, or maybe it's the loss of my dining partner. Speaking of Carl, despite living separately, we remain united about ensuring the well-being of the two beautiful girls. To that end, we decided a visit to little one's paternal grandmother on Long Island, was in order. Family dynamics notwithstanding, little one seems more comfortable with her grandmother, when both parents are in attendance. Given her grandmother's big back yard, our dog Gigi, also visited. He romped happily outside, while little one romped happily inside. Although Big Daughter was working, she was in complete approval of the visit. Her extended family in Belgrade is her mainstay, and she spends as much time with them as possible. In the middle of the visit, little one's grandmother graciously offered me the use of a gift certificate from Fortunoff's. They are apparently going out of business. She proposed that I select some jewelry for an early birthday present. I was agreeable, and we drove out to the Fortunoff's store on Long Island. It wasn't a madhouse, as we feared, and I ended up with a beautiful diamond ring. Diamonds are my birthstone, and until recently, I never owned a diamond ring. First, a black diamond ring for Valentine's Day from Big Daughter, and then the diamond ring from my former mother-in-law. I think of both rings as honoring motherhood and family. Circles of jam and diamonds, both immeasurably sweet in their own particular way.

Birthdays and small fires

2009-03-01T16:21:00.000-08:00

Big Daughter turned 20 yesterday. To celebrate, she suggested that we have lunch at Cafe Habana, 17 Prince Street, at Elizabeth in Nolita, where she recently began working as a hostess. The staff recruited her one evening, as she was having dinner with her best friend, Lady D. Big Daughter's father, the Big N., arrived Thursday from Belgrade, for a month's visit. Being a fan of all things Cuban, he liked the idea of lunch at Cafe Habana. I had flatly refused to join Big Daughter and her friends later that evening at Cafeteria, and he seconded me. We would have been fish out of water. When we met outside Cafe Habana, little one was holding a trio of multicolored balloons for her sister. Earlier in the morning, little one had asked to speak to me privately on the phone. She cried, as she expressed her upset with me, for giving her older sister the birthday gifts without her. We spent Friday together, buying several presents for Big Daughter; flowers, chocolates, a foot massage, sandals, and a gift card from Think coffee, 1 Bleecker street at Bowery. Big Daughter is quite enamored with their iced Spanish lattes, and the gift card will allow her exactly five. Little one had also selected a birthday cake recipe from her special cookbook. After I apologized to her, she regained her good spirits. It helped when her sister said, "now, you can give me another present." I was instructed to buy five chocolate-covered strawberries. The balloons were too big for Cafe Habana, so Big Daughter put them downstairs until we finished eating. The three of them ordered Cuban sandwiches, and I opted to share with little one. In addition, Big Daughter suggested that we get two orders of the Mexican-style grilled corn with chili powder and queso blanco, and an order of molletes, toasted cuban bread with refried black beans and chorizo covered with cheese. Feeling that 20 is a major accomplishment, I ordered a margarita. It arrived in a lemonade glass. I sipped it gently throughout the meal, with no negative side effects. The food was so good, the Big N. felt like he was back in Havana. Cafe Habana is perennially busy and that makes it a lot of fun. It has the rare talent of attracting a mixed crowd of all ages, making for an eclectic, buzzing atmosphere. Speaking of buzzing, I'm starting to wonder about fire gods. I am presently at 2-0 - after nearly burning down the house down a second time - this past Tuesday evening. Both girls have been sick with colds. Big Daughter became sick first, and developed an inexplicable craving for bacon. Somehow, the bacon caught fire in the pan, and flames started shooting out. According to Big Daughter, I started the fire, because I can't tolerate it when she's sick. A faulty premise. Nevertheless, it was pretty embarrassing. After I poured water on the pan, the apartment filled with smoke, and the smoke alarm in the hallway began beeping loudly and insistently. The neighbors mobilized and turned off the alarm. I was too mortified to answer the door. For days, the smell of moldy, wet blankets was in the air. Luckily, Big Daughter received several birthday bouquets of flowers, which perfumed the air with the scent of hyacinths. I am thinking of combustibility. Reverting back to single motherhood-status - with a 20 and 6-year-old - is no easy task. Big Daughter is pretty militaristic in her approach to house maintenance, and little one would like her parents united. These days, I frequently ponder the vast differences between genders, especially with regard to the issues of intimacy, families and child-rearing. The fact that mothers actually expand and contract in the process of creating families, is even more profound than ever to me. As he waited for birthday cake, the Big N. observed that each girl comes with her own father. I noted that each one is truly the apple of her father's eye. As little one and I began baking the birthday cake, the oven was still a little smoky. I had scrubbed out the burned spots, but a few remained. Terrified of triggering smoke alarms, I positioned fans all over the kitchen and opened my bedroom window. Little one anxiously observed some smoke. I reassured her, and it soon abated. Although we planned a pink cake with pink icing and sprinkles, ours ended up a soft orange color with light purple frosting, crowned with sprinkles. It was surprisingly tasty. Young Sir. C., Big Daughter's boyfriend, even had a second helping. He remarked on the pleasing crunchiness of the sprinkles. I had some for breakfast this morning. Carl got the last piece, when he came over to interview a new babysitter for little one this evening.

2009-02-16T08:48:00.000-08:00

Little one and I made 32 valentines for her classmates the other night, and nearly burned down the house. As I was cutting the valentines, and gluing different colored versions together, as per her instructions, the tissue paper suddenly caught fire with a burning candle flame that had flared up. I grabbed the smouldering stack of multicolored construction paper and threw it in the kitchen sink, after stomping on it. We were both frightened by the swiftness of the flames -and the combustibility of the tissue paper. After that, little one decided to blow out another candle, which was burning quietly on a corner table. As we met for our regular weekend lunch date on Saturday, my dear friend, Lady E., wondered if the fire was a warning. Her comment is well-taken. Love and passion, like fire - have a way of burning out of control and then subsiding, sometimes into ashes. The prior evening, during good food and conversation,(part of her weekly Friday evening dinner with friends at home), Big Daughter inadvertently said "I wouldn't want to be without a valentine on Valentine's Day. As her long-time friend Ms. R winced, Big Daughter started laughing, after I observed that I was none for the worse as the day approached. Of course, on Saturday afternoon, Big Daughter presented me with a beautiful, and delicate silver ring inscribed with tiny black diamonds. At Christmas, I had swooned over a stunning ring with black diamonds given to Lady L., a dear friend, and the elegant mother of little one's best friend, by her husband, Sir M. Big Daughter remembered how much I loved that ring. I was thinking about my valentines this past weekend. Big Daughter and Little one of course, but also the myriad friends and varied joys I have in my life. Another dear friend, Lady S., had commiserated with me about the making of valentines. She observed that in the preparations, Valentine's Day is not always so sweet. Lady S. also had the dubious honor of making 32 valentines with her sweet 7-year-old. We compared notes. By the 25th valentine, both of our daughters became tired and asked us to write the word "valentine," for them. Despite their weariness, Lady S. and I were touched by their sense of fairness. When we began to waver, after cutting out so many hearts, they insisted that each kid in their class receive a card. Earlier on Friday, I stopped in at Bond Street Chocolate, 63 E. 4th Street, between Second and Third Avenues, to buy a chocolate Jesus Christ for Big Daughter, along with four chocolate skulls, one chocolate Ganesh for Lady S, and little printed chocolates for little one. At the request of little one, I picked up a mix of four bonbons for Carl. I reminded her that "daddy doesn't always like gifts." Little one confidently said "he will from me," and she was right. A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Lynda Stern, the very cool proprietress of Bond Street Chocolates, when I stopped in to check out her beautiful store. We ended up talking about kids and motherhood, and I brought home some amazing chocolate toffees. They disappeared that same afternoon. Big Daughter, her boyfriend, Young Sir. C, and little one, pretty much inhaled them. The Friday before Valentine's Day, I was happy to see customers buying large boxes of bonbons and other chocolates. Ms. Stern was cool and collected, despite negotiating a delay for an order of additional gift boxes, and needing to replenish some of her offerings. In this uncertain economic climate, it is comforting to see a new business thriving. It was also sweet to see that Young Sir C., and Big Daughter both purchased gifts for the other at Tiffany's. Despite a minor upset due to miscommunication, they made it to Valentine's Day. Young Sir C. narrowly avoided the doghouse. I threatened Big Daughter with puppy biscuits with Valium in them, after she tossed his Valentine gift at him. I was on my way to collect Minnie, our Himalayan Persian cat, from the very loving, pet groomers at Puppy Love and Kitty Kat, 420 E. 9th between First Avenue and Avenue A. I was afraid they'd report me to the ASPCA, because Minnie was so matted. I'd cut some large sections of matted fur off, leaving her looking slightly grotesque. After we moved to the E. Village, Minnie hid behind a closet for awhile. When she emerged, Gigi, the dog, was a little too loving -and she continued hiding. I also fell off the wagon with her daily grooming. Minnie came home looking like a gorgeous little lion. Later, I went to collect little one from Carl. We decided to have dinner at Sharaku, a good, reliable Japanese restaurant at 14 Stuyvesant Street, actually 9th street, between 2nd and 3rd Avenues. When I arrived, little one handed me a big pink stuffed rabbit and a box of German-made cookies, along with a beautiful bouquet of pink and white roses. She excitedly showed me a purple, stuffed rabbit and cookies for her sister, and loved the chocolates for Carl.

2009-02-04T09:31:00.000-08:00

This past Sunday, I stopped in at Lassi, 28 Greenwich Avenue, to try their jasmine-infused hot chocolate. It was mentioned in a listing of hot chocolate offerings in Page Six, New York Post's Sunday magazine, and sounded good to me. I loved it, but could only drink a little -it was so rich. I ended up carrying it, while I walked with Lady E. to a late lunch in Little India on Lexington Avenue, between 28th and
26th streets. Lady E. wanted to try something new, so we ended up at Tiffin Walla on 28th Street, between Park Avenue South and Lexington. They are a sister restaurant to Chennai Garden, a few blocks away on 27th street. Both places have pretty decent weekday lunch buffets for $6. My few sips of Lassi's hot chocolate carried such a pleasurable punch, I was unable to drink the excellent chai tea at Tiffin Walla. I took it home as well. Lady E. and I shared the South Indian Thali, and a chaat, both of which were good. Tiffin Walla is peppy in decor, and while the staff appears grouchy, they are actually quite nice. Hot chocolate makes me think of kindness and warmth, both of which seem to be in short supply these days. As the world as we know it comes to a crashing end, I find myself dodging bullets, as per my dear friend, Lady M.'s recent observation. After several difficult, and ultimately disappointing job interviews, I am realizing that working for myself is the better proposition. Those who are working in organizations seem more scared than those who are independent. Speaking of kindness and warmth, little one was excited on Saturday, when I rented The Sound of Music for her, at our local Blockbuster on Broadway at Ninth street. In our family, The Sound of Music is a big tradition. I remember pilgrimages to the local movie theater, after returning from Africa. During a family trip one summer to Austria, my sisters and I each received the traditional Austrian dresses. I actually wore mine to a family reunion in Minnesota. Big Daughter watched The Sound of Music throughout her childhood as well. As she and little one began watching the film, I reflected on the comfort it always provided me. The opening scene over the Alps brought it all back. I was happy to comply, when little one, and her Big Sister both requested chocolate chip cookies, after I finished making dinner. Even better was hearing that the cookies "tasted like clouds." The East Village kitchen is so tiny, I run out of places to put things. I ended up adding the brown sugar directly to the flour, rather than the egg and butter -and skipped the white sugar. Hence the "cloud" sensation. Early Monday evening, sweetness was in the air at Gottino's, 52 Greenwich Avenue between Perry and Charles streets, where I met up with another friend named Lady E., for some Vin Brule and little tasting plates. We had some catching up to do. We were content to wait for the Vin Brule, while we talked about her recent engagement, and upcoming wedding ceremony. I ordered the La Tur cheese, a soft cheese made with sheep's, cow and goat milk, served like a delectable dessert with berries, some sliced porchetta and an amazing glass of sparkling wine called Bracetto. From the little I read about them, both La Tur and Bracetto hail from the Piedmont region of Italy. It would be great to visit Piedmont and savor more tastes. Lady E. ordered the Kunik and Robiola cheeses, both served with fruit preserves. She liked the Bracetto so much, she also ordered a glass. When the Vin Brule arrived, it was accompanied by two figs dipped in chocolate. As we bit into them, the chocolate and fig merged with a crunchy nut in the middle, which delighted us. Big Daughter could give me chocolate-covered figs for Valentine's Day, and I would be in heaven. I took the remaining porchetta home, since I couldn't finish it. When I opened the bag, I found a beautiful, caramel-colored Bartlett pear, and was thrilled to receive that unexpected gift.

Hot mulled cider and the winter of my discontent

2009-01-22T12:36:00.000-08:00

In the nick of time, my dear friend, Lady E., called me on Monday to check in. I was tapped out, after hosting little one's birthday party at the Chinatown Y, on Bowery near Houston on Sunday. Despite positive reviews, I worried that the food, from Pizza n Kebabs, 9th street at First Avenue, was late. Carl wanted the pizzas and salad delivered between 1-1:30 p.m. I suggested 12:30. He prevailed. The snacks were gone by 12:30, and I was mortified. My friend Lady S., and her delightful twins mistakenly went to the Y at Hester street. They arrived cold and hungry, after trudging around Chinatown, searching for the party. She was relieved that food remained. Other party goers were clearly having fun. It was hostess anxiety. As the party ended, Carl quickly visited DeRobertis Bakery, First Avenue between 10th and 11th, for an extra birthday cake, and a box of assorted cookies. It was a nice touch. As she departed, Lady S. accepted my offer of the remaining cookies. Several friends observed that little one gave no indication of the recent big changes with our family. She was happy and engaged throughout the party, and even made me dance the cha-cha-cha with her. Lady E. had stopped by with a present, but we didn't have a chance to talk. Monday afternoon, we ended up at Gottino's, 52 Greenwich Avenue at Perry Street, for a late-day snack. Normally, Gottino's is half-full on a weekday afternoon. Martin Luther King's birthday notwithstanding - almost all the seats at the bar were taken. Through the window, the falling snow was a pretty sight. Recently, the cold weather has left me feeling like a beached whale on an especially frozen shore. New York is in a deep freeze. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it evinces my first introduction to the U.S. Arriving in St. Paul, Minnesota, during the heart of winter was no picnic, for a tropical girl. Looming towers of snow lined the streets, accompanied by below-zero wind chill. Sometimes snow can be like ashes. In the parlance of my profession, I've been feeling dysthymic -always irritable. The wonders, or terrors of therapy. At Gottino, I struggled to maintain some optimism. It was hard going, until we received the perfect treat of mulled wine, or Vin Brule, as per Jody Williams, the proprietress. She had arrived while we were eating. Her unabashed enthusiasm was contagious, as she stood at the bar, and proudly surveyed her full house. Ms. Williams explained that small glasses of mulled wine are customarily imbibed by skiers on the slopes of Northern Italy. Earlier, I caught a whiff of something spiced, and warm. After observing the counterman filling a small glass from a silver tureen behind the bar, I asked him about it. He explained what it was, and offered us two glasses. Lady E. does not like alcohol. I assured her that a tiny glass of mulled wine was simply for comfort, and it was. For a brief moment, life tilted back to the side of warmth and sustenance. Thursday morning, en route to Carl's apartment, I stopped for breakfast at Falai, 265 Lafayette Street, just below Prince. Big Daughter was packing the last of her belongings. Since her return from Belgrade, we have been fighting our way through the pain of moving. Today's fight was particularly messy, after my melancholy meal. In a fit of pique, I threw the remote. A silly gesture, since I rarely watch television. Two summers ago, little one, Carl and I frequently ate breakfast at Falai, before her Sunday morning soccer practice at the Pace High School track. All white with glass chandeliers, there is a regal, Italian air. Falai has been redesigned since my last visit. Sitting at the counter, I noticed the precise order of wineglasses, and pans and microwaves. There's a different brand of tea, of which the English Breakfast flavor was very good. I hadn't counted on the feeling of dislocation evoked by my visit. Luckily, I calibrated the milk and sugar to make several perfect cups of tea. Not an easy balance at all.

The New Order and the Big Chill

2009-01-16T09:46:00.000-08:00

As Carl and I have settled into a routine of separate homes and a shared child, we find ourselves spending time together with Little one on Saturday afternoons. After her afternoon ballet class, we generally get a snack and run errands. Now that she mostly gets unlimited attention from one parent, Little one appreciates these positive times with both of us - at least once a week. In recent months, I was mostly angry with Carl. It was not good for her, or Big Daughter to observe this. I'm becoming accustomed to my nights apart from Little One. Big Daughter remains in Belgrade, visiting her father and his family. It helps that Sunny's Flowers is close by, at the corner of 102 Second Avenue, corner of 6th Street. I can always buy myself an exquisite bouquet of flowers, like I did yesterday; little miniature pink roses, a tulip with waffled edges and something perfectly green with white blossoms. One block from Sunny's, is Podunk, my favorite tea room on E. 5th street, between 2nd and Bowery. Elspeth, the delightful proprietress, changed the menu over the Christmas break. I love the danish cookies with dipping sauce, a thin frosting that usually drips onto my clothes. Last Saturday, Carl raved over his spicy Malaysian noodles at Egg Custard King II in Chinatown, on Mott Street just off Canal. The staff is sweet with me. I keep ordering iced milk teas, despite the chilly weather. Once we picked up the Zipcar, and headed out of NYC, we were possibly the only fools driving upstate in a snowstorm. Carl had graciously offered to take me to the Theory outlet at Woodbury Commons in Harriman, NY, to purchase a suit. Interviewing requires suits, and I was lacking one. When we exited off the slippery Palisades Parkway, to the more-icy Route 17, Little one began oohing and ahhing at the blizzard-like snow rushing past the car windows. After stopping for gas, Carl became nervous about the low visibility, as he resumed driving. Seeing that we were behind a snow plow, spreading salt on the road, I observed this as positive. Little one began announcing every snow plow that passed. Privately, I began to feel guilty about the whole trip, and wondered if we were on a foolhardy expedition. Ironically, the roads were plowed and clear at Woodbury Commons. Small snowplows continually kept the sidewalks clear for shoppers. Little one enjoyed running in and out of the dressing room, until the saleslady was satisfied with my choice. I began to weary of the search, but she insisted that we find the right size pants, and a properly-fitted jacket. The savings were worth the harrowing trip. A $600 suit for $168. Big Daughter called from Belgrade, as we were heading back to NYC. She checked the suit out online, and approved. The wonders of the Internet. This Saturday, there are myriad errands for little one's birthday party, which is scheduled for Sunday at the Chinatown Y on Bowery at Houston Street. Due to a forecast of bitter cold, I requested that Carl again rent a Zipcar, since we must travel all over the city. My friend Lady S. suggested that we visit both the State News Store, 112 E. 86th Street, between Lexington and Park, and the Children's General Store, at 168 E. 91st Street, for party favors. They reportedly have many small toys to fit in several party favor bags, without breaking the bank. Heading back to the East Village we will order one chocolate, and one strawberry shortcake at De Robertis Italian Bakery, 176 First Avenue between 10th and 11th streets. When I first moved to NYC in 1982, I would spend a fair amount of time in DeRobertis. I remember buying small cookies with fig filling, when I didn't feel well. Then, I discovered their Hot Cross buns for Easter. A small pillow of sweet dough. We had the same cakes at last year's birthday. Despite himself, Carl began laughing, when I suggested that we head out to Bay Ridge to eat at Al Safa, 8002 Fifth Avenue, a Middle-Eastern restaurant in Bay Ridge, and then go to Nablus, a nearby restaurant for Middle Eastern sweets, 6812 Fifth Avenue, after the errands are done. Carl is the last of a dying breed; a New York bachelor through and through. He is content to regain ownership of his space and prepare for March Madness, which is soon approaching. I think of the image of Buffalo roaming the open plains, before the settlers came.

Porchetta, Apple Cider and the New Year

2009-01-06T06:46:00.000-08:00

Every year, New Year's Day slams into me like a brick hitting a wall, and I don't even have a hangover. It's not the quietness of the city that bothers me on New Year's Day. There's a deeper feeling - it's like temporarily crossing a narrow strait without direction. Maybe that's why so many people drink the night away. On New Year's Day, my friend Lady E. agreed to meet for lunch. We decided to eat North Indian food at Dhaba, on Lexington Avenue between 27th and 28th streets. Apparently, Dhaba is part of a group of several Indian restaurants in NYC. The decor had a larger-than-life quality. It was very modern, all bold reds and purples, with elegant booths. We declined to sit in the window, and regretted our decision for the meal's duration. Every time the door opened, whoosh, a blast of cold air blew in. The chai tea was served in glasses. We were tickled to get sugar, but no spoon for stirring. We used our knives to mix in the sugar. Dhaba offers several kinds of Indian street snacks called chaat. We selected one called Purani Delhi Ki Papri chaat. It came with semolina, flour chips, chutneys and was sprinkled with pomegranate seeds. We also ordered Aloo Gobi Samosa. Samosas are a triangle of dough filled with mashed potato and spices. When I was a child, my mother would make samosas for us to eat during long road trips in Nigeria. Lastly, we shared a mild curry with chicken, green peppers and onions, with an order of Poori, a big puffed, whole wheat bread. Midway through lunch, I had a mini anxiety attack, but kept it to myself. Afterwards, when Lady E. invited me to join her and friends to see the movie, The Day The Earth Stood Still, I declined. It felt little too close to my truth, but I didn't say that. Little one was with Carl, visiting a friend in New Jersey. Big Daughter was in Belgrade. During the holidays, New York City can feel unkind when family is not nearby. It is a humbling feeling. By contrast, New Year's Eve was low-key. It was nice to stay home and read. After finishing some errands on New Year's Eve, little one and I stopped for roasted pork sandwiches at Porchetta. Located at 110 E. 7th street, between First Avenue and Avenue A, it's a few blocks from the E. Village apartment. In late October, I tried to visit with Carl, but was put off by the crowd. True to form, the small storefront (recently voted No. 1 in New York Magazine's Where to Eat 2009 issue), was bustling. People spilled out of the space, into the doorway and onto the street. To escape the crush, we stood outside, amidst miniature, swirling snowflakes, while we waited for our sandwich. Through the window, a man eating inside at the counter, smiled periodically at us. After awhile, little one was cold. We went back in, and found seats at the counter. I was amused to see that 7th street is developing into it's own little foodie destination. After ordering, several patrons, headed over to Butter Lane, a new bakery specializing in cupcakes with really creamy frosting. The frosting is like a cloud of sweet cream. As they left Porchetta, several of them said "cupcakes", with a question mark. I pointed them across the street, almost to Avenue A. I had stopped in at Butter Lane and purchased one cupcake to go, the Thursday that Big Daughter ended up in the E.R. at St. Vincent's Hospital. After we returned home from the hospital that morning at 1:30 a.m., she was thrilled to eat the cupcake, and pronounced it "amazing." Once our sandwich was ready, little one said she liked the ciabatta roll. I liked the pork. We were content. I didn't mind spending $9 for a sandwich on New Year's Eve. Little one expressed a wish to watch the ball drop at midnight. When I returned home at 8, after seeing two clients, she was fast asleep. Carl had come over to watch her. At our request, he kindly brought Carr's crackers - (my favorite), cheese straws for little one, along with cheddar cheese, salami and one 8 oz bottle of sparkling apple cider. He was worried that he bought too little cheese. Bazzini's, in Tribeca -where he bought the food - drives him crazy. He remembers when they were wholesale, Tribeca was like a desert. I was upset that little one and I would not be able to toast the New Year with that single bottle of apple cider. In the spirit of graciousness, I kept quiet. Sure enough, the cider was finished when I returned. Carl had a New Year's Eve party to attend. He agreed to return in the morning and help me recycle the Christmas tree in Tompkins Square Park, before collecting little one. While she slept, I read Under the Tuscan Sun, by Francis Mayes. My mother had mailed the book to me in late October. It was surprisingly comforting to lie on the couch, and read Ms. Mayes' account of a house restoration, interspersed with recipes and musings on eating porchetta. I'd been planning to make a ragu when Big Daughter gets home, and here was not the recipe.

The Ties that bind

2008-12-29T11:02:00.000-08:00

Friday evening, Big Daughter flew off to Belgrade for a three week visit with her father. Given our recent changes, little one and Carl both took it hard. We have established a smooth routine between our two homes. It's possible that Big Daughter's trip kicked up the realization of the change. She had a hard time at JFK on Friday night. Luckily, she was accompanied by her dog, Gigi. Little one asked why we didn't go to Belgrade as well. Big Daughter's absence hit me on Sunday. It was a wrenching feeling. I kept thinking I would lose my keys and be locked out of the apartment. After awhile, it occurred to me that if this happened, I could call the locksmith. He had recently changed the lock at the E. Village apartment, when we first moved in, (all the while talking about his bird, a cockatoo which is driving him crazy.) Between the holidays, the city feels empty. This morning, when I stopped at Jacques Torres Chocolate at 350 Hudson, on King Street, for a wicked, a spicy hot chocolate, the space felt cavernous and empty. After a while, customers began trickling in. I am slightly bereft, but know that such is the consequence of ties that bind. My friend, Lady E. was reassuring and observed that these are "old" feelings, i.e. evoking the numerous trips that Big Daughter took, when it was just she and I. Saturday, I invited Lady E. to a belated birthday lunch at Saravannas -I should add the Bhavan to its title - at 26th street and Lexington Avenue. It was a nice treat, following several make-up sessions with clients. After missing Lady E.'s surprise birthday, when Big Daughter was in the E.R., Saravanna's fit the bill. Lady E. loved their chai, and the South Indian thali, an assortment of several, spicy, vegetarian offerings arranged circularly on a metal tray. They are centered around a dish of rice, and some papadum. Of course, we also ordered the Mini Tiffin, with a Masala Dosa and some dips. I liked the feeling of home. Despite a huge number of people waiting, we were welcomed, and seated quickly. It's nice to be a regular. Lady E. was interested to hear that the atmosphere -lively Indian families -reminded me of my childhood in Africa. She remembered going to elementary school in Hong Kong with mostly Indian children. I nibbled on all the desserts, and felt content. During this time of transition, comfort is found in old habits. Yesterday, I found solace in visiting the Duane Reade at 2nd Street and Avenue B to buy Hello Kitty band aids, for little one's next mishap. Every customer looked like a member of that band, The Killers. I'm certain it is the hippest Duane Reade in the entire country, including L.A. Courtesy of Santa, little one received a miniature baking set, replete with miniature cookie cutters, shaped like hearts, crescents, four leaf clovers and circles, a baking sheet and a little rolling pin. She was curious about my method of communicating with Santa, and only partially convinced that I did so via email. We made the peanut butter cookie dough on Friday- since those ingredients were at hand -and then chilled the dough. Yesterday, was the appointed day to roll out the dough, cut the shapes and bake the cookies. They actually turned out well. I used some maple-flavored peanut butter from the The Peanut Butter and Company. They are at 240 Sullivan Street, between Bleecker and West Third, in the West Village. I like to eat their peanut butter plain, sometimes before bed, if I skipped dinner. I had bought a five pack of flavored peanut butters at the recent NYC Chocolate Show. Using the Mighty Maple allowed us to skip the sugar, and the little miniature cookies were not overly sweet. Before baking, we took a little trip to Pearl River Trading, my favorite new emporium at 477 Broadway, below Broome, to get a step-stool. Without it, little one couldn't reach the counter in our minuscule East Village kitchen. As we walked through Chinatown, we made sure to get an iced tea at Egg Custard King II, Mott Street between Canal and Bayard, right below Canal. We find the M9 bus to Chatham Square is our easiest option of travel, if little one resists walking. I was able to restrain her from clamoring for additional purchases, despite her admiration of elaborate fountains and intricate stone Buddhas, as we perused the wares on the second floor at Pearl River Trading. She liked seeing the selection of jewelry boxes, from which I chose Big Daughter's Christmas present. We also stopped at the tea room on the 2nd floor balcony, and smelled the different types of tea, but did not partake. On our return trip, we stopped at Saxelby Cheese at the Essex Market, Delancey and Essex, to pick up some sharp cheddar and maple smoked Gouda. Carrying the stool, the Sunday NY Times, the cheese, and some fruit from Chinatown was slightly challenging, but we were still able to stop for a phone card, so we could call Big Daughter, later in the day.

Sugar lollipops, hot chocolate and cold fingers

2008-12-19T18:39:00.000-08:00

At times, Christmas feels like a mirage this holiday season. Since yesterday, I've dodged several unsettling moments. Yesterday morning, an introductory meeting suddenly became aggressive, and slightly hostile. Afterwards, as I bought a hot chocolate at La Colombe d'Or, 319 Church at Lispenard street in Tribeca, an irritable woman, wearing strikingly beautiful rings, glowered at me. As I fumbled for my change, I apologized to the counterman for my cold fingers. The glowering woman loudly stated, "it's not cold out," and I smiled at her. As I walked home from my office tonight, for a brief heart-stopping minute, a young man refused to let me walk by him. In a playful, yet menacing manner, he said "I'm just playing wid you." In each case, I opted for grace, and continued on unscathed. We find the Christmas spirit in the most unlikely places. Last evening, Big Daughter and I visited St. Vincent Hospital's emergency room. She had complained of excruciating pain for a day and a half, and I insisted it get checked out. We arrived at 5 p.m., and she was discharged at midnight, diagnosed with a kidney infection. Our time in the E.R. was not bruising nor frightening. It served instead, as an affirmation of human kindness. When Big Daughter was finally admitted to the E.R., it was so crowded, her bed was the third, in a lane that staff would normally walk. As she cried from the pain, I cradled her. Waiting for the doctor, we gazed at the sea of hospital beds surrounding us, each with its unique story. The E.R. staff were efficient, yet overwhelmingly kind and gentle. Despite the pervasive aura of pain and discomfort, there was a sense of community. Everyone was unfailingly polite and considerate. To our right, was a long row of several men of varying ages. One of them was sporting a large black eye. I heard him say ruefully on his cellphone, "I started the fight." The doctor finished her initial exam of Big Daughter, and went off to order tests. Mr. Black Eye called out to me, "Excuse me, do you work in fashion?" Big Daughter momentarily forgot her pain, and said "she looks like Nina Garcia, right? That's what people always say." A few minutes later, the man to his left - who looked like a old revolutionary - said "this reminds me of communist Russia." He caught my eye, and we began laughing together. Later a young resident walking by smiled, and said, "it looks like you all are having a party back there." We were talking to our newest neighbors, a screenwriter and his sweet, loving wife, who had just flown in from L.A. He was unable to eat without pain, and due to travel to Aruba this morning. In that moment, our stories were all the same - we were seeking comfort for those we loved. Young Sir C., Big Daughter's boyfriend, arrived around 8:30 p.m. When they whisked her off for a CAT scan, we joked at our sudden sense of dislocation, and awaited her return. The angry, psychotic man behind us began mumbling "white trash," and the nurse told him to hush. She and I looked at each other and smiled, as we shook our heads. Young Sir C went out to buy snacks. He returned with baby bell cheese, mozzarella sticks and oranges, and a Pepsi. We ended up eating dinner at Veselka's, Second Avenue and 9th street in the East Village, at 1 a.m.. They ordered pierogis, and I had a glass each of seltzer, and homemade apple cider. I ordered Kutya, a Ukranian dish with wheat berries, raisins, honey and poppy seed. It was not too sweet, but very rich in flavor. I couldn't finish it. Next week, our family will eat together, for the first time since our break-up. In the spirit of harmony and friendship, we will join Young Sir C, Carl, and our dear friends, Lady S, and Sir H, and their twins, at Sal Anthony's Lanzas, First Avenue and 10th street in the East Village. Our annual Christmas Eve dinner. It has been fun to buy the presents that are handed out at dinner. On a recent Monday, little one's school celebrated a religious holiday. We used the opportunity to visit Kiosk, a whimsical store in Soho, 95 Spring Street, between Broadway and Mercer. It's been on my radar screen for awhile. The wind was unstintingly fierce on Lafayette Street, and I suggested we get Chai at Hampton Chutney, on Prince and Lafayette. Little one rebuffed me, and requested a visit to Think Coffee, 248 Mercer street, on the campus of New York University. She likes their Chai Latte, because the barista piles it high with whipped cream, especially for her. For that reason, little one told me, "I love him." She also ordered a surprisingly tasty sandwich of green apple slices and brie, on a baguette. We were adrift in an ocean of college students. I thought of Big Daughter at class at New School. Astoundingly, little one finished the entire sandwich. I complimented her on her good choice. At Kiosk, we were delighted to find balsa gliders, popsicle stick building kits, old-fashioned sugar lollipops and brightly-colored plastic birds from Mexico which tweet, when filled with water. She spied a vintage copy of Twas the Night Before Christmas, and sang the verses, as I paid for the gifts. When we got home, as instructed, little one placed the lollipops in the fridge until Christmas Eve, so they would not melt beforehand.

Sweet milky tea and the impermanence of things

2008-12-11T05:39:00.000-08:00

Little one is sick today. Carl called me last night to say she had a 100 degree fever. This morning, on his way to work, he brought her home. Tomorrow is her school Christmas concert. Hopefully she will recover in time to play "Jolly Saint Nicholas," for her piano recital. When Big Daughter would have sick days as a child, I would stress out about the conflicts between work and single motherhood. Eventually, I realized that being home with her allowed us to rest together -outside of scheduled school breaks. The working life, combined with family, can do that. It's been comforting and painful to return to the E. Village apartment. While I love the eternal mystery of crossing Avenue B and entering Tompkins Square Park, I didn't expect to return with a larger family, minus a partner. With the help of several good friends, Big Daughter emptied her closet at the Tribeca apartment on Tuesday. On my way to help fold clothes, and pack breakables, I had such a knot in my shoulder, I dropped in at Fishion Herb Center, 107 Mott street, between Canal and Hester streets, for a 15 minute shiatsu massage. Last year, I had a weekly massage appointment at Fision with Esther, after Lady C., a former work colleague-now friend, told me about them. Afterwards, I stopped at Egg Custard King, on Mott street, just below Canal, for an iced milk tea. After two round trips, Big Daughter finished the task. She texted me about treating her friends to dinner. I offered to reimburse her, if they ate "cheap." As part of "moving costs," Carl graciously covered the cost of their meal, Spanish food at a restaurant on Clinton and Avenue B. Little one was with them, and clamored for more "chicharrones," when they arrived home. Yesterday afternoon and evening, Big Daughter did an amazing job organizing her "boutique" closet. She's also been sick since Saturday, but simply soldiers on. Last Sunday, my friend Miss E., and fellow single parent, met me for lunch to catch up on recent events. From Avenue B, we walked west on E. 9th street, until the wind got too strong, and then took the M8 bus to Christopher street, the last stop. We were heading over to Atrium, a tea room on Little W. 12th street, in the Meat Market. It was closed. I remembered a prolonged wait for our change, during our last visit. As we walked past Pastis, I suggested Jarnac, a tiny french bistro on Washington at 328 West 12th Street, between Greenwich and Washington streets. Last winter, I went there with Carl to try their cassoulet. We walked up the street to look at The Paris Commune, at 99 Bank Street. I like their gingerbread. It was too crowded, so we walked back to Jarnac. The restaurant was cozy, and the tables nestled close together. We sat by the window, between a table of two couples, and a couple with their twenty-something daughter, and her boyfriend. He looked as if he just woke up. A younger version of Adrien Brody. The two couples were animatedly discussing the economic downturn, and their upcoming trip to Chile, not in that order. They had just been to church, and complimented the pastor's sermon, while discussing the worsening crisis to come. I was struck by the impermanence of things. We never leave our families, but perhaps we amend the things we cannot change. Miss E. ordered a latte, and a breakfast burrito. I seriously considered a tamale. With my erratic appetite, I opted for the comfort of sliced steak with a potato pancake, and English breakfast tea. The servings were generous, and we both took food home. Despite the tea bag, I appreciated the tiny teapot, and made sure my tea was milky and sweet. It was a late Sunday afternoon, and the chill was not oppressive. Miss E. observed that I was very clear about things.

The demise of the slow cooker and other stories -part 2

2008-11-23T12:48:00.001-08:00

Since the demise of the slow cooker, our family has teetered precariously on the edge. Carl and I tried, but failed, to defuse the simmering anger between us. On Sunday, during an interminably rainy day, Big Daughter, little one and I returned to my East Village apartment, where Big Daughter grew up. Now, there are three of us. As the family member who yells, I'd learned, in recent years, to contain this bad habit. Three weeks ago, early on a Monday morning, I found myself yelling again. Not a good thing for the family, nor for me. Despite the gift of several gentle conversations over lunch, dinner and afternoon tea, the family crisis continued unabated. One memorable conversation was with my friend, and former co-worker, Lady C. Over the summer, she'd introduced me to Lovely Lady, a quirky cafe on Elizabeth Street, between Prince and Spring Streets in Nolita. A few Saturdays ago, I found Lovely Lady shuttered and closed, after a recent fire. I wasn't surprised. When I'm in crisis, my little universe usually goes into flux. I see this as a signal of impending change. We found our way to Room 118, a comfortable little bar/restaurant, just around the corner. As we sat at the bar and reviewed my career transition and the family crisis, Lady C. listened quietly. Being a pragmatic person, she was reflective about the many transitions. Exactly one year ago, she and I negotiated an intensely stressful period at my program, prior to her departure. My resignation validated our hard work, and her earlier and difficult departure. Endings can have that effect. Their meanings often emerge much later. As we talked, Lady C. had two beers, and I finished half of a strawberry capirinha prepared with muddled strawberries. Eventually we decided to share crispy deep fried potato croquettes, pork shumai and a very fresh, bracing ceviche. The bar food at Room 118 is excellent, and the bartender was low-key but attentive. The following Monday, Lady M. and I met for lunch at Inoteca, at the corner of Rivington and Stanton Streets on the Lower Eastside. I arrived a few minutes early, and was told by the staff, that the restaurant would open in 15 minutes. It was a stilted welcome. Lady M. confirmed hearing the same thing, when she arrived 5 minutes after me. It was cold that day, and there was no room at the inn. Given the recent economic downturn, we expected to be ushered in enthusiastically. Due to my scrambled state, we opted to have lunch there anyway. I ordered the cheese plate with condiments. Despite my stated dislike of blue cheese, a blue gorgonzala was included. The waitress graciously offered to change it, but it was too late in the meal. Lady M. had a panini and we each drank an Aranciata. I brought home an order of polenta. Lady M. was very balanced as she acknowledged the many negotiations of couples, within the context of family and work. Later that week, I met Lady S., one of my oldest friends, at Podunk, on E. 5th Street, between Second Avenue and Bowery, for tea and conversation. It's easy to talk to Lady S., because she never takes sides. She also has a great sense of humor -even when it seems like Humpty Dumpty is soon to fall off the wall. This can be very helpful, when someone like me is upset. In the middle of our conversation, Big Daughter called. She's been struggling with our family crisis, and had a brief, but necessary meltdown on the phone. Being a mother, partner and an individual can be a bit difficult. Sometimes, I simply hope for a little piece of me. I found that for an hour on Thursday afternoon at Cha An, the East Village Japanese tea room on E. 9th, between Second and Third Avenues. Instead of my usual choice of six appetizers, I opted for the sweets and tea. There were two miniature scones, one tiny green tea macaroon, and a sliver of pound cake -all accompanied by very fresh whipped cream and a little container of berries. Prior to that, I was served two sandwiches on miniature, bagel-like rolls -one with salmon and the other with melted butter and raspberries. I ate the salmon, and a tiny corner of the bread and raspberry. As I bit into it, it was warm and yeasty -but best in the smallest doses. I brought home one scone and the pound cake. Sometimes sweet things make me itch, and that's what happened later on that afternoon. We are no longer a family who eats together. Big Daughter has returned to her favorite E. Village haunts for dinner; 7A and Odessa. Carl met little one and I for breakfast at Chatham Square, our breakfast haunt for dim sum, the other morning. When little one complained of a stomach ache, I was sympathetic. I agreed that it's difficult to eat, when everything changes. After hearing that, little one found her appetite and began eating her sticky rice and shrimp dumplings. I drank my iced tea and Carl said he wasn't hungry.

Moments of reflection and Chaiwalla

2008-11-04T14:35:00.000-08:00

Carl made a delicious turkey dinner on Saturday evening. To compliment the roasted turkey, I found two great recipes in this month's Gourmet magazine; one for green beans and the other for roasted yukon potatoes. They were quick and easy to prepare, but most importantly, tasted really good. That morning, I obtained a verbal recipe for homemade cranberry sauce with lemon zest, from a mother at little one's ballet class. Cranberry sauce is actually easy to make. I had the idea it was very time-consuming. My former work colleague, and good friend, Lady C., came bearing her darling new baby Ella, her husband, Sir M., and cupcakes from Cheeks Bakery on Metropolitan Avenue, on the edge of the South side of Williamsburg and Greenpoint. I generally visit Melanie, the baker at Cheeks, at least twice a week to chat. I also bring home good things for breakfast. It was a big treat to be on the receiving end of the vanilla and chocolate cupcakes. Big Daughter was also pleased. She had asked me to bake cupcakes, but I was a bit strapped for time. Early Saturday morning, there was a brief, but unmemorable commotion, when I asked Carl to take little one to ballet, since I had two early-morning clients. He was fixated on slow cooking the turkey, and momentarily flummoxed at the interruption - until he realized that he could run home from ballet, and resume the task. Flexibility is a learned technique, and in our home, a negotiation. By Sunday morning, I was ready to sit back and look out the window during our usual car trip. Since the laundry room at Carl's building is being renovated, as part of an overall building upgrade, I figured we'd drive the laundry over to my old laundromat in the East Village. Carl's building lobby is looking pretty swanky these days. The doormen, who have been in the building for years, are now wearing uniforms. Carl signed his lease in 1974, when Tribeca was a barren, wind-swept desert of few people and many tall buildings. In the early 1980s, I would visit my best friend Lady C., at 175 Franklin. She was right across from what-used-to-be Riverrun, and next to the now-defunct Socrates Diner. I remember squeezing my very pregnant belly into a booth at Socrates, when we met for lunch, just prior to the arrival of Big Daughter. Later, when Big Daughter was an infant, and then an adorable and spunky toddler, I would frequently visit Ms. R, my very first employer. She hired me as an editorial assistant/secretary at Plenum Press on Spring Street, between Varick and Sixth Avenue. Under Ms. R's influence, I learned about Sunday morning brunch at Capsuto Frere's on Desbrosses street. Sitting on the sliver of outside balcony and eating smoked trout, I was taking another kind of Sunday drive. Shopping at Bergdorfs and dinner at the Watts Happen Inn on Watts street, were also courtesy of Ms. R. She introduced me to the Ear Inn, which still holds strong, although I rarely visit. In those days, Tribeca felt like the Wild West, and the Ear Inn it's local saloon. I almost expected the NY version of Billy the Kid to show up. When we went out dancing on Thursday evenings at Area, a nightclub on Hudson Street, we often saw Matt Dillon and Mickey Rourke in the crowd. Back then, they were like urban cowboys. It's only fitting therefore, that Sunday's drive ended up at Chaiwalla, a tea cafe located in Salisbury, Connecticut, which has been a favorite of mine for a long time since Lady C. and I visited Chaiwallas back in the 80s. Could it really have been that long ago? I checked with Elspeth, my dear friend and proprietress of Podunk, a tea room on E. 5th between Second and Bowery. She said it very well may be. Elspeth was a neighbor of Chaiwalla's, once upon a time, before bringing tea to us lucky people in the E. Village and NYC. Lady C. used to know the owners of El Teddys, the Mexican restaurant on W. Broadway at Franklin, that-is-now Tribbles, the home/garden store. That particular trip, she borrowed the car from El Teddy's owner, and off we went. I came back with a beautiful wrought-iron table and two chairs, which Lady C.'s then-fiance graciously hoisted on a rope, through the living-room window of my tiny E. Village apartment. At that time, I also had an extremely elegant trunk and rug belonging to Lady C. Trained as an architect, she had the eye of an interior designer (and was often hired to redo interiors). Memories can be so specific and comforting. Salisbury still feels like it did, that late Saturday afternoon in the late fall, full of smoky light and early autumn chill. As we drove through Kent, Connecticut and along the Housatonic River on Sunday, I thought of life in the 1980s. I was not yet a mother, and very much floating about in the heady days of graffiti art, punk and E. Village and breakfast at Odessa, learning social manners particular to NYC. Prior to Lady C., I had lived with Miss F., a former couture model who provided me entree to NYC hot spots like Area, the Roxy, The World and so on. I was a wide-eyed naif, but smart enough to go along and observe the scene. These days, Big Daughter has access to the hot spots. She's more of a homebody -between college, work and her dog, Gigi (who really likes eating cat food). When Big Daughter jokes about taking me out, I laugh off the invitation. Staying out late is too hard for me, and I can only manage about two sips of alcohol. We didn't drink in the 80s either. Back to the Sunday drive. As we drove out of NYC, and avoided the marathon traffic, I googled directions to The Aldrich Museum of Art in Ridgefield Connecticut. We ended up taking the Tappan Zee bridge up to Katonah and then heading over to Connecticut. Not a memorable ride, but the trip through Kent, Connecticut was all the more spectacular afterwards. The Aldrich is a very modern, open space. One of the current exhibits featured celebrity photographs by the painter Elizabeth Peyton. Her friends were in the pictures - people like Marc Jacobs, for example. I think her paintings are presently at the New Museum in NYC. In the gift shop -always a required stop -little one found two books, and what she called a "lunar module." I bought Colorstrology, a book linking your birthday to your color. I looked up the birthday/colors of different people. Carl's was described as "deep and probing." Big Daughter was described as a hard-worker and being "born for the limelight," and little one was described as "charismatic and jovial but definitely not a pushover." From the Aldrich, we drove east to Chaiwalla, past forests of brilliant acid-washed foliage, and the meandering Housatonic River. Little one was hungry, so we stopped in Kent and got her a snack, but I felt like a fish out of water. It was just a little bit too preppy for my tastes. Salisbury was another 30 minutes of absolutely beautiful scenery. At Chaiwallas we sat by a large bay window in the back, overlooking a sloping lawn with one table and two chairs in the early twilight. Little one and I headed in, while Carl sorted out which part of the paper he wanted. When he entered, the cake plate fell onto the floor, and there was a brief silence before the waiter picked it up. Carl and I shared an Indian spiced tea. Little one started crying when I initially said she must choose between a Chai float (Chai tea with chai ice cream) and cheese toast, saying "but I want it so much." She ended up with two orders of cheese toast (melted Cheddar open face on toast) and ate the ice cream out of the float. As we drank our tea, another glass was dropped on the floor, and the owner laughed as she picked it up. I had just enough cash to cover our afternoon tea break. On these outings, Carl pays for the car and I pay for the day's activities. The sun was setting, and the windows were slightly foggy. The two patrons closest to us were making plans, and across the room, I could hear snippets of poetry being read aloud by different members of a small class. As the day wound up, and dusk approached, the prospect of leaving my program seemed manageable. November 28 is my last day. Although I love the program, it's time to move on. One circle closing, another opening, and still the comfort of Chaiwalla.

The demise of the Slow Cooker and Other Stories

2008-10-19T10:59:00.000-07:00

Little one spent the day with me at work yesterday. She was slightly under the weather, and I didn't want to call in sick. It's uncanny how she knows when I need to slow down. Big Daughter used to do that as well, when she was younger. They insist on spending a day, when time begins speeding by in a blur, and I'm also standing at the brink of getting sick. In the mid-afternoon, Carl met us at Podunk at East 5th Street, between Second and Bowery, to collect her, since I had private clients in the evening. As I ordered tea, Elspeth smiled when I chose Lapsong Souchong. She observed that Carl ordered it as well. I see this as a good sign, since he did throw out the Weil Spring Cooker - Yom Kippur and atonement notwithstanding. After Big Daughter brought a sweet little Toy Yorkie home, there was some commotion. Although Big Daughter had been talking about a dog, none of us knew it was imminent. It could have been worse; a baby, wild parties -the list is endless. We got off easy with a dog. Maybe Carl was afraid he would cook the dog in the slow cooker, so I shouldn't mourn. If the dog is staying, what's a slow cooker. My fantasies about preparing an array of soups and stews for fall, all without fuss, is the least of it. I was especially excited make an apple crumble in the slow cooker. Following its violent disposal - supposedly early one Saturday morning- my appetite disappeared. Since then, it's been all about snacks. On Columbus Day, Carl, little one and I grimly headed upstate for a day's drive. Despite feeling a deep sense of exhaustion, fall foliage appealed to me, and the change of pace was important. Prior to leaving the city, I suggested breakfast at Gottino, an organic enoteca/wine bar at 52 Greenwich Street, near Perry Street. My friend Lady E. and I had stopped in Sunday for a late afternoon snack and for the first time in days, I felt some peace. The bowls of walnuts on the bar were a nice touch, and the mid-summer weather created a particular ambiance. A few weeks prior, after a work meeting, I briefly hesitated outside Gottino, but continued walking. On Sunday, my internal GPS pointed us there. The counterman was a friendly young guy, with a lot of positive energy. He enthusiastically, and generously, helped me figure out the right drink for my rattled, post-mortem, slow cooker nerves. After offering me several tastes of his favorite wines, -one too dry, one too acidic-he finally suggested champagne and sour cherry juice. It was perfectly fizzy, and sweet, and a few sips did the trick. When Big Daughter was tiny, I would buy various fruit syrups at the East Village Ukrainian butchers and mix them with seltzer. Here again was that familiar taste, but with a slightly sedating effect. Lady E. and I shared a pumpkin ricotta omelet and chicken sausage with heirloom tomatoes. As we talked over the week's events, the animated sounds of conversation floated in from the small backyard. The counterman verified that Gottino gets "foolishly crowded" on weekday evenings. He handed me the breakfast menu, pointing out a few of his favorites. The next morning as we entered, I chastised Carl for bringing in his deli coffee, as we seated ourselves at the counter. Little one and I opted for the mint tea, which I had Sunday afternoon before leaving. It was wild, strong and sweet. I also ordered fresh-squeezed orange juice, which was served in a small glass flask, accompanied by a small glass of ice. It tasted like just-picked tangerines. For a minute, I imagined a little pensione on the Island of Capri. Little one asked for sunny side eggs, and I ordered several toasts -one with cinnamon and sugar, one roasted apples, one with ricotta and cherries. Carl ordered a grapefruit covered with blackberries, and other kinds of fruit. He couldn't get over the grapefruit, which seemed more like an orange. Little one asked the chef - I think it was Jody Williams herself - about a little green leaf, garnishing her eggs. Ms. Williams, she of gentle manner, and absolute delight in good food, explained it was sage. Little one was handed a piece of sage, and asked to inhale it's aromatic, and earthy aroma. As we were leaving, Ms. Williams remarked to little one that she was thinking about after-school snacks. When she mentioned Funnel cakes, I said adults might like them too, and she smiled. Afterwards we drove into Brooklyn to collect our Lady D., our friend, and occasional caregiver of little one. She lives near Prospect Park, and I was struck by its regal presence on surrounding neighborhoods. Lady D. also wanted to see fall foliage. En route, we stopped at the Alternative Baker in Rosendale. Despite a sign, that advised a closing time of noon, the proprietor was amenable to serving us. With a beret perched jauntily on his head, he seemed slightly out-of-place in quiet Rosendale. After reading several local news articles about the bakery, I learned that the proprietor had lived and worked in Paris, prior to opening the bakery. Lady D. opted for a Belgian Hot Chocolate. Somehow, the girls ended up drinking the hot chocolate, which was sublime. I was appreciative of the proprietor's refusal to prepare a half-order of the Hot Chocolate for little one. He agreed to heat some milk with the left over chocolate, which worked out fine. I ordered a tiny lemon tea cake, and mostly inhaled it. Lady D. and Carl shared a blueberry tea cake, and little one ordered a mini-pizza. Before leaving, Carl checked out the Rosendale Cafe. He explained that it was well-known for featuring musicians from the 1960s and 70s, who fell on difficult times. Afterwards, we drove over to High Falls to say hello to Sean at Blue Cashew, the kitchen/pharmacy we visited last week. Outside of the store, there were three bikers; one man, two women, and their perfectly-groomed Maltese dog, and their motorcycles, eating lunch in front of the Blue Cashew. They advised that the front entrance was closed, and I experienced a brief whiff of menace. We made our way to the side entrance, and said hello to Sean. He suggested that we take a hike around Lake Minnewaska, a large glacier lake about 45 minutes away. When we arrived, the parking lot was pretty crowded, and there were several families hiking an-hour long loop. The setting was beautiful. From many points, the splendor of the Catskills was in full view. As we walked, I still felt a sense of disquiet. Little one noted that it was a long hike. Back in the city, we took Lady D. to Saravannas, our favorite South Indian restaurant on 26th street and Lexington Avenue. Eating Dosas and South Indian sweets, I regained my sense of balance. I decided to take my chai tea to go, and reheat it in the morning.

Practicality and its many pleasures

2008-10-08T17:43:00.000-07:00

After a mix-up with my massage appointment at Namaste, a tranquil Yoga and massage studio on Grand Street, right off Havemeyer street in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, I was heading back to the office last week, when I spied the Potato Cafe at 254 South 2nd Street, (literally at the corner of Havemeyer). Mr. D., a friend, and former staff member at my program, had recommended the cafe, as we walked to Tipico for lunch on a hot summer day. With the advent of fall temperatures, the idea of a baked potatoes was a comforting alternative to the missed massage. On a whim, I decided to visit. The cafe is a tiny, charming space with several wooden tables and chairs. In the front window, several Mr. Potatohead dolls stand at attention, dressed in varied and colorful garb. There was outside seating, but I preferred the cozy inside vibe. The counter woman was friendly and welcoming, and gave me a warm smile. As I perused the chalkboard menu above the counter, I debated between a healthy potato salad and a baked potato with cheddar and bacon. At her suggestion, I ordered the latter. Several neighborhood regulars wandered in while I was waiting for my order. I was impressed when the counter woman came out front, and gently apologized to one of them, about the lack of a hummus plate. Moments later, the counter man brought my steaming hot, baked potato. It was split in half and covered with melted cheese and bacon. Without burning my tongue, I ate most of the cheese and bacon topping, and a third of the potato -and felt completely satisfied. Near one of the tables, there was a large, unopened box of Idaho potatoes. During tough economic times, one can always turn to the humble potato. This theme of practicality resurfaced when Carl expressed a desire to cook in honor of Rosh Hashanah. Being secular in their Jewishness, his family prefers to celebrate the holidays with friends, after the actual day has passed. In that spirit, and after a particularly grueling meeting at work on Friday afternoon, I decided to purchase a slow cooker for him. It would be an early birthday present, and assist him in cooking brisket. As a rule Carl doesn't like presents. (As confirmation of this, he has already tried to put the slow cooker on the balcony. At least he didn't throw it away). At this point, I would say that Carl needs to atone for his inability to accept gifts, but that's another story. Anyway, buying a slow cooker ended up being a bigger deal than I anticipated. After my meeting, I looked around the Williams Sonoma store on Seventh Ave and 15th street, and then walked to the Broadway Panhandler on West 8th street, between Mercer and Broadway. At Broadway Panhandler, I approached a gruff, yet kindly salesperson, and asked him to show me the slow cookers. There was a choice of two. After a few minutes, I decided on the Weil Spring Pressure Cooker. As we discussed its merits, another sales person told me - unprompted - what a great choice I had made. Later as I paid, the cashier also said I'd made a great choice. He informed me that this pressure cooker was affiliated with Dr. Andrew Weil, the noted health guru. I thought Weil was the Swiss manufacturer. It took some effort to transport the pressure cooker home, but I made it. The next morning, armed with a recipe for Beef Bourguignonne that I found online, Carl, little one and I visited the East Village Ukrainian butcher shop on 2nd Avenue, between 8th and 9th streets, after eating breakfast at Veselka. The butcher showed us a beautiful slab of beef, but refused to slice it into 1 inch pieces. Instead, he instructed us to brown the beef, and then put it into the pressure cooker, with the sauteed vegetables. Carl swallowed slightly at the price, $20/lb, but coughed up the $68.20. Afterwards, he took a minute to look at the rest of the cuts of meat. I was impatient to get home. Little one and I had my acupuncture, and her ballet. During the cab ride home, I pointed out that dinner for 8 computed to $8/per person, and a meal cannot be provided for a penny. Carl started laughing. The day before, I had placed an order for kugel- one potato, one cheese- at the Second Avenue deli at 33rd Street and Second Avenue. I was told that one kugel would feed two people. It actually feeds four, and both were very good. Most people liked the potato. In Tribeca, Carl raced over to the green market to buy vegetables, because he needed to cook the beef bourguignonne for six hours. It was already 10 a.m, and our guests were expected between 6 and 6:30 that evening. It was a race against the clock, but Carl made it. He persevered even when part of the cork fell in the bottle of pinot noir, an important ingredient. Later that evening, our guests pronounced the finished product to be excellent. Carl confessed that "slow cooking" was his favorite way to prepare food. Sunday, we took a day trip to go apple picking, and the theme of practicality continued. Armed with the name of an orchard, and exit 18, from our dear friend, Lady M., we meandered through New Paltz and continued past Mohunk Mountain House. It was a beautiful fall day, and the leaves were in hues of green, gold and rust. Along the way, we found the Blue Cashew, an amazing kitchen/pharmacy store selling items for dining/kitchen/home, just outside of High Falls. I spied silverware in the window and asked Carl to stop. Just before dinner Saturday evening, I found only two forks (and was forced to borrow forks from the neighbor -which are still in our kitchen!). At Blue Cashew, http://www.bluecashew.com/, we purchased some modern-looking, affordable, dishwasher-safe silverware, and six inexpensive simple, elegant drinking glasses. The gracious and friendly owner directed us to an orchard down the road. Somehow we ended up at a quirky, little orchard, which can be found online at http://www.mr.apples.com/. The proprietor, Mr. Philip Apple, had a wry sense of humor. He was reading the paper with classical music in the background. As we paid for our bag, he said "the apples are three miles down the way." When we looked startled, he laughed, and pointed to the many apple trees across the parking lot. As we walked off towards the orchard, he called us back to get a long handled apple picker. Little one was in heaven as we tramped around the wild apple trees, which are not sprayed. We tasted, then picked apples from several different trees. Around us, I overheard families and children giggling and laughing, as they picked apples. Alice in Wonderland gone apple picking in the garden of Eden. Afterwards we drove over to the Village Inn in Krumville, where we met Big Daughter, her boyfriend,Young Sir C, and his parents for a late lunch, along with friends coming in from the city. The friends arrived in style, landing alongside the restaurant in a sleek black helicopter. As the helicopter's propellers whirred, it created strong waves on the nearby lake. For a minute, I felt like crying. The engine's loudness momentarily transported me back to a childhood memory of fleeing Lagos in the midst of the Biafran War, as we were hustled onto an an Air France jet, late at night. The moment passed. We greeted the new arrivals, and settled in for a leisurely lunch on the porch. It was a beautiful, early fall afternoon, and the sun played hide and seek as it darted in and out of the clouds.

The family that eats together stays together

2008-09-24T06:47:00.000-07:00

Big Daughter insists that our family eat together several times a week. This is a good thing, and I credit her father, and his family, for setting this standard. During our recent summer visit to Belgrade and the Dalmatian Coast, we all ate dinner together almost every evening, always with her grandfather. It was family time in the most basic sense. Little one was encouraged to try a little bit of everything. Given our disparate NYC schedules, we usually find three nights to eat together, again at Big Daughter's request. A few nights each week, little one and I usually decamp to my E. Village apartment. Located adjacent to Tompkins Square Park, it's become both a country home, so to speak, and a place of refuge. Big Daughter is living at home, while she attends Eugene Lang, which is part of the New School. In a reversal of roles, I travel across town, while she stays put. Given her long-time schedule of two months of every summer vacation in Belgrade, this is understandable. Carl grumbles that Big Daughter will remain with us when married. I suspect he's actually happy about the idea. In fact, most weekday mornings are quite exciting, as Carl and Big Daughter prepare for work and school. But back to dinner. In our family, I occasionally use dinner as a way to celebrate recent accomplishments. This summer, despite numerous obstacles, I maintained financial stability at my program. To honor my efforts, Big Daughter has been offering me dinner. Her company, and that of her younger sister, is my greatest treat. In that spirit, I suggested that we meet at Perbacco, an Italian restaurant at 234 E. 4th Street between avenues A and B, on Monday evening. This restaurant has generated significant buzz. It is also close to the E. Village apartment. Big Daughter was initially suspicious about the amount of food we'd be served. She correctly noted that small portions are the norm at many of my choices. I reassured her that Perbacco's menu is quite extensive. Dinner is important to Big Daughter in the way that breakfast is to me. She was waiting outside of the restaurant, when we arrived, and little one was happy to see her. The hostess did not smile as she seated us against the back wall, next to two women in the middle of their meal. After I returned from the ladies room, Big Daughter had switched seats. She wrinkled her nose, and mimed that little one's feet smelled. Little one was none too pleased, but did not react. Instead, pen in hand, she concentrated on playing hangman, a favorite dinnertime activity. I sat down on Big Daughter's almost empty Spanish latte from Think Coffee, and narrowly escaped a coffee bath on my new bag, constructed of Japanese rice paper, in a deep shade of pink. Shortly afterwards, a young couple was seated next to us. They were torn between discussing their medical training and eavesdropping on our conversation. Perbacco is an anomaly. It is a neighborhood restaurant, and slightly funky to boot, yet clearly maintains a very sophisticated pedigree. Coming out of the kitchen, I observed plates of food artistically arranged, yet deconstructed on the plate. Our waiter had a strong Italian accent. Down-to-earth and welcoming in manner, he rattled off the specials. When I selected the dinner special of pumpkin ginger soup with crumbled panchetta, he nodded approvingly. When asked to choose between the cheese croquettes and the Emilian style parmigiana cheese pie, he suggested the croquettes. Without asking, he said "no olives, right" as we ordered the fusili pasta with tomato sauce with mozzarella for little one. He, and Big Daughter, gently steered little one away from a rich-sounding ravioli. Big Daughter and I settled on the Parmesan creme brulee. She selected the chicken entree and I also ordered a glass of red wine. A basket of bread sticks, resting on top of small slices of bread arrived, along with a small dish of olives in olive oil. I ate most ofthe bread sticks, while Big Daughter took surreptitious sips of the red wine. The young couple next to us discussed problems at their hospital. Little one urged us not to "call out" the words, as we guessed according to her clues. She cried when Big Daughter yelled out "cat." Big Daughter discussed affairs of the heart. It was clear that she is truly loved, as evidenced by the recent gift of an adorable stuffed monkey. Little one likes to hug this monkey, when she gets home from school, and before she leaves in the morning. The fusili arrived first. The silverware was wrapped in a white, cloth napkin. As I handed little one a fork, the knife fell to the floor. It just missed my big toe. Almost immediately, a waiter arrived bearing a clean knife. While little one ate half of of her fusili, Big Daughter nibbled on pieces of melted mozzarella mixed in the pomodoro sauce. The croquettes surpassed our expectations. Served on a small salad of cubed celery, pears and walnuts, the soft and crunchy tastes complimented each other. We shared the Parmesan creme brulee, and left almost nothing in the dish. The slightly caramelized crust was a great counterpoint to the creaminess of the cheese. After a few bites, I was full, but began eating my soup. The manager, who was keeping a close eye on diners, encouraged me to slide the panchetta, scattered along one edge of bowl, into the soup. It looked like crumbled salt, and added texture and taste. Since Saturday, I'd been craving soup and I was glad I waited. The waiter explained that the garnish of small seaweed-like strands floating atop the soup, were actually thinly-sliced, fried eggplant skin. Big Daughter compared Perbacco to Moto, our favorite, Chicago-based, new-age foodie restaurant. She ate almost all of her chicken, which was rolled into small, tubular shapes. On the edge of the plate, sat an undulating ribbon of carrot, which I kept thinking was pasta. Little one and I shared the dessert called Chocolate Variable. As per the waiter, it was a series of chocolate bites paired with different counter-tastes. There was a tiny, ethereal birds nest, filled with a chocolate mango and sea-salt flavored mousse (we found this so-so), a dark chocolate passion fruit semifreddo (we liked this), a doll-size chocolate coffee-bean cake (we loved this), white chocolate with jasmine tea bom-bom, (we didn't like this), and some square shavings of dark chocolate with olive oil and lavender, which little one consumed on the inhale. On our way out, we encountered the hostess, still unsmiling, outside of the restaurant. Across the street, the restaurant E.U. was mostly empty. In the early evening darkness, their table votives flickered in a ghostly manner and I thought of Edgar Alan Poe. After we kissed goodbye, Big Daughter began walking back to Tribeca, and little one and I made our way to e. 8th street.

Tried and True (or maybe Tired and wondering about truth)

2008-09-17T18:54:00.000-07:00

Little one has finally fallen asleep. As she drifts off, she likes to place her finger in my belly button, which was our main connection when she was in utero. Big Daughter has skipped uptown to have dinner with Young Sir C, who finally finished work. While waiting to leave, she joined little one on the couch, to watch the tail end of a Disney movie. This meant that bedtime loomed farther on the horizon before becoming a reality. Carl is at the gym. After I arrived home, he correctly pointed out that bedtime would become a struggle, once I was present. There were a few false starts while little one settled down. First, she needed to tell me about the new music teacher and the morning trip to the fire station; "they had three alarms, and finally we left." She's concerned about how to save our three cats in event of a fire and Carl had assured her, we have four sets of hands between us. Lying next to her, I was able to reflect on the intense energy of the day and once she fell asleep, tiptoed off to write about it. A mistral blew into work today-perhaps summer's end? - and wreaked havoc on technical and human systems. To add insult to injury, my fancy new Iphone kept weaving in and out of service, as I made my way through the East Village, from the J train stop on Essex/Delancey to Cha An, my favorite Japanese tea room at 230 E. 9th street, between Second and Third Avenue. Perhaps the full, harvest moon interrupted all basic connections. Nonetheless, I was grateful for the brief moment of silence. Cha An is reached by a flight of stairs to the second floor, which offers a particular, and reassuring sense of order. At the top, there is a curtain, divided in two parts, and I enter a calm interior with a decor of soothing dark wood. There is an unseen boundary between the tea room and the outside world -which lies literally at the bottom of the stairs. In recent weeks, I've rediscovered a simple solace at Cha An. I generally sit at the front counter, adjacent to a long wooden bar. A large rice cooker sits squat, and the waitresses move about preparing tea orders. Further back, two chefs, one male, one female, prepare the food in an open-air kitchen. Midway through my meal, the female chef ate her dinner at the far end of the counter. The sound of her laughter floated over me, as I occasionally looked up from the newspaper to watch a large mixer whirring round. In recent weeks, I've been ordering six mini appetizers and tea. Last week, I chose a pot of Keemun tea and received an elegant, yet gentle selection of the following: crunchy green beans, a piece of salmon, one piece of curried shrimp, pickled eggplant and a simple, tangy cabbage salad. Directly in front of me, was a large glass cookie jar filled with green tea cookies in flavors of chocolate and green tea. As I paid the bill, I ordered one green tea chocolate cookie to go and nibbled the corner. This afternoon, I opted for the summer special, the Okayu set, and selected a Ceylon Pekoe tea, with milk and sugar. The set included rice with a cold bonito broth, cold mackerel with ginger, seaweed, pickled cucumber, and a perfectly tiny, wrinkled -and exquisitely sour -pickled red plum. The rice was a beautiful pinky white, with small pieces of chopped yamu (Japanese potato), sesame seeds and greens floating about with two frozen cubes of fish broth on top. The ice cubes slowly melted, as I was eating and the bracingly fresh flavors provided a tremendous sense of well-being. Taste can be so transporting that angst is forgotten. As I interspersed the rice with tastes of the small appetizers, multiple flavors literally "popped" on my tongue and I forgot the day's upheaval. A trip to Japan is becoming a serious reality (Lady L. are you listening?) In past visits, dessert was an amazing black sesame flan with a crunchy wafer - a small sea studded with texture. Today it was a millefleur pastry, with a symmetrical, yet miniature scoop of raspberry ice cream, studded with chunks of fresh raspberry, and crowned with architecturally-balanced wafers. Finishing my dessert, I suddenly realized that I didn't have enough cash. The waitress merely smiled when I mentioned a quick trip to the bank. When I came back, my tea was slightly cold, next to the scattered sections of the New York Times. I took one last sip, gathered the paper, asked for a green tea chocolate cookie to go and headed out with a clear mind.

Phantoms and the magic of US Open Tennis

2008-09-04T18:18:00.000-07:00

Since last week, Carl has been holed up in Queens at U.S. Open Tennis. At this time of year, he's like a cowboy who's finally found his horse after a long absence. I hope that there's no symbolic subtext to that statement, but he does literally gallop to the Open via the No. 7 train. Once again, Carl is a phantom. He slips out of the house during the coolest part of the early morning, and returns late at night, after the sun's intense heat has subsided. Naturally, little one, Big Daughter and I -along with many others- traveled out to Flushing Meadows in search of both Carl and tennis. Due to him, we are under the spell of Tennis with Carl. Nine years ago, I had never watched a tennis match. Big Daughter was also unaware, due to her annual summer trip to Serbia. She too is entranced, and remembers meeting top-ranked Jelena Jankovic (a Serbian player) while we vacationed, several years ago in South Beach. I'm stymied by my recollection of charging around the Open with a six month old. How I did that, I have no idea. For me, the advent of the Open heralds the end of summer -and is about time passing. Invariably, the breeze blowing around the grounds has a touch of coolness. It hints -ever so slightly - of fall and winter coats and seasons changing. At the same time, I liken being a spectator at the matches to being at the beach, with the court as ocean. This year, a general malaise permeated my usual adventurous tendencies and I was woefully uninspired about food field trips. Hence my local explorations around 111th street. A few years ago, I dragged Carl to an amazing Mexican restaurant at 89th and Broadway, in the shadow of the elevated tracks. We were the only "gringos" there and I was thrilled when they brought over plates of sliced radish, along with slices of lemon for the Coronas, as we waited for our tacos. In other years, we've stopped in Jackson Heights for Indian buffet, at Delhi Palace, 74th street and Roosevelt, just past the Jackson Diner. It's been incarnated multiple times, but the food is solid North Indian and fresh. Between matches, we've also walked over to the Lemon Ice King in Corona and Empanada del Parque at 108th street. Not only are the empanadas amazing, there's a great picture of Jackie Onassis on the wall. Over the years Carl and I arrived at two primary understandings. Namely, that I can eat between matches, and it's not a bad thing to sit in Court side seats. We are not the bourgeoisie, though we breathe the rarefied air of those with money to spend. Yes, it does feel different to sit in an B Loge or Court side and I like it. People watching the fans -not just the tennis players -is always fun. All kind of hats are utilized by a large percentage of both male and female tennis watchers. So is preppy clothing, i.e. a lot of conservative-looking men wear pants and shorts in faded pastel colors, mostly pale orange. Fashion at the U.S. Open is another topic entirely and encompasses a complete mix of styles -the fanny pack to the Birkin bag -and everything in between. Shallow as it may be, I do think carefully about my own outfits -downtown with some sophistication and maximum coolness -since it's so hot in the direct sun. But back to food. This year we skipped our usual field trip to Flushing ( places like SpicynTasty and funky little bakeries with great fried bread and dumplings). I was content to concentrate on eating at a few of the myriad Ecuadorean restaurants. A family favorite was the Queens Coffee shop, located at the corner of 111th, adjacent to the subway stairs on Broadway. After several pre-tennis meals there, I became intimately acquainted with Humitos (a very satisfying tamale with a sweet filling of cheese and corn), a soupy beef stew with lots of potatoes, sides of sweet plantains and a typical Ecuadorean-style green salad with ceviche-like topping of tomatoes, onions and cilantro. Being so hyped about his favorite event, Carl would deny hunger, and then finish my beef stew and all the rice. One day, I tried a blackberry shake with milk, and was instantly refreshed. Another day, I wandered over to a local bakery, just one block up Broadway. I snooped around a bit, and then bought a cheese-filled empanada and several crispy pretzel-like cookies. The empanada was steaming hot and mostly cheese with the lightest outside casing. The cookies were similar to Taralluci, the Italian cookies made with olive oil and fennel (that we recently ate at One Dominick at 6th Avenue/Dominick street on the edge of Soho. Similarly, these cookies weren't sweet, and were satisfyingly crunchy. Little one tends to stick with her favorite, sunny-side eggs. Big Daughter opted for the Spanish Omelet with sweet plantains (and then said it was a bit too rich). If I'm lucky enough to watch tennis with Carl, I can usually finagle a foray to one "fancy" restaurant at the U.S. Open. This year, I was interested in trying the Wine Bar, an open air Italian cafe. It debuted with great fanfare by the giant Scoreboard located near the East gate. The owners are a well-regarded chef and his wife, who own an Italian restaurant, Spiagga in Chicago. After sitting court side, and watching James Blake and Venus Williams quickly dispatch their opponents, we wanted something light to eat. There were just two open seats, placing our backs in the path of the afternoon sun. I ordered two salads, one with mozzarella and tomatoes, and the other with shaved artichokes and hearts of palms. Several patrons were drinking a glass of Rose, so I ordered one and promptly added ice cubes. Patrons could watch the staff preparing food in the center of the cafe. There was an anti-climatic, European feel to the place, which contrasted with the revved up, carnival-like atmosphere of the main food courts and the crowds. Carl was pleasantly surprised by the quality and taste of the food and we both took a sip of the Rose. After a few sips, we felt the combination of the sun and the Rose, the Open was working its magic.

2008-08-25T14:01:00.000-07:00

In mid-to-late August, it's my habit to visit Diner, at Berry and Broadway in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and order their heirloom tomato salad for lunch. Usually served with a simple bread salad, the heirloom tomatoes reign supreme in late summer. This time, after consultation with the waitress -who actually remembered me from a spring visit with Big Daughter- I also ordered a melon salad with prosciutto and heirloom tomatoes. The melon slices were translucent, and had a light pink, flesh color. In size, they made me think of Cavaillon melons -which I used to order at Grand Central's Oyster Bar back in the days at the U.N. The taste was completely different though, refreshing and light. The plate looked like a still life. Alongside the melon were two perfectly-shaped red circles, that looked like plums. They too were heirloom tomatoes. As I was eating, a table of three arrived and one of them asked what I was eating. I described both salads and he also opted for the melon salad (and mistook the tomatoes for plums). We were seated so closely, I couldn't help but overhear their conversation as I ate. It was all about art, but without attitude. Diner can be a bit sceney, not quite boho-squatter, but with a clientele moneyed enough to look homeless by choice. This table seemed to be the real thing. Serious young Latino men, who put their heart into their art, by the sound of it. Years ago, when Big Daughter was a baby and we lived on N. 5th street in Greenpoint, everyone referred to Williamsburg as the "South Side," (in a West Side musical kind of way). An invisible wall divided the north and south sides, and you crossed the divide at your own peril. I have nothing against the recent inhabitants of Williamsburg; mostly young and beautifully/creatively dressed. Nonetheless, my late summer lunch felt a bit more meaningful, because it harkened back to the genuine ferment of the 1980s East Village art scene. It brought back memories as I listened to their discussion about fellow artists in Miami and Genoa, Italy. A few weeks ago, I had a similar experience when we dined, en family, with Young Sir C, (Big Daughter's companion), at Trestle On Tenth, a Swiss restaurant at 24th street and Tenth Avenue. Big Daughter had just returned from Belgrade and it was a testy time in our household. She and I usually negotiate issues of re-entry during our first few weeks together under the same roof. I'd been meaning to try Trestle on Tenth for a good while, and this seemed the perfect moment. I was pleased to see that they place a premium on neighborhood "regulars." It was a gentle contrast to the fancy dining scene that so often defines Chelsea. As a steady stream of patrons trickled in, many were seated in the backyard garden. We sat next to the front window, with a direct view of Tenth Avenue and battled our way through a fiery political discussion about the recent capture of Karadzic. It seems apropos that we were eating on neutral territory. As we read the descriptions on the menu, we became hungrier, and the food did not disappoint. Carl ordered one each of the sides for the table; grilled asparagus with goat cheese and almonds, green beans with lovage and tomato, gratineed pizokel (little dumplings) with onions and gruyere and beets, and we devoured them all. I chose chilled tomato soup with crabmeat, basil and corn (and gave Carl the crabmeat because it's too rich for me) and a butter lettuce salad with bacon and buttermilk dressing (which was large enough for everyone to taste). It was refreshing on a warm summer night. Big Daughter ordered Roasted Chicken with seasonal vegetables in consomme and Carl followed suit. Young Sir C opted for the smoked and roasted pork loin with corn, green and wax beans and yellow squash and pronounced it outstanding. Little one shared my soup and Carl's chicken, and then promptly fell asleep on my lap after eating her dinner. We were too full for dessert but they also looked wonderful. Soon, I plan to visit for breakfast and order just the chocolate tart and a tea.

Love for food and Cartier Love Bracelets

2008-08-10T15:15:00.000-07:00

U.S. Open Tennis is a few weeks away and by this time, Carl has usually turned into a whirlwind ghost; now you see him, now you don't. In our family, we are used to seeing -but not speaking - to Carl, as he gets in gear for his favorite summertime event. In response to my temporary status of head of household, I've insisted that we rent a car every Sunday and drive somewhere, preferably the beach. This has led many people to believe my amazing tan from my recent trip to Croatia has simply improved on it's own. My reasoning is that Carl will recharge during the drive, and after swimming in the mighty Atlantic. More importantly, during these excursions, I am hoping he will actually talk to us. He's usually more verbal on the return leg of the day trip, but I'm working around this. Last weekend, he spontaneously suggested that we drive to Orient Point, one of my favorite beaches located at the eastern most point of the North Fork. I've been visiting Orient Point since 1982, and generally take a day pilgrimage in the late Spring, to start summer and during late fall, to commemorate summers end. Driving the narrow spit of land to the beach area is like being in Maine, with marshes on one side, and a piercing blue and calm ocean on the other. Most of the beach goers are Greek and Russian and the aromas wafting off the barbecue's are pretty amazing. Beach goers must walk past the barbecue area to get to the beach, and it's always a sensory experience. Some people seem to bring their entire kitchen. There are always a few anglers at the far end of the beach, and Carl and little one love to check out their catch. Last Sunday, I looked over and saw little one reeling in a fish. There are two traditions on the ride home; the purchase of smoked fish from Alice's Fish Shop in Greenport, and homemade ice cream at Magic Mountain in Mattituck. I generally stay away from ice cream, due to all the aftertastes. Not so at Magic Mountain. Their butter pecan is exquisitely creamy and rich. Little one goes into a soporific daze as she eats her ice cream. Due to the gargantuan size of the cone, I generally insist the three of us share one of the huge cones. Aside from our Sunday day trips, I had given up Saturday breakfasts and assumed that Thursday Night Day Night would be cancelled for most of July and August. I am happy to report that Date Night continues. A recent memorable Thursday Night Date Night involved a visit to Cartier (52nd Street/5th Avenue), to look at the Love Bracelet - not the diamond-encrusted one - but the simple gold circle inscribed with love on a silk cord. During a moment of clarity, standing on a beach at our friend's house in Sohola, PA, I requested the bracelet as a symbol of Carl's commitment when he vaporizes before my very eyes. Despite much hemming and hawing up until to the last moment -and an offer of cold, hard cash - we made it to Cartier. Being a person who has never wanted diamonds or pearls, I liked the idea of the Cartier Love bracelet. When I actually saw it in the store, I was pleased to discover that the original Love Bracelet was both affordable and elegant. Most importantly, a significant portion of its cost went to the charity of my choice. Carl was quite taken with the bracelet as well and found it understated. His original reasoning was that when he gives me things, I feel worse afterwards. I agreed that this could be true, since I often must do battle to get gifts from him. I conceded that I may well be resentful after receipt, due to the significant energy expended to get the item. Carl was apparently convinced by my logic. Afterwards, we took the M20 down Broadway in Times Square to Tribeca and headed over to One Dominick (the new cafe at the Hear Theatre). Being fans of Jimmy's No. 43, we wanted to check it out (as it's part of Jimmy Carbone's empire). Despite the unassuming space, we were both taken with the food; I ordered the cheese plate, an assortment of Italian cheeses and an especially refreshing watermelon salad with cubed ricotta and mint (Anguria). Carl ordered Fava beans in a puree, (Fave e Cicoria), which the waitress enthusiastically endorsed - and he loved. We shared a great glass of red wine and ordered another. Little anise flavored biscuits,(Tarralluci), were especially good with apricot preserves to accompany them. One of these days, I'll stop in and try the bread pudding,(Budino) for breakfast. In the meantime, the Love Bracelet never leaves my wrist. Who ever said you couldn't fill up on love for breakfast, lunch and dinner?

Olive Oil Cookies and Silky Water

2008-07-29T22:02:00.000-07:00

Big Daughter tells me a chill wind was blowing in Belgrade last week after Karadzic was recently unmasked and jailed. Her father, the Big N., even became part of the story, while escorting Russian media around town to Karadzic's favorite haunts. Big Daughter accompanied him on a fact-finding mission to meet one of Karadzic's teachers from his new life, a leading practitioner of alternative medicine. She was quite impacted by the teacher's belief that Karadzic was caught, because he tripped on his own ego. As per Big Daughter, the teacher explained that Karadzic entrapped himself when he began making his own instruments to measure bio energy levels, as opposed to using instruments made by his mentor. I was thinking about egos after visiting the Louise Bourgeois show at the Guggenheim this weekend with my friend, the tranquil Miss E. The Guggenheim was overrun with tourists and in the long admission line, there was an overall feeling of anticipation and excitement. When confronted by large groups of tourists on city streets, I often feel perturbed. In the museum, I got caught up in the infectious energy of travelers. I've always liked the sculpture of Ms. Bourgeois, and found the curving, circular ramps at the Guggenheim a perfect showcase for her retrospective. Miss E. and I started at the bottom ramp and slowly made our way up. We looked at Bourgeois's Femme Maison paintings, her totemic personages and moved onto her sculptures; phallic and breast motifs carved out of impossibly smooth stone. Melanie Klein would have had a field day. In her writings about the breast and the infant, I'm sure Ms. Klein has referenced Louise Bourgeois. I just haven't read them. As a mother, I completely appreciated the idea of Womanhouse (Femme Maison). Although I think Bourgeois might have been referring to woman's sexuality, I found many meanings. Since returning from our 2 and 1/2 week trip to Belgrade and Croatia, I've been musing on the capacity to be on two continents on the same day. Waking up in Belgrade in the morning and finding myself in NYC that same evening has left me feeling a little stunned. My initial instinct has been to remain close to home. I was also cash-strapped and shell-shocked. Carl has been bewildered by my rapidly-shifting moods. Given his absorption in sports, he is happily immersed in tennis and able to avoid the ups and downs of life's nuances. Plunging back into work, and the requisite demands of motherhood and career left me on a high-wire. As a friend recently noted, the pace of life in Belgrade and Croatia is a gentle one. Until this weekend, even the idea of food was unappealing. I didn't want tea or even chocolate. Luckily, I got my appetite back after Saturday morning acupuncture. Interestingly enough, I wasn't as blissed out as usual (and I was instructed to eat afterwards due to "some underlying weakness.") Miss E. agreed to walk over to Bar Stuzzichini at Broadway and E. 22nd street. I'd read good things about it and figured a hot Saturday afternoon was a good time to visit. It was comfortably populated, and we opted for a table inside, near the front window, adjacent to the bar. We both selected three misti for $17, which included a large, generous glass of Prosecco. I ordered Lasagnette, Pizza Rustica and a Crostini with Ricotta and Honey. Miss E. also ordered Lasagnette, a Crostini with fried egg and Pizza Rustica. Neither of us could drink the Prosecco. We drink very little alcohol and it was too hot. She opted for a iced latte and I requested the house brewed tea with orange and lemon, which was amazing. I poured a little Prosecco in my tea, and it was perfect. The small plates were just right. My favorite was the Lasagnette, a perfect serving of lasagna with pork ragu and the Crostini with Ricotta and honey. Later that evening, Carl agreed to visit Capri Caffe, a new cafe serving Italian food on Church Street at Duane. He was at the gym and asked me to call in the order of penne with sweet cherry tomatoes, olive oil cookies and homemade buffalo mozzarella. We brought most of the food with us on a visit to the summer house of our friends Sir T. and Lady C. in Sohola, Pennsylvania. Their house is set on a beautiful lake with inky black water. The lake water feels like silk when I'm swimming. The best part is rowing their boat across the lake, a few hundred yards from their dock to the beach. The lemon and chocolate cookies disappeared at lunch. At dinner, the mozzarella was combined with pesto and tomatoes and the pasta also disappeared. As he rowed us to the beach, Carl was surprised to hear that I was having an anxiety attack. There were several other guests, and I was feeling a bit lost. Once I began swimming I found my bearings, while Little one and her friend Miss A. splashed around the beach. They loved it when I chased them around the beach, and pretended to drag them in the water. After many entreaties, we had rowed back across the lake to get their rafts but they preferred that I chase them. When we left, it was early evening and the sun was still bright. I looked at a large pine tree leaning sideways amidst the green expanse of shoreline, while a mother deer and two baby fawns ran through the trees.

2008-07-20T17:36:00.000-07:00

As I get older, I think fondly of the days when I traveled long distances with few worries. In 1986, when I rented a gite -a farm on a working fruit orchard -close to San Remy de Provence, it never occurred to me to consider any type of problem. Off we went on our Egypt Air flight. In Paris, we collected our rental car and headed down through the Loire Valley, where I still remember the inn where we stayed. My memories are of lights which switched off in the hallway; the handheld shower head in the bathroom down the hall and the food. It was my first introduction to French food in France. After each course, I thought dinner is finished now. But then would come another course- along with the wine in the plain glass bottle. I won't even mention the bountiful Saturday morning markets in the town square. Anyway, as I get older, I am painfully in need of security -and only too aware of possible trouble. At its outset, our recent trip to Belgrade and Croatia involved a fair amount of worry. In my ideal world, any trip out of NYC necessitates back-up, something that I'm sorry to say, I generally live without. I bring to the table a long history of single motherhood combined with significant student loan debt. This originated from my fortituous decision to complete my MSW when Big Daughter was 2. In plain speak, it means that most trips are taken on a wing with a prayer. Despite Carl's generosity in using his Amex miles to purchase return airtickets from NYC-Paris-Belgrade, I was painfully aware of our lack of safety net. While the possibility of Air France going bankrupt seemed remote, I did worry about mishaps during the 15 hour drive to/from Belgrade to Dubrovnik. When the Big N. suggested that little one and I fly to Dubrovnik - while he and Big Daughter drove, I quickly said "no thanks." In my minds-eye, I had a fixed image of little one and I stranded in Dubrovnik -with few resources. After spending a few days in Belgrade, I overcame these fears when I encountered the hospitality of the Big N's friends and family. In those moments, I realized that I was not alone. If something went wrong, there would be support. I attribute the sincerity I encountered to a unique blend of the old and new which exists in Serbia. Belgrade encompasses 20th century modern and old world sensibilities. In every place I visited, family and friendship transcended the many changes which had occurred between myself and the Big N. It didn't matter that little one was not his child, she was still the new grandchild to be fussed over and enjoyed. Of course, Big Daughter was completely loved and exclaimed over as well -with any change in height or hair color duly noted. When she showed her grandfather a picture of Young Sir C, he asked about their future. The drive from the airport to the city perfectly captures this sensibility. The countryside exists in harmonius proximity to the city; neat rows of corn and manicured fields give way slowly to the a vibrant city that radiates outwards from it's city center to leafy pockets of elegant and peaceful residential neighborhoods. In the city center, there is a constant stream of traffic - buses, trolleys, cars and scooters speeding by a mixed architecture of old communist-style buildings side by side with elegant embassies and modern storefronts. Ten minutes away is the Big N's building on Carli Caplina, an intellectual street of precise, three-story buildings in soft or faded pastel colors. Some buildings are newly-plastered, those needing work maintain a regal air. Cars are parked diagonally on sidewalks, and on every corner is the ubiquitous cafe. As I once read in an airline magazine, Belgrade is truly a cafe city. During our forays into the city, Big Daughter often took us to the Dizzy Coca Cola cafe in the center. The three of us would sit and drink blueberry juice (little one), iced coffee (Big Daughter) and mineral water with lemon (me), while we recovered from the dry heat and a shopping expedition. During one memorable walk about town, after buying presents to bring home at the Museum for Ethnography, the three of wandered into the Academy Bookstore on the historic, and striking street, Knez Mihailo.To my surprise, I discovered the book "Half of a Yellow Sun." An account of the writer's experience during the Biafran War, it triggered many childhood memories for me. It seemed appropriate to read this book in Belgrade. Almost every day,we drove by damaged buildings still standing with gaping holes and smashed concrete, evidence of the bombings by NATO forces. Near the end of our strip, little one and I began venturing out to a nearby neighborhood bakery. We discovered little miniature ham sandwiches with a slice of cucumber and tomato, all held firmly in place with a toothpick. She usually ate three of those, but only after we visited Cafe Monte Cristo. The first time little one led me there -by memory - she tripped and skinned her knee as she pointed at it's signature wall of falling water. Once we sat in their comfortable wicker chairs, under the fan spewing icy air, she recovered as she sipped her blueberry juice. The three of us settled into a comfortable routine during our time at the Big N's apartment. In the evening, he considerately stayed with Lady N, his elegant and gracious girlfriend. In the morning, he would return and make coffee for Big Daughter and they would depart for the gym. Little one and I were happy to simply hang out at home for that hour and a half. As we worked on summer homework, or checked email, we could hear snatches of conversations in Serbian floating up from the street. After Big N and Big Daughter returned, we had numerous invitations to visit several of his friends and relatives. Each one of them was welcoming and hospitable -little one was taken in as family immediately (and almost always given a gift of chocolates). His friends lived in different neighborhoods throughout the city, each with it's own distinctive ambiance -some more green and lush, others with a slightly more modern, upscale design -all equally beautiful. After these visits, my favorite part of the day was returning home to eat dinner with the Might J, Big N's father, who lives in the adjacent apartment. Depending on what the cleaning lady had prepared, we would eat a soup with green beans or a rice dish with vegetables, always accompanied by a fresh salad of cucumber and tomatoes and a plate of cheese/salami. In those moments, I was simply grateful to be part of family and community. Later, in the evenings, Big N would slice watermelon and peaches and we would have a late night dessert before sleeping.

Home is Where the Heart is

2008-07-08T15:00:00.000-07:00

The old adage to be careful for what you wish comes to mind when I think of our recent trip to Belgrade and the Dalmatian Coast. When I decided that little one and I would accompany Big Daughter to Belgrade this summer, my focus was on seeing Big Daughter and her father, the Big N, in his natural setting. It was time for her to be with both parents and her sibling in his home. After all, the Big N had traveled frequently to NYC during the past 10 years. What I did not expect was to feel like I'd finally come home during this trip. As an adult, it had been 10 years since I last traveled to Paris to collect Big Daughter from one of her summer vacations. After that adventure, for a good period of time, I hunkered down in NYC and stopped moving around so much - and even became too anxious to fly. I'm glad to report those days are officially over. There were several large tour contingents on our flight to Paris. After someone gave away our assigned seats, the three of us were literally the last to board. The airline staff worked hard to seat us together -but Big Daughter ended up squashed between a Nigerian woman who grabbed her every five seconds, due to fear of flying. As we flew across the Atlantic, I thought of numerous family trips to Europe throughout my childhood and adolesence. Our family was always en route to a new destination. My father's summer sabbaticals -at the University of Science and Technology in Kumasi, Ghana and the University of Nigeria at Insukka- were invariably spent in Europe. We visited London, Paris, Amsterdam, Rome, Zurich, Salzburg and Vienna. On the flight from Paris to Belgrade, I peered out of the window when the pilot mentioned that we were flying over Zurich and the Austrian Alps and remembered our month-long stay in the sweet and beautiful town of Mittendorf in the Austrian Alps. The train ride from Zurich to Vienna and Salzburg was exciting, and I can still see the Swiss flags fluttering in the air. It was good to be back in Europe and I felt completely at home. After returning to NYC this past Saturday evening, I am a fish out of water. My heart feels dislocated and my center of gravity is out of whack. Carl is being gentle with me. So far, he's agreed to us going with his mother on a sheep-cheese trip this Sunday and bought tickets, spur of the moment, to a Malian music concert at Avery Fisher Hall this Saturday. He knows these are not traditional after-vacation-blues. I think often of Zaton, the town that Big Daughter and Big N have been staying for the past 8 summers. Big N began visiting Zaton with his ex-wife, the Lovely Lady K. She has land there -her family's summer house was bombed during the war and she is planning to rebuild. For generations, Serbs summered in Zaton, now they are a minority, but still welcome. Just 20 minutes from Dubrovnik, Zaton is truly special and in it's own orbit. Stone houses with orange roofs, sloping down to the seaside surrounded by profusions of brilliantly colored flowers, flowering cacti, lemon, fig and orange trees and the scent of Thyme and Marjoram and Pine perfuming the air. In the early morning, while Big Daughter slept and Big N. drank coffee and read, I would take little one and meander down on a five minute walk to the dock. Once there, I would buy her a breakfast snack and we would cross the street to the beach to sit in swings while she ate, watching the boats bobbing in the sea. The walk back up the steep, narrow roads would make us laugh and little one would beg me to pick her up when it was too steep. I would distract her with the scent of thyme leaves and lemon trees. When we returned, Big Daughter would be up and drinking coffee. We would read and rest a little and then head back out to the beach around 12. The water was a piercing blue/green and clear to the bottom with little fishes swimming around our feet. The pebble beach gently massaged our backs and we would jump in and out of the water all afternoon. It was hot in Zaton. The Mediterranean sun is intense, and in the water it was heaven. Big Daughter and Big N swam all over the place -he swam steadily for two hours daily -she made large circles from the beach to the dock and back. Around 4p.m., we'd head home, shower and make dinner. Big N had brought an electric grill and one morning he took us to the market in Dubrovnik and bought prawns and fresh tuna. I'd seen a huge tuna wheeled by covered with ice. We had a piece of that for dinner along with the prawns. A few evenings, we drove into Dubrovnik for dinner. The high ramparts were imposing and once in the city, it was glistening white stone and filled with light, just as I remembered. Our last night, the family who hosted us, invited us to dinner. We were served their homemade goat cheese, olive oil and wine accompanied by a salad of fresh mussels and calamari. We sat outside by the garden and they told us about a prior visit with long-lost relatives who'd moved to Chile, and recently reconnected with them. Earlier in the evening, little one and I were taken to see the goats, the olive grove and the old Olive press at the family home in the hills, just a few minutes from there. Even the fifteen hour drive from Belgrade to Dubrovnik was spectacular. We twisted and turned on two lane highways carved out of the side of a mountain, with just a guardrail between the car and the mountainside. During the last third of the drive, the mountains met the sea and the horizon was limitless. There was a spiritual quality to the air and light. I could understand why monasteries were carved out of stone in remote settings overlooking the sea -a true homage to something beyond the human spirit. Big N was amazed that little one was calm and contented for the entire 15 hour drive. Big Daughter had made enough mixed Cds to get us through 15 hours. When he couldn't take hip hop anymore, Big N put on Johnny Cash. We stopped in Montenegro at a restaurant owned by a friend of Big N and ate obscenely rich calamari with spinach and potatoes. Big N connected with Zenya, a Russian journalist friend and his family. They had recently hosted the Big N at the family dacha outside of Moscow and were avidly discussing South Ossettia. It was truly a mix of cultures. I had a cramp in my leg (due to a wrongly-executed exercise) and needed to stretch it out. I wandered around a small marketplace of fruits and vegetables while waiting for dinner end ended up buying some ripe green figs for Big Daughter and raspberries. Little one found a Strawberry Shortcake beach towel and Big N went over to haggle. Belgrade had changed in many ways, and yet in other ways, it was completely the same. Despite my 21 year absence, I found that our family had come full circle and reconstituted. After a week with the Big N, little one said of his pending fall trip to NYC,"how will I deal with two daddies in NYC?" As Big N's father said to me, "you've changed but you're still Roni." But that's for the next post.

Noodles and

2008-06-12T15:53:00.001-07:00

Exactly one week from today, we'll be flying to Belgrade and I'm in the mindset of the new. Pandora's box has been opened - and examined - and I'm excited about returning to Belgrade, after such a long absence. New York City feels like it did when I flew to Paris to collect Big Daughter in 1995 -summer was in full swing and it was hot. During that flight, the plane stopped to refuel in Newfoundland and everyone got off to buy an ice cream cone -except me. Apparently, that was the tradition of the stopover. I had brought snacks and ended up sharing them with my seatmates, a man and his young son. In return, the father invited me to visit his Champagne winery in Reims. Unfortunately, I was too busy in Paris with Big Daughter but I've always regretted not visiting Reims. It was a novelty for me to spend my first night solo in Paris, as Big Daughter was arriving the next day. I can still remember going to a post office to call her and say hello. After one night in an uncomfortable hotel, I ended up switching to the Hotel Rue Abbe Gregoire, a sweet little hotel I'd read about. The staff fell in love with Big Daughter and after they taught her to say "Bonjour", they would let her answer the phones. My older sister flew in from Japan with a friend to meet us. We only lasted a few days together, but that's another story. Big Daughter and I had fun traveling around Paris on the Metro. For some reason, I was frequently confused for a Parisian. This was slightly embarrassing since I would have liked to respond in French. Instead, I was reduced to saying "No Parlez vous Francais." Nonetheless, I still managed to give some people directions. Confusion and assistance are universal themes. In the spirit of exploration on Saturday morning, little one, Carl and I ventured out to Zuckers (a newish emporium specializing in homemade bagels and smoked fish) on Chambers Street, between West Broadway and Greenwich, at 9 a.m. Saturday morning. It wasn't crowded, and we ate our breakfast seated on high stools along a marble counter near the large front window. While we ate, a steady stream of fathers and children enroute to baseball leagues ordered bagels in all combinations. I opted for a cinnamon raisin bagel with smoked salmon, cream cheese and onion. Little one asked for two sunnyside eggs up with a plain bagel to dip into her yolks. Carl ordered a whole wheat bagel with jam. I mostly ate the smoked salmon and onion. It was a bit too rich with the bagel. Little one loved her eggs and Carl was satisfied. He said it was a typical old-style New York Deli, I felt like I was in Chicago. Afterwards, Carl headed to the gym and little one and I bought flowers at the local greenmarket to repot on our terrace. This is the first weekend I felt settled enough to putter i.e. dig in dirt and repot plants. As I look through the glass door, the sight of the colorful flowers is a sign that summer has arrived. The change of breakfast venue helped settle me and make the transition to new possibilities. For me, trips are never merely a visit to a new place. The act of leaving and returning shifts energy, even before we are on the plane. This week, in that same spirit of adventure, we ate at two new places in Chinatown, after little ones end-of-year school concert on Tuesday, and her piano recital. After the concert, little one and I invited her best friend, little Miss A, and her mother Lady L,. to dinner. Lady L. is used to me and my food fussiness and was anemable to my choice, in this case New Wonton Garden. After dropping little one at school, I always walk by the restaurant. I must admit the 2007 Michelin Guide window sticker intrigued me. Inside, the space has a diner-like feel with formica covered tables and an L-shaped layout. While we ate, groups of stylish young asian teenagers arrived continously. They came seeking hot, steaming bowls of noodles with all kinds of toppings either in groups or as couples. The front of New Wonton Garden is set up for a brisk takeout service. After their moment in the spotlight, Little one and little Miss A. were starving. They shared a bowl of noodles in broth, after they devoured one order of steamed pork dumplings. Lady A ordered a noodle soup with braised beef and I ordered one with Roast Pork and Roast Duck. The soups were amazing and I could understand why the restaurant is open until 2:00 a.m. It's a perfect place to head after a late night. Sir M, Lady L.'s husband is a man about town. He confirmed that a few times, he retired to New Wonton Garden for a bowl of soup, after a late,late night. After giggling and canoodling through dinner, the girls each clamored for their own box of fortune cookie, which are neatly stacked in the window. At $1.50 each, it was hard to say no. Little one was quite revved up after her piano recital this afternoon. Carl and I took her to Noodle Village, a newish restaurant on Mott Street right off Chatham Square. I'd read the Daily News review a few months ago, and had it on my to-try list. It was still early when we arrived, and blessedly cool with pleasant newly-renovated ambience. We shared an order of Mustard Green and Pumpkin Congee which was not heavy in texture, but very light, despite being piping hot. The vegetables were simple and unobtrusive. Most of the dumplings were finished for the day, but Steamed Pork and Chive dumplings were available. Carl is not normally a fan of dumplings but pronounced them very fresh. For dessert, I tried the Warm Egg Custard which was like a flan but lighter and brought the leftovers home for breakfast. In one week, we'll be eating homecooked meals in Belgrade with Big Daughter's father and grandfather. As per our itinerary, we're in Belgrade from June 20-23. Then, we'll drive down to the Adriatic Coast for a week's stay in Zaton, a small seaside village in Croatia, until July 1st or so. My last visit to the Adriatic Coast, we'd stayed at a small inn overlooking the sea. It was like a dream, the tuna was fresh caught, the olive oil was made on site -maybe even the wine - and I was in heaven. I hadn't yet embarked on my food adventures, but thinking back, I believe that was the beginning of the end for me. Once I ate food from the source, I couldn't turn back. I can still remember the drive to the inn. The road was literally carved out of the side of a small mountain and time seemed to be suspended. We came down off that mountain and many things changed.

Chocolate Shakes and Milky Way

2008-06-04T19:13:00.000-07:00

Late this afternoon, I stopped in at Panya, a small Japanese bakery on E. 9th Street. I was en route to meet my private clients and wanted a simple, filling treat. Due to time constraints and work responsibilities, I couldn't visit Podunk. I craved something cold and chocolate after eating a great lunch today at Shachi's, a small Venezuelan restaurant on Havemeyer Street, next to my office in Williamsburg. Big Daughter and I shared a salad, fried calamari and two arepas, one with shredded beef and the other with pieces of chorizo and grated cheese. The food was wonderful, especially the arepas. Big Daughter was in heaven. Afterwards, she accompanied me to Namaste, a wonderful Yoga studio and massage studio on Grand Street, right off Havemeyer. I'd mixed up a massage appointment and wanted to apologize in person, and re-schedule. Big Daughter was quite impressed with Namaste, and especially with the gentle energy of Caitlin and Debbie, the two proprietors. We sorted out the massage appointment and now, after our arepas, I wanted something cold and refreshing for dinner. As I walked through the East Village, I was flipping my mental rolodex and thinking chocolate shake, and thought of Panya. They've been on E. 9th street forever and are one storefront away from Hasaki, one of the first original Japanese restaurants on E. 9th street. In the past decade, 9th between Second and Third Avenues, has evolved into Japanese-restaurant-row. I love Panya with a passion and find that I drop in for awhile, drift away but always find my way back. It's a mainstay. As I walk to my 8th street apartment, I always look for Panya as part of my regular route. It's a cross between the home kitchen with an overseas flavor. Going out for Japanese food at Hasaki was a big deal, back in the mid-1980s, when I first moved to NYC. Lady M, the elegant sister of my then-boyfriend Sir M.B., introduced us to Hasaki with a real sense of ceremony. I always liked that about Lady M. When it came to food, she tolerated no wasted moments. As I walked past Hasaki, I remembered her unique sense of aesthetic. From the first moment I saw her, Lady M. embodied a very real sense of what was real and authentic. She was completely inaccessible -in a truly cool way- and epitomized the free-wheeling, creative and adventurous spirit of the gritty Lower East Side. I first met Lady M. on a road trip from Purdue University to Washington D.C. In the early spring of 1979, we were visiting the Congressional offices of Floyd Fithian, the Indiana Congressman. We stopped to visit Lady M. She was wearing a blue Norma Kamali jump suit. It was cold and Lady M. put on a long, puffy down coat. This was before they became ubiquitous. That day I received my first lesson on making visual statements. which I put into practice much later on. Lady M. definitely influenced my sense of style. Personal style is a synergy of time, experience and hard knocks. After all that, I earned the confidence to wear what I wanted. Lady M. mixed it up better than anyone else. Back to Panya, where I was reading the drink listings on their chalkboard. I stopped at a shake called the Milky Way. A large part of Panya's charm is the unfailing politeness of the counter staff. Over the past decade, this factor has remained constant. The first young woman was unable to explain the contents of the Milky Way. She got her counterpart, and he explained that the Milky Way is made up of fruit juice, and a little milk mixed with crushed ice. I asked if chocolate could be substituted for fruit juice and he said of course. I had conjured up a shake tasting exactly like a Milky Way candy bar. The end result was a perfectly flavored, thick chocolate shake for dinner. This week, I've been feeling like a visitor to NYC and I always love that. Monday evening, Miz C.N. and I met for dinner at Lovely Lady, a real gem of a restaurant on Elizabeth between Prince and Spring. It's just up the street from Peasant. Miz C.N. had stumbled on Lovely Lady while showing her future in-laws around. Big Daughter frequently refers to me as "lovely lady" - which is fine by me -so the association was immediately positive. I arrived first and took out the NY Times crossword. I can generally complete the crossword on Monday, Tuesday (and sometimes, Wednesday). A young couple sat down behind me. The boyfriend said "Oh yeah! We just finished doing that, so let us know if you need help." More serendipity. Miz C.N. showed up shortly thereafter and ordered a Pimms with cucumber and mint. It was a Pimms Mojito and tasted yummy. I ordered the sparkling Lambrusco. The waitress warned me it was "balsamic". After not eating for four days, due to a vicious stomach virus which felled our whole family during a two week span, the Lambrusco provided the perfect balance. I finished exactly half of it. Miz C.N. and I decided to share a small order of pineapple fried brown rice, stir fried Tofu with sweet chili sauce and a noodle dish with sauteed red peppers and onions. Everything was terrific. I almost went for the Cranberry bread pudding with challah bread. but remembered that earlier, I ate the chocolate almond frosting atop a red velvet cupcake at Sugar Sweet Sunshine, on Rivington just off Essex. This was after visiting the dentist's office for a cleaning. Go figure. En route to collect little one at school, I wanted frosting. I plan to order the Cranberry bread pudding for lunch on another visit. After dinner, Miz C.N. took me next door for a brief visit to the elegant boutique, Erica Tanov New York. She'd stumbled on it after finding Lovely Lady. I swooned over the distinctive candles and one-of-a-kind necklaces, and encouraged Miz C.N. to try on a beautiful leather bracelet with delicate pewter detailing. It fit her small wrist perfectly. Thankfully, this week there have been no more bouts of anxiety. In a stroke of randomness, both Miz C.N. and Sir D., former staff at the Williamsburg office, had asked to meet for lunch/dinner. It's good to see them doing so well in their new jobs. Their companionship, combined with good food, was a soothing balm. I was reminded of how much we accomplished together, and grateful to realize there's more to come.

Spicy Noodles and jellyfish

2008-05-28T19:02:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, during my regular Wednesday afternoon tea break at Podunk, Elspeth and I discussed the idea of convergence. Luckily for me, we had this conversation after I finished drinking a highly-refreshing apricot coconut iced tea with blueberries and nibbled on dates stuffed with Gorgonzola cheese, almond tea cakes, cheese biscuits and one delicious chocolate truffle. If I understood Elspeth correctly, convergence is a special moment when things come together -not necessarily due to any specific planning -but as a result of different things aligning. It was helpful for me to hear this as there was another frightening bout of anxiety last week. These moments are also difficult for those around me and the idea of convergence clarified my desire for protection and safety in day-to-day life. This has made for some humorous moments recently. When they briefly forgot my iced chai latte at Cafe Grumpy Saturday morning, I knew I was in trouble when I almost started crying. The main counterman at Cafe Grumpy is - sorry Carl - really cute. He looks really Indian, (apologies if he isn't), is very, very nice -and completely unavailable. Anyway, for some reason, those factors helped me compose myself as he apologetically prepared my chai. Cafe Grumpy is, after all, a temple of coffee. It became clear as I observed another counterman continually doing something, to the top of their very fancy coffee machine. More importantly, I avoided the embarrassment of crying and graciously waited for my tea. Later on, throughout the holiday weekend, several more humorous moments of disappointments occurred. Again, the theme of convergence raising it's little head. Sunday morning, Little one, Carl and I drove out to Sunken Meadow, the United Nations of beaches, on Long Island. It was an absolutely beautiful day. Several of our fellow beach goers commented to each other on the bright, sunny windless day. After we set up shop on our little patch of sand, Carl took little one to the swings, as is his custom. I read for awhile, then wandered down to the beach and observed a Horseshoe Crab scuttling by under the water. After asking my neighbor about it, her son actually picked up the crab and created a small incident. Several people ran over to take pictures and oohed and ahhed. I was wishing that little one could see this and realized that over an hour had passed. At that point, I entertained visions of walking back to NYC and finally, I got dressed and marched over to the swings. I discovered Carl talking to another family and began crying about my abandonment on the beach. The other couple slipped away and Carl looked completely mystified. Suffice it to say, he and little one returned with me to the beach. The next day, Memorial Day, little one, Big Daughter, the Big D, Carl and I were all squashed together on one blanket and one towel. In the spirit of close quarters, Big Daughter and her pal had forgotten their towels. We were at the beach at Wading River State Park, near Riverhead, Long Island. Again, I found myself in an uncertain place. Without mentioning my discomfort, I decided to walk to the water's edge to soothe myself. As I stood there, meditating on the beautiful gradation of green to blue hues of the ocean, I looked down and observed about twenty baby jellyfish floating around my ankles. At that point, I accepted my Kafkaesque state of existence. Discomfort was inevitably in the cards. In an odd way, I found this strangely comforting: a convergence of truth perhaps. Anyway, the day ended on a high note. After driving back to the city, we decided on dinner at our old favorite, Grand Sichuan Restaurant, located at 125 Canal Street, just before the Manhattan Bridge. Carl and I ate there frequently, when we first met. As we waited for our order, we recollected a particularly memorable visit, several summers ago, on a 100 degree day. Big Daughter was on her annual visit to Belgrade and little one was a beautiful idea. After swimming at the Pitt Street pool in the early evening, we had walked over to Grand Sichuan. After dinner, as we prepared to pay, we realized we had no cash. We were requested to leave various articles for collateral; watches, metrocards,jewelry. It had been a few years since we returned. I was eagerly anticipating the Cold Noodles with Sesame Sauce and requested them mildly spicy. After my first bite, I was seized with a fear that I would never get rid of the hot taste in my mouth. Luckily, there was tea smoked duck and Chicken Lo Mein. Carl was happy to finish the noodles and I ordered a Tsing-Tao, which momentarily cooled me off and settled my nerves.

Sweets on a rainy day

2008-05-20T17:47:00.000-07:00

In just under one month, little one and I will be traveling with Big Daughter to Belgrade, Serbia to visit the Big N, Big Daughter's father, and his family. It's been 21 years since my last trip to Belgrade. Although I only stayed with the Big N and his family for six months- my life changed immeasurably. I was pondering these changes today, during a wet, rainy lunch-time walk back to my office on the South Side of Williamsburg. Given my fluctuating mood, I opted for two quick stop-offs at Cheeks Bakery and Roebling Tea Room. When negotiating particularly trying moments, a visit to Cheeks is immensely grounding. I'm usually soothed by one or two small treats. Today, I felt the need to arm myself with a myriad of selections - a slice of apple crumble, a lemon curd tart, one plain peanut butter cookie, another peanut butter cookie with raisins and dried cherries, a bag of homemade granola and a walnut scone with a slice of cheddar cheese and pear -all to bring home. There's nothing worse than waking up and finding nothing appealing in the kitchen. After a short chat with Melanie, the exquisitely-talented owner/chief baker at Cheeks, I scooted over to Roebling Tea Room and picked up a significantly peppery Yogi Chai latte. Sufficiently fortified with provisions, but unable to eat more than the slice of cheese and a taste of granola, I reflected on the person I was in 1987. The Big N had graduated Divinity School, and after 5 years in NYC, I was at loose ends. Little did I know how profound our trip would be. Big Daughter arrived just two years later. Although the Big N and I opted to divorce when she was quite young, we remained a family. As I prepare for this trip, I am surprised by the emerging mix of emotions. Carl is a bit mystified by the situation. He tends to take a logical approach to the matter and therefore wonders if Pandora's box should be re-opened. My excitement and anxiety about returning to a place where I was once uncertain and unmoored is tempered by the memories. Belgrade was an amazing place in 1987. For me, it was the twilight of the East and West and a place where I felt loved. Despite my personal angst, I was instantly at home with the friends and family of the Big N. Food was a huge part of the trip and I'm looking forward to becoming reacquainted with Burek (a flaky filo pastry filled with cheese or meat) and the wonderful open-air boats which double as restaurants serving fresh fish on the Dunav River in Belgrade. Tomatoes are a part of every meal, as is the ubiquitous Turkish coffee. I've already googled at least one tea room, and have been promised introductions to many more by a good friend of the Big N. In the meantime, as the trip draws closer, I am restless in NYC. Little one wasn't too thrilled on Saturday morning, when I opted for breakfast at 'Beca, a restaurant in the newish Duane Street Hotel, at the corner of Duane and Church. The dining room is a long, narrow space with bright sun exposure. Even with the blinds down, the effect was very South Beach and minimalist. Little one ordered three eggs sunny side up, with fingering potatoes flavored with rosemary, and two slices of turkey bacon. I ordered a pot of Darjeeling Freres Mariage tea, a side of seven grain toast and homemade jam,and another side of turkey bacon. Carl opted for homemade granola with blueberries and greek yogurt. Midway through breakfast, five men were seated at the table next to us. Snippets of conversation drifted over to us, centered around plans to buy a building in the Financial District. Throughout their conversation, one of them was frequently checking his Blackberry. As we were leaving, I offered to button little one's sweater and he looked up and smiled. The chef, Kristiaan Ueno, was just outside the kitchen and thanked us for visiting. He was thrilled to hear that Carl loved his granola and explained that it was homemade. We weren't surprised to hear that he places a premium on using fresh, locally grown or sourced ingredients at 'Beca. Later that afternoon, we drove little one to a birthday party at the Alley Pond Miniature Golf Course in College Point, Queens. I was mystified at how rapidly Carl rented a car. My requests are generally met with gentle diatribes on the finances of such things. On the drive there, Carl mentioned his childhood recollections of playing miniature golf at Alley Pond. He remembered his continual longing, throughout his childhood, to return for another round. In the spirit of equality, he extended the rental so we could get a snack afterwards off the beaten path -since we had the car. I suggested that we meet my friend Miss E., and her partner Miss A., at the Oak Cafe, 361 Graham, in Williamsburg. Occasionally, I read the restaurant reviews on www.freewilliamsburg.com and was entranced by the review of the Oak Cafe. I was specifically drawn to the description of their ricotta cheese. After consultation with Miss E., we decided to meet around 4 p.m. As I got out of the car on Metropolitan Avenue, I remembered living in the neighborhood as a single mother, when Big Daughter was two years old. Even with the influx of hipsters, I still felt the same ambiance of 1991; a sleepy, homey vibe. We walked through the empty front room into the backyard of the Oak Cafe. The outside deck had a scattering of customers and a late-afternoon summer ambiance, albeit with a slight chill in the air. The waitress gave us the brunch menu, but a few minutes later, she returned with the dinner menu. I ordered the cheese plate, which included the delectable Ricotta and some amazing house made preserves, a Manchego, Gorgonzola, Honey and lightly spiced almonds. I also selected the vegetable antipasto, which was comprised of lightly grilled mushrooms, strips of roasted peppers, marinated artichokes and small balls of mozzarella cheese. Little one was just dozing off in her car seat when we arrived at Oak Cafe. She was not happy to be moved and protested for a bit. After the spicy lentil soup arrived, she calmed down and happily dipped her bread into it. Miss E. and Miss A. were charmed by her as they drank tall glasses of tart lemonade. Carl was more than happy to offer them a ride into the city and my restlessness was momentarily quelled.

Chocolate Tarts and Mother's Day

2008-05-13T17:48:00.000-07:00

Mother's Day has become a minefield of colliding emotions in our family in recent years. It's possible that Carl has never recovered from my rejection of the wilted lilacs he and little one proudly carried home one Mother's Day Sunday two years ago. Since then, he tiptoes around the day like it's a grenade soon to explode. Interestingly, as I've been negotiating more anxiety in recent weeks, I've changed my tendency to suppress my feelings and there are less explosions. I'm still mystified about the wilted lilacs, but have realized it's a straightforward deal. I requested them, and they were available at the deli on Hudson street. When I point out the myriad places to purchase flowers, I'm met with a quizzical look. I think Carl expects things to be imperfect. Perhaps that's the point. This year, I steered clear of flowers and I'm happy to report that I scored - yes - scored, a gorgeous cameo necklace. I found it while poking around the gift store at Olana, a National Park Service site perched on a bluff outside of Hudson, New York. A few weeks ago, we embarked on an ambitious and enjoyable road trip with Lady L. and A.T. (little one's best friend and confidante) to Olana. Lady L. encouraged Carl to buy me the necklace, saying, "she deserves it." Much to my surprise, Carl did so. We also purchased a beautiful box, inlaid with ivory, for his mother. She was working on Mother's Day and will be away for a few weeks, so her gift awaits her. Anyway, as the actual Mother's Day loomed, I continued to walk gingerly around some residual feelings of anxiety. This is unfamiliar territory and the family system was definitely uncomfortable with the idea that their anchor might be temporarily sinking. As a result, by Saturday morning, I was distraught and feeling unappreciated. As I ranted and raved at a perceived slight, which occurred Friday morning on a rainy cab ride to Chinatown with Carl and little one, Big Daughter reverted to a "pull your bootstraps up" approach. That did not go over well with me. After I finished weeping, I staunchly protected my (occasional) right to sadness and tears. It didn't help that Carl tends to wander around in a non-responsive daze when I become emotional and begin to rant. Little one was rubbing my back, but she too finally succumbed to the sadness of my mood. Luckily, Young Sir C. (who made an earlier appearance in the blog -see Belcourt) - came to the rescue. He presented an invitation to spend Mother's Day with his parents, at their second home in upstate New York. It was my understanding that the invitation was in the spirit of acquaintance-ship, and not a definitive move to mark any serious business between Young Sir C and Big Daughter. His gracious (and wonderful parents) had organized a day which involved walking through the gardens at Mohonk Mountain House (outside of New Paltz), followed by a late lunch. We had hoped to meet Carl's cousin R. and her family for an early dinner in Chinatown, but quickly realized that time was limited. Carl was unable to rent a Zipcar, without paying through the nose, so we piled into Young Sir C's Jetta, and became cozy. After a quick stop at Jacque Torres on King Street - to purchase a beautiful chocolate "clutch" for young Sir C's mother - we made one more stop at Grounded (in the West Village) for breakfast on the go. This is my preferred pattern as we head out of NYC on Sunday morning road trips. Luckily, there was no line. After we ordered one iced chai latte, one latte, one iced mocha, one coffee, a bagel, a quiche and a cookie - a long line had formed behind us. I was wished an incredulous "Happy Mother's Day" from the sweet counter person, after leaving the $6 change in the tip jar. I also heard her excitedly inform her co-worker about the 20% tip. We continued onto the West Side Highway, where I confess to engaging in a little back seat driving. The Norwegian Dawn, a huge cruise ship, was boarding and I urged Young Sir C to remain in the far right lane. Carl was actually supportive. He remarked that two weeks prior, our exit from NYC was expedited by doing the same thing. Directions and driving can be a touchy subject with us. As we got closer to Mohonk Mountain House, Big Daughter became more and more anxious and finally had a full-blown anxiety attack. I was interested in the parallel process being played out between us. Earlier that week, after many years of calm, I'd had an anxiety attack and finally succumbed to an Ativan to soothe myself. Big Daughter was now asking for the same relief. I remarked that as a mother I seemed to be contagious. She finally fell into an uncomfortable sleep. A little later, as we drove down the main street of New Paltz, Young Sir C. explained that Mohonk traffic is generally heavy on holidays. That morning, he noted the situation wasn't too bad. After leaving New Paltz, the drive to Mohonk was quite beautiful. Everything was lush and green with the vista of the Catskill mountains surrounding us. At the entrance to Mohonk Mountain House, Young Sir C's mother was waiting for us by the guard house. She explained that despite the family membership, the staff was attempting to charge $22 per person for a 1/2 hour walk in the garden. Young Sir C was quite affronted at this (something that Carl was in agreement with). While we waited for his father (who had taken their two adorable chocolate Labradors home), his mother convinced the staff to use the family membership, with only a small additional fee. After his father returned, we took the school bus shuttle up to the garden. We had a pleasant walk and gently became acquainted as we admired the beautiful setting. There were several families in attendance and a general atmosphere of gratitude. Afterwards, his parents escorted us to an amazing lunch at the Village Inn, a restaurant in Krumville. Set alongside a pond framed by tall green trees, the Village Inn was a perfect place for us to settle in. It was quiet when we arrived around 2 p.m., and we were seated at a long wooden table set for 7. Big Daughter had calmed down during the walk. During lunch, she became anxious again. When little one wandered over to sit between us, Big Daughter looked like a thundercloud. Without creating a cold war, I negotiated little one to my other side and remained next to Big Daughter. We started with two orders of Carrot Ginger soup, which arrived with a little dab of creme fraiche on top, one order of Razor clams, a Beet salad with Ewe's Blue and an order of fried Calamari. Although I have discomfort with it, the word succulent aptly describes the Razor clams. For entrees, Young Sir C, Carl and I ordered the Brouffade (a beef stew with carrots and noodles). Carl and I shared our entree, and I left him my portion of the thick noodles. I think they were homemade, but couldn't be sure. Both Young Sir C's mother and Big Daughter ordered the Pan Fried Breast of Chicken, which arrived with a side of herbed polenta. It was heavenly. Little one had chicken tenders, and Young Sir C's father ordered the Pan-fried Trout with herb stuffing. Big Daughter clandestinely sipped my Lindeman Framboise and Carl was momentarily overwhelmed by his glass of dark ale. For dessert, Carl informed me of a Coconut Creme Brulee and I promptly ordered it. When Young Sir C and Big Daughter alerted me to the Chocolate Tart with Carmel and Sea Salt, I asked for one of those too. Young Sir C and Big Daughter also opted for the Chocolate Tart. It was phenomenal and my stomach hurt from the richness, in a good way. I ended up sharing their Chocolate Tart when, in the true spirit of sharing, Carl handed the other Chocolate Tart to our gracious hosts. I was pleased to see them enjoy it as much as I did.

The Tao of Family Dinners

2008-05-04T15:13:00.000-07:00

In recent months, the concept of Thursday Date Night has morphed into infrequent dinners alone with Carl, which are snatched between all the scheduling changes that comprise our daily lives. After factoring in March Madness, various days off, school closings for little one (and the graduation of her caregiver); the idea of a date was replaced by the simple ability to sit down at a table sans children. And true to form, this past Thursday night, our new caregiver informed us that, at the last minute, her school scheduled a final exam. In an attempt to believe that we were not slaves of routine, I suggested that Carl and little one meet me for an early dinner at Hataka Ippudo on Fourth Avenue at 10th street in the East Village. Over the past months, I'd heard, and read, bits and pieces about Ippudo and thought Carl would like their ramen soups. He adored Rai Rai Ken on E. 10th between 1st/2nd, but I always felt like it was too close quarters in there. I was the first to arrive at Ippudo. At that point it was relatively calm, with a scattering of customers. I informed the very sweet hostess that we would be a party of three (comprised of myself, an adult and child). For some reason, she and the waiter thought Carl and little one were already there. The waiter escorted me through the restaurant -past a centrally-located, square-shaped open seating area, and down a narrow space to more tables - but there was no trace of them. As I waited, I headed back to the bar and perused the drinks menu of different flavored Sakes. Minutes later, I looked up and saw little one, her upper lip jutting out dangerously and Carl, looking equally grim, coming through the door. Despite my exuberant greeting, I was met with dark looks. Little one was crying about Pizza Hut and wanted to redeem the coupon that she, and her classmates, received for good reading at school. I reminded her that I had googled Pizza Hut and discovered there was one at 33rd/7th, which wasn't too convenient and we were planning to go on the weekend. Nevertheless, in that moment, Ippudo was not cutting it for her. Carl had the look of someone who just joined a chain-gang. It's very possible that he was tired. That morning, he had woken up at 3:30 a.m., due to my restlessness, and ended up talking with me about some rather awful bouts of anxiety I had been experiencing. Although the early-morning conversation went well, I've observed that Carl is unable to sustain a lack of sleep unless it's sports-related. In those moments, he remains chipper and upbeat no matter how little his sleep i.e. he remains in good spirits throughout the day after watching the Australian Open from 3-5 a.m (several days in a row). Once our party was complete, the hostess again signaled a waiter and we made the walk to the other side of the restaurant. We were seated at a large, spacious table and little one was provided a booster seat. Still pining for pizza, she was only slightly placated by the suggestion of noodles, which are usually her favorite thing to eat. She was more receptive to the idea of pickled vegetables (which I'd seen after a quick perusal of the menu). I liked them so much, I asked Carl to get another order, which didn't add to the strained silence at the table. When he gets grouchy at dinner, money is usually his first point of focus and I think he fears any kind of excess. I on the other hand, begin to feel increasingly empty and become afraid that I will have nothing to eat. While we waited for the soups, there was little conversation. I became increasingly irritated as my attempts at making conversation were continually rebuffed. I began to wonder if this had been a good idea after all and considered a looming landscape of miserable family dinners forever. Thankfully, the soups arrived, steaming hot in large white bowls. Carl immediately decided that he had been given my soup (when he fact he received his order). I had started out eating the Shiromaru soup with little discs of stewed berkshire pork and cabbage amidst thin noodles in a pork-flavored broth with tiny scallions. I was agreeable to switching to a spicier broth with small pieces of ground pork and thin skinny noodles. Little one actually ate most of my broth and noodles and then began to enjoy wiggling around the retro-1960s long, red leather seats. After finishing his soup to the last drop, Carl also became more expansive and talkative. He was interested to hear that I was still hypervigilant about my anxiety, and observed that I seemed "excited". I was actually over-caffienated. Earlier that day (due to my own tiredness from our early morning conversation), I had picked up an iced chai latte from Roebling Tea room to keep me alert for the afternoon team meeting at work. As we finished our food, the waiters stopped by periodically to check on us. There were several of them, and all of them were friendly and accommodating. I enjoyed eating my soup in the more spacious, relaxed atmosphere that pervaded Ippudo. I temporarily forgot I was in the E. Village and simply enjoyed the moment. When eating at Rai Rai Ken or Momofuko, I always felt slightly on edge and a little too serious. Ippudo had a racuous energy that relaxed me. Many of our fellow eaters were happily making their way through several large glasses of draft Sapporo as they slurped their soup and talked loudly with each other. Although I felt very comfortable, I had read about long waits for dinner at Ippudo and was mindful of paying the bill without lingering. Sure enough, as we walked out of the restaurant at 7:30, I overheard one couple discussing the hour wait for a table. It had begun to rain lightly but little one was set on having an ice cream cone. As we headed to the M6, we stopped at the ice cream truck (which is always parked outside the uptown Astor Place stop in the warmer weather) to get her a frosty. There was only one other customer, a friendly, young Asian woman, who was dressed in a very hip, urban Tokyo style with a striped sweater, jean skirt and white leggings. Despite the rain, she couldn't stop smiling as she waited to order her ice cream.

Adventures in the City

2008-04-27T04:29:00.000-07:00

Finding new places to eat often involves a fair amount of risk-taking and adventure. I must often push myself, and others, out of familiar and comfortable safety zones and embark on tiny adventures. Eating at Pies-N-Thighs last summer was, of course, a great experience. It was not only the food my family and I loved; we also adored the down-to-earth warmth of Sarah and her partners. During each visit there, I was transported back to Edisto, our favorite island in South Carolina. A whiff of Bobq, a tiny little Southern restaurant open Wednesday-Friday and located in one of Edisto's gas stations, would waft over me as I contentedly sat in Pies-N-Thigh's postage-stamp sized backyard. From my office, located in a bustling, commercial neighborhood at Marcy Avenue/Broadway in the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge, the walk to the calm environs of Pies-N-Thighs, always made me feel as I'd taken a small trip. I generally followed the same route. Meandering through a tidy neighborhood of slightly faded, but well-kept brownstones and little Spanish bodegas, I always anticipated making the turn onto Driggs to get to South 5th street. At the corner, I would see the East River, with one perfect Weeping Willow tree silhouetted against it. As I walked down old sidewalks, some still covered with cobble-stones, I looked at old buildings built in the 1800s. It was a moment of pure bliss. With warmer weather again beckoning me outside for lunch, I am often at a loss of where to go. Pies-N-Thigh's is closed, but soon to re-open. I resorted to walking a loop from the South side over to Bedford Avenue. There is one beautiful garden on N. 5th Street, between Roebling and Driggs and the cherry blossoms were quite spectacular. So, I was quite thrilled recently when Mr. D. (a former therapist on my program) met me for lunch and insisted that we visit Tipico bk. Located on S. 1st Street, just past Roebling, Tipico bk is a Paraguayan restaurant. It is small and personal in space, but big in generosity and spirit. When Mr. D. and I visited there recently, we were initially the only customers. I ordered an iced cocido, a brewed yerba Mate tea, and Mr. D. had a glass of fresh Mango juice. I ended up adding milk to my cocido and found that I enjoyed the slightly bitter taste. After finishing the tea, I experienced a moment of true acuity -and felt a sense of being very clear in my body. (I googled yerba mate when I got back to work and discovered that it is prized for exactly that: providing energy and clarity without the buzz or heart-beating impact of coffee. Yerba mate contains less caffeine then tea/coffee, according to the site I consulted.) While Mr. D and I were eating, a gaggle of Paraguayans arrived. As I observed them interact, I was reminded of the excitement of living in the E. Village during the early 1980s. Two of the young women were dressed stylishly, and without attitude; in skinny jeans and straw fedoras. They were clearly friends of the two proprietors and an easy camaraderie existed between them. One of the young women had an old Nikon around her neck. After we finished our lunch - I had a generous portion of beef stew over polenta (and took half of it back to work) and Mr. D had a chicken sandwich - we passed the young women sitting outside in the sunlight snapping pictures of a friend. It was a perfect moment. The next day, when it was warm and summer-like, I returned by myself to Tipico bk. I was greeted warmly by the same counterman. I decided to sit outside in the sun, at the one lone table in front. It was not a perfect view. The building across the street sported a sign saying "Police will arrest any loiterers" and the super looked at me quizzically as he desultorily swept the sidewalk. A garbage truck came rumbling down the street. It stopped momentarily in front of me to compress a few boxes and I was pleasantly greeted by both sanitation workers. Various people walked by, several of them loaded down with bags of groceries. One old lady with a cane turned back to examine me intently a few times, and then walked on. As I looked up, I caught the eye of a man in the window of the lone luxury apartment building on the street. He was sipping coffee and looking out his window. Yet, as I sat there eating my Acai (a South American fruit prized for it's anti-oxidant properties) with granola and bananas, I basked in the sun, content and at peace.

Flying Fish and Tadpoles

2008-04-20T12:41:00.000-07:00

One of my biggest dilemmas is learning to sit still. Given everything going on in my life, I am like a wind-up energizer bunny and then boom - I crash. Perhaps that's why I love driving around upstate and visiting gardens during weekends (or taking an occasional day off to do so). This past Friday, we took a drive up to Stonecrop Gardens in Cold Spring, New York. I stumbled upon Stonecrop Gardens a couple months ago, as I was googling "gardens in upstate New York." The garden opened to the public on April 1 and I'd initially planned a day trip there with Carl as a pre-birthday treat. After learning that little one had no school Thursday and Friday, (in honor of the Pope's visit to NYC), the trip expanded to include little one, her best friend, A.T. and Lady L. (A.T.s mother). In a fortunate twist of fortune, Lady L. and I have become good friends. This means that we are lucky enough to enjoy each other's company while our daughter's happily play together (most of the time, until they get tired and exhaustively fight). I was quite excited about the trip and even more happy about the summer-like weather. The issue of Carl's back was on my mind, since he'd been in significant pain the prior week. Carl was surprised that I was worried. Despite the pre-arrival Pope traffic jams, he graciously made a detour to Hong Kong Station in Chinatown, so I could get my morning fix of iced milk tea. Carl wasn't too thrilled when I came back with the wrong pastry from the bakery next door. He actually got out of the car and went to buy the pastry he'd requested!! Carl has joined me in being exact in his taste about food - a recent development. I remember when he was content with his bagel and a black coffee. But back to the road trip. Without any pre-coordination, Lady L. brought multiple snacks and I packed two coloring books and crayons. At the last minute, Lady L. had also burned some CDs of High School Musical and Vanessa Hudgens (the music of choice for 5-year-olds.) For most of the drive, Little one and A.T. were quite giggly and happy (with Lady L. squashed in between them). They were so engaged with each other, they remained blase about the view from the Bear Mountain bridge. Just before we found Stonecrop, windows began opening and closing with numerous "are we there yet?" queries. Momentarily, we found our turn-off and the girls were happy to get out of the car. Stonecrop Gardens is comprised of several small gardens and greenhouses. Little one and A.T. were extremely thrilled to see tadpoles and "monster fish" (big orange and grey carp) swimming in one pond and delighted to watch as a baby turtle paddled amidst small fishes and tadpole in another pond (near the Bamboo Pavilion garden). Stonecrop Garden was imbued with a very special feeling of tranquility and generosity and after an hour or so of wandering the grounds and greenhouses, we departed with a renewed sense of overall goodwill. We decided to stop in at our favorite cafe, 2 Alices, in Cornwall-on-Hudson, for lunch and tea. In the midst of our excited chatter about our food order, the proprietress put two-and-two together (after I asked about carrot soup). She asked if I had posted a piece on 2 Alices recently, and explained that a friend of hers (who has a website about Cornwall-on-Hudson), had forwarded her my blog. I was quite thrilled. It was exciting for me to directly experience the vastness of the Internet. We were not disappointed with our lunch. The girls had Chicken-Caesar wraps and I had a slice of Artichoke quiche. Lady L. had a slice of the quiche and then switched food with A.T. Carl ate a vegetarian sandwich and finished my Iced Vanilla Chai Latte. I was happy for the excuse to order a hot Masala Chai with steamed milk. In the spirit of truthfulness, the girls also each ate 4 miniature chocolates (before their wraps). They then shared a huge Zabar's chocolate chip cookie. It was a perfect afternoon, and we got back to the city at 5:30. To avoid the Pope-related traffic, Carl dropped me off at the West Side Highway. The walk to my private-practice office was both quick and pleasant. I decided to get a tamale at Pio Mayo (W. 8th street between 6th Avenue and MacDougal). Pio Mayo is a pretty, tiny space which serves exceptional Mexican food. It opened a couple years ago, and has a strong following. I stumbled on it when it opened, and then read about in New York Magazine. The best part of Friday was that we were all re-uniting on Saturday evening for my actual birthday dinner. After reading something about stewed chickens in a New York Times Dining Section, I was intrigued by a place called Palo Santo. Interestingly, Palo Santo was completely Carl's style. It's located in a brownstone at Union Street and Fourth Avenue in Park Slope and completely incongruous with the "suburban" aspect so often attributed to the area. As a disclaimer, I should admit that Carl always get nervous about places I select for birthday dinners. To provide context; it's taken him a long while to get comfortable at Blaue Gans, where we have breakfast every weekend. (It helps that little one loves Blaue Gans as does her Big Sister -when she deigns to arise early enough to join us there.) Anyway, at Palo Santo we were seated at a large wooden table in the back of the restaurant. Our table was adjacent to a large casement window overlooking a small garden with a sculpture/fountain. There were lots of plants and some paintings (which I found very hippie-like). Afterwards, I realized that the overall vibe was akin to eating on the beach in Negril, Jamaica or outside of San Juan, Puerto Rico. That being said, the food was absolutely terrific. There was an extraordinary medley of flavors in everything we ate. While we waited for our group to arrive, we ordered some avocado and tortillas. The avocado was sliced and served with finely diced onions, olive oil and tiny pieces of mild, green peppers. The tortilla were little tiny discs of lightly griddled dough. Carl and the girls loved them. Later, when A.T. and her family came in with The Devster, Carl ordered some more avocado and tortillas but added an order of Tacos (which arrived in a series of three with chicken, and (I think) octopus. The appetizers were pretty much inhaled on the spot. For the main course, Carl and I shared the flying fish which was served with a piquant red cabbage salad, a mild salsa and placed on top of a sweet plantain (still on the leaf). We also ordered the fish soup, which was chock full of clams and shrimp. It was spicy and satisfying at the same time. The waitress described the flying fish as being like sardines with edible bones, and they were very good. Big Daughter ordered the hen with mole sauce and black beans. Little one and A.T. shared a baked pork chop with yucca and a side of rice with mushrooms, beans and cheese which was like risotto. We all had to taste the rice, it was so creamy. Lady L. ordered beef cheeks and her partner, Sir M. also ordered the Baked Pork chop. Sir M. liked our soup so much, he ordered one as well. The desserts were phenomenal. At lunch time, my friend Miss E. and I had visited Batch (the bakery affiliated with P*ong). We shared a Yuzu Meringue, a very rich, miniature chocolate chip type cookie and a chai tea pudding. Both were absolutely amazing. I was a bit scared to eat any more sweets, but after blowing out the candle, I tasted the tangerine pie at Palo Santo and was glad I did. It was tangy, sweet and ethereal. The two little ones serenaded me in Mandarin and English as they sang Happy Birthday. After all the excitement, Little one was overwhelmed and needed to cry for a minute. Big Daughter and The Devster both ordered Apple-Rhubarb crisp with whipped cream, and the two little ones shared a tangerine pie with extra whipped cream. Lady L. ordered the chocolate mousse with tequila and pronounced it strong. I offered Sir M. my Yerba Mate and he was intrigued by the taste. Lady L. compared it to Macha, which we all agreed had a similar texture. As I get older, I find my birthday belongs more to my family and close friends, and that is a true gift in itself. Luckily, Carl did not force us to take the M train home and agreed to a car service. I love driving over the Brooklyn Bridge on a warm evening, it feels like we're on the top of the world.

Kumquat preserves and acupuncture

2008-04-08T18:27:00.000-07:00

Since my post of last week, Carl has been slightly freaked out that his fruit-selling pals suddenly disappeared from their regular spot. Today, it's exactly one week that they're absent and Carl is supine and recovering from chronic back pain. I'm not suggesting a connection but that is an interesting coincidence. To comfort him, Big Daughter suggested that perhaps the couple took a Spring trip to China. As I walked up the subway stairs this evening, at the Canal Street stop of the J train, the sidewalk looked empty without the fruit stand. I expected to see the fruit vendors momentarily, although I understand the irony of writing a post about them, and poof, they disappear. Life is like that. When you're not looking, time passes and things change. I'm surprised that it's April. Spring is inching closer and I feel a discernible shift in the air. When I discovered that my doctor's office was closed on Saturday, I decided to head over to Euphoria Spa (Harrison between Greenwich and Hudson) to get a Thai Herbal Poultice Massage. I was hoping that the combination of the hot oil and Thai herbs might present some relief to my sinus/allergy headache, and it did. During the massage, when I found myself momentarily reviewing a few unfinished tasks at work, I realized I was not yet out of the woods. Nonetheless, I achieved some moments of bliss that propelled me into work early Friday morning to tie up some loose ends. As I was finishing up with my private clients Friday evening, I encountered my colleague from the adjacent office. She told me that Saturday was the first day of operation for her new low-cost acupuncture clinic. Since the sinus headache had returned, I scheduled an 11:30 a.m. appointment Saturday morning. I was again seeking relief. Twelve years ago, I had one prior experience with acupuncture during my MSW training. I found it so extremely pleasant that I was taken aback. It was acupuncture in the ears. When I mentioned it on Saturday, my colleague referred to it as "acupuncture Valium." My session with her and an office-mate was more diagnostic. After taking my pulse and analyzing it on many levels, they quietly discussed the placement of several differently numbered needles in my body. By the time they were finished, I had two needles inserted into each of my upper temples, one in my breastbone, one in each of my wrists and two in opposite ankle/shin areas. After inserting the needles - which didn't hurt - they both left the room for a short while. I remained very still and had the sensation of energy moving around my body. As I entered into a half-dozing state, I thought my arms were behind me, even though I knew they were resting on my knees. I figured this symbolized the last year; when I had no choice but to manage the situation. When Big Daughter, and her boyfriend, Young Sir C, met me for a late lunch, she was slightly uncomfortable with the idea of my walking around with two little seeds placed in each ear for stress management. The seeds are placed on a pressure point and I was instructed to push on them for realignment. I liked the idea and I continued to periodically press them. After deciding I was still sane, Big Daughter agreed to lunch at Belcourt, a restaurant I'd noticed a few months ago at the corner of 4th street and 2nd Avenue. Initially, we were the only customers. This seemed fitting since it was my first meal with Big Daughter and Young Sir C. Although it was a sunny day, there was a cool breeze. Over Big Daughter's objections, I asked if the long glass windows, which opened onto the sidewalk, could be closed. Belcourt is designed in a clean, modern-deco style with a row of burnished brown leather banquettes against one wall and free-standing tables scattered throughout. The restaurant is refreshingly anti-climatic in the way it appears comfortable with itself. The prevailing energy is not about showcasing food, or elevating the customers, but maintaining a sense of ease. Big Daughter and Young Sir C both ordered the same thing; a cheddar cheese omelet with toast on the side. When the waiter arrived, the sight of two exactly identical plates was interesting to me. I opted for a Spinach Salad with Manoush cheese and crackers. The waiter made sure to inform his counterpart that we had snagged the last order of house made sausage. Afterwards we headed over to Sugar Sweet Sunshine (Rivington off Essex) for dessert, as per Big Daughter's request. Young Sir C ordered the chocolate bomb, a pudding-like mixture of chocolate and whipped cream. I wanted a Red Velvet cupcake so I could eat the chocolate frosting and Big Daughter got the Strawberry-Rhubarb crumble and a Vanilla cupcake with pink frosting. The next day, Big Daughter, Young Sir C,and I went with our dear friend Miss A. to the Chanterelle Sunday Salon on Artisinal American Cheeses and Wines. On the table, there was a bowl of homemade Kumquat jam to accompany one of the cheese courses. As we waited for the Salon to begin, we nibbled on pieces of bread spread with Kumquat preserves. I was tickled when Young Sir C remembered that we'd had Kumquat Preserves at Belcourt during our lunch on Saturday. During my bout with sinusitis/allergies, I had lost my appetite for several days. The presence of homemade Kumquat preserves on the tables of Belcourt and Chanterelle seemed fitting and left with me with a sweet taste in my mouth.

The Tao of Soy Custard and Gardens

2008-04-01T15:17:00.000-07:00

On my way home from work this evening, I was hopeful to find homemade soy custard for sale, just outside the Centre street exit of the Canal stop on the J line. For the past couple days, I've been coming down with a cold. The thought of eating, warm, fragrant soy custard was comforting. Big Daughter met me for lunch in Williamsburg today. We decided to visit our old standby, and favorite lunch spot, Diner. The menu has been revamped, so no more pressed Cuban sandwiches. They've added Shepherd's Pie and some other yummy choices, and their specials are still great. As we finished our lunch - she had Beef Ragu with two poached eggs on top, and I had beer-battered cod and a few french fries with A-1 sauce - I noticed the waitress walk by holding teapots. Our waitress confirmed that Diner is now serving tea, courtesy of In Pursuit of Tea. I was happy to order some Keemun, which I doctored with milk and sugar to get me through the afternoon, as my throat was getting sore. The restorative effects of the tea had worn off by the time the day was over, hence my wish for soy custard. As I walked up the subway stairs, I was happy to see a familiar sight, the large, blue shopping cart that holds a huge vat of steaming custard. A small group of vendors regularly ply their wares outside the subway entrance, but the soy custard vendor is there sporadically. After little one began attending a Chinese Catholic School on Bowery, Carl discovered a wily pair of fruit vendors, neighbors to the soy-custard vendor. They sell their fruit outside, rain or shine or snow. Carl is thrilled to buy not-too-ripe strawberries, bananas, oranges and grapes from them, while he practices a few choice phrases in Mandarin that he's learned from little one. Prior to finding them, Carl would purchase fruit, some a bit too ripe, from vendors on Park Place and Church, when little one was in a day care next to Ground Zero. In both cases, he established personal relationships with the vendors -such that they always gave little one an extra apple or orange. Carl has continued this dynamic with the couple, who interact affectionately with him. They enjoy the back and forth; the haggling over any errant change, and the subsequent rounding off of the amount due. They indulge Carl's request to visually check, via the scale, the exact poundage of fruit and together they confirm the total purchase. Recently, when I happened to unexpectedly meet Carl at the fruit stand, lively pointing and gesturing occurred, and the word "pretty" was mentioned (much to my liking). I should note that I have purchased fruit there several times but without Carl, it was clearly not memorable to the duo. When I buy fruit, it is a straightforward process. I select green,under ripe bananas, firm grapes and some miniature tangerines. There is no haggling. At the soy custard shopping cart, this approach serves me well. I've become acquainted with the young, high-school-age, custard-purveyor, Ms. Li. She automatically asks if I want a small custard, and then lifts up the fabric-wrapped lid, places it carefully to the side and in deft, elegant motions, scoops out enough soy custard to fill a small plastic to-go container. The top of the custard is covered with smooth, latticed patterns as she gently replaces the lid. After placing the sealed container in a small plastic bag, she adds a little container of sugar-syrup. This is usually dinner, when I'm lucky enough to find her. The custard is still warm, 15 minutes later, when I arrive home. I take a slotted spoon and scoop some custard out, leaving liquid behind, add a drop of the sugar syrup and voila, dinner. This past Sunday, in the same spirit of comfort, I requested that Carl, little one and I take a drive upstate. Big Daughter took the New Today bus from Chinatown to Philadelphia, to visit a friend at Bryn Mawr. In warmer months, I generally map out day drives to different gardens (Innisfree, the Institute of Eco Systems in Millbrook, Montgomery Place etc.) Since we needed to be back by 4 p.m. (for a March Madness basketball game), I googled gardens in upstate New York and found Boscobel. Located near West Point, Boscobel is a short,pretty drive along the Palisade Parkway and around Bear Mountain. An old house with beautiful grounds, Boscobel is perched on a bluff overlooking the Hudson River. We walked along a mile-long Woodlands trail through a still, stark forest of trees without leaves. Little one acted as the leader and instructed us to stay in a "straight line" behind her. It was an easy walk, and there were little yellow triangles marking the way. As we wound our way along the trail, we caught glimpses of the Hudson River. During the walk, I forgot how tired I was. Near the end of the trail, little one and I rested together on a wooden bench and looked up at the vivid, blue sky for a few tranquil moments. The sunlight had turned the tops of the trees silver. We weren't too far from one of my favorite cafes, Two Alices Coffee Lounge, located in Cornwall-on-Hudson. The short drive to the cafe wended scenically along Bear Mountain with spectacular views. It was our fourth visit to Two Alices, a comfortable, welcoming cafe with a retro-style setting. They carry a wide selection of teas; green, black, chai and prepare them in iced/latte versions along with great baked treats and soups/sandwiches. Little one gamely ate half of her curried carrot soup and then had several miniature-sized chocolates. Carl had a wrap with cheese/vegetables and read the Daily News. I peacefully sipped an iced chai latte. We made it home in time for the basketball game and Davidson lost by a hair, literally.

Food as a remembrance of things past

2008-03-23T12:59:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-13T17:50:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-03-07T19:12:00.000-08:00

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.

Food as salvation.

2008-02-29T18:59:00.000-08:00

When life gets really difficult, as it has been in recent months, my best solution is to change my routine. While I can't give up my weekly visits to the "Temple of Podunk," I've been mixing it up for lunch and dinner.

During the worst of it, I had the unexpected pleasure of being invited to lunch by Carl. He was more relaxed, because the public schools were on mid-winter break and the kids were all at home. We met twice for lunch and I took him to Tiny's Giant Sandwich Shop on the Lower East Side (129 Rivington at Norfolk Street) and Shopsins.

This was my fourth attempt to eat at Shopsins, located adjacent to Saxelby's Cheese in the Essex Market (Essex and Delancey Street). I'd been a bit intimidated to eat at Shopsin, but being with Carl, I felt empowered about eating there. He fits the Shopsin's customer mode; quirky, a little prickly and smart.

If you haven't visited Shopsins, it's worth it simply to read the menu, it's packed so tightly with choices. I took one home and periodically read it on the train for fun. I narrowed my choices by figuring out my food mood and finally selected corn cakes with bananas and walnuts. Carl selected pea soup, raved about it and ate most of my corn cakes, which was fine by me. I prefer nibbling, because I can eat more.

When he asked to order, Carl appreciated our server's response, "If you're in a hurry, you should go somewhere else, it's just my father and I". No sarcasm here. Carl is in favor of plain speaking. He frequently accuses me of not getting to the point (maybe that's why he interrupts me so much). The interruptions irritate me but it's true I can ramble on at times.

Carl also raved about Tiny's Giant Sandwich Shop; ee liked the food, he had a vegetarian sandwich, and the vibe. It was very low-key and kind of punk but friendly. Carl appreciates when a place doesn't aim to be something else. I'm open to places trying to be something else, but so be it. I understand Carl's point, he doesn't get lost.

The people eating lunch at Tiny's Giant Sandwich Shop actually seemed hungry, which is important to Carl. We even had lunch this week, (unfortunately after Carl ended up at the emergency room Monday night - no connection to the food we ate - but he's good- no worries). I decided to take him to Papa Lima Sandwich Shop (Bedford at S. 4th Street in Williamsburg). I'd walked by it frequently en route to PienThighs (which, by the way, is closed until Spring). Papa Lima Sandwich Shop seemed right for an-after-a-visit-to-the-E.R.-lunch.

The two friendly, down-to-earth counter guys talked us into the potato soup with bacon and cheese. As they said, it really was the best soup. Carl ended up with my tomato soup after I ate most of the bacon/cheese topping and half the potato soup. He said he couldn't switch tastes once he began eating the tomato soup. We shared half of a sandwich with turkey, potato chips, lettuce and tomato. I brought the other half to give to little one when I picked her up from school.

During the bus ride home, she was in heaven, crunching on those potato chips. Thursday, I continued the trend of altering the routine and took Carl to La Zarza, an Argentinian tapas place (First Avenue between 10th/11th). It was another home run. We tried the datiles (dates wrapped in bacon), the cheese plate which came with jams (orange marmalade and a raspberry jam in hollowed-out cucumbers) and tiny shrimps with garlic. It sounded very refreshing, but I passed on the blackberry Sangria. I'm so tired lately that even a little alcohol is a bad thing for me.

I'd eaten a piece of Sacher Torte at Blaue Gans (Duane Street in Tribeca) earlier that afternoon during Big daughter's 19th birthday lunch, but I still scanned the dessert menu at La Zarza. The lavender flan looked good to me and I seem to recall something made with dulce de leche among other offerings. There was a selection of ports as well. Very cool place.

Last but not least, this morning I convinced little one to try breakfast at Egg Custard King (on Mott below Canal). She was clamoring to return to Chatham Square for Dim Sum. We took a break from Chatham Square after I began feeling very melancholy there and switched to the bright, clean and modern atmosphere of Hong Kong Noodle Station.

A big part of the draw is the milk tea at Hong Kong Noodle Station. A wonderful, strong black tea with evaporated milk added, milk tea is a staple in Hong Kong. The key is the creamy finish and Hong Kong Noodle Station gets it right. We'd been going to Chatham Square but it became too familiar. I think we'll go back to Chatham Square in the summer. Anyway, I bribed little one with the prospect of iced milk tea at Egg Custard King and she agreed.

Due to myriad morning home activities, we generally take a cab to save time. I've justified the expense by figuring it lessens my overall stress and keeps me younger and lets us have breakfast together. This morning, we were picked up by a singing cab driver who said he was a Russian Jew and sings in Italian. He had an Italian flag hanging off the rear view mirror. A few minutes into the trip, the cab driver asked little one her name, pulled out a microphone and turned it on. As his voice reverberated through the cab in surround sound, he turned on some background music and began serenading little one in Italian. With a strobe light, we could have easily been in a Russian nightclub in Brighton Beach.

Little one buried her head in my lap and was simply mortified. Needless to say, breakfast at the Egg Custard King was a bit of a let down after that. We shared fried rice with chicken and pineapple. Little one got a pork bun, which she devoured. The iced milk teas tasted pretty good.

Valentines of fresh fruit and Indian food

2008-02-18T14:24:00.001-08:00

Valentine's Day has always been a dicey proposition in our house - probably because the concept of romantic love is viewed very differently by Carl and I. He believes that bringing fresh fruit home daily is a strong indicator of his love for me (even as he packs much of it up to take to work each day). While I truly do appreciate the constant availability of unripe, slightly green bananas, ripe oranges and firm grapes, I see nothing wrong with the occasional surprise present.

To be fair though, this past Saturday, the unbelievable occurred. Carl bought me a beautiful, military-style black hoodie at Atmos, a very cool Japanese-run, Supreme-esque sneaker store in Harlem. Whenever we visit the Studio Museum of Harlem (more on that below), we visit Atmos.

Carl got some really cool sneakers there a few years back, and now it's a tradition to stop in. Carl said he was buying me the hoodie as part of March Madness (the college basketball season just getting into full swing)- but hey, a great gift is a great gift and I love my Hells Bellz-designed hoodie. I am in favor of any day that allows me to give or receive gifts as a way of celebrating family and friends.

In Carl's favor, it's true that I am definitely not marriage-minded. I fervently believe the wedding celebration should occur 50 years later - if the relationship has positively survived the test of time. As well, I have no desire whatsoever for a ring (sorry Big Daughter - she wants a large rock ) since it seems to me a (large) symbol of objectification.

Over the years, I have utilized Valentine's Day as a way to appreciate those who love me and whom I love. Carl's belief that Valentine's Day is a day propagated by commercial business as a means to make him part with his money was never easy for me to swallow, although I understand it from his no-gift point-of-view.

As Big Daughter put it so succinctly this past Christmas, giving gifts is a sign of intimacy with others. I was slightly concerned therefore, when I realized that Valentine's Day happened to fall on Thursday Night Date Night. I anticipated an uphill battle in having any kind of date night, let alone on Valentine's Day.

I should note dear reader that I was greatly reassured by an article in last Tuesday's Science section of the New York Times that noted Date Nights are only effective when there's change involved. Couples must do things out of the ordinary.

I immediately showed the article to Carl, and emphasized the part that said trying new places, and taking drives in the country are important to maintaining a sense of the new and romantic. Ha! But back to Valentine's Day. Last year, Big Daughter and I had a disastrous experience at Blaue Gans on Valentine's Day. Since then, I have become truly afraid of the specter of Dinner on Valentine's Day. (Disclaimer: The chef at Blaue Gans responded considerately, after I wrote a detailed email about the disastrous events that occurred. He honestly and graciously acknowledged that sometimes people make stupid mistakes. He's right -especially on a night like that.)

Yes, Carl, you did warn me about the idiocy of my choice to eat out on that night. I decided to go to Valentine's dinner at Blaue Gans because of the chocolate dessert, mmm hmm. For about a month prior to the special day, I kept reading the Valentine's Day menu on the glass mirror over our booth at Blaue Gans during our annual Saturday breakfast. The chocolate dessert just kept calling to me until I finally caved and convinced Big Daughter to go with me, simply to eat those chocolate pops. Those chocolate pops were very good - despite the mishaps we encountered. If only I'd known, we could have skipped dinner (which they almost forgot to give us) and just dropped in for dessert, like the couple next to us.

Anyway, back to this year's Valentine Day. Going out for Thursday night dinner seemed like another disaster-in-the-making. Each of our regular places had a special menu, even Sanctuary Tea, our new regular spot. As an alternative, I considered dropping in at Hallo Berlin for a hot dog but the reviews indicated that the hot dogs might never arrive, or at least take hours to show up.

Finally, I decided Indian food would do the trick. I reasoned that few people would choose to eat Indian on a romantic night and there was little chance of roses/candles and an amplified menu. I left Carl a message suggesting that we meet at Saravannas, a great place at 26th/Lexington for South Indian food. (In a recent blog, I mentioned their chai tea.) We generally go to Saravanna's in the summertime, so the staff was happy to see us.

Although there was a wait, it had nothing to do with Valentine's Day, it was simply the usual; a mostly-Indian crowd of families, couples and friends, waiting to eat authentically prepared Dosa's, which are the speciality of the house. Despite our three-month absence, the waiter anticipated our order; the Mini Tiffin, which is comprised of Thali style dishes of farina, different vegetables in spicy, stew-like sauces (potatotes, peppers, tomatoes etc.) and of course, delectable little portions of sweets, a tapioca rice pudding and an orange halvah.

I, of course, ate the sweets first. The Dosa (a long thin, crunchy crepe folded over a filling of mashed potatoes and peas)is always placed in the center of the silver tray. The waiter also anticipated our usual order of the South Indian Tiffin. It contains a multitude of Thali dishes, again with vegetables but this time served with chapati (a soft tortilla-like bread) and a type of papadum (a large, circular, cracker-like bread made of plain flour). We brought home a Ravi Dosa which has pistachios and raisins baked into the crepe.

Since this was a three-day weekend, I'm happy to report that a sense of smaller valentines pervaded. On Saturday afternoon, we visited the Studio Museum of Harlem to see a thought-provoking, beautiful and amazing show by Kori Newkirk, a phenomenal new artist. After visiting Atmos, we crossed the Triboro Bridge to Astoria to eat at at Philoxenia, a Greek restaurant that I've long wanted to try (32-07 34th Avenue, Astoria). I was excited to eat there since I'd read that they recently reopened. They closed before I could visit them two years ago.

The dining room is a large, plesant brick-walled room with windows overlooking the bucolic back garden of the adjoining building. The menu at Philoxenia was simple but extremely well-prepared. We shared an appetizer of four spreads: Taromasalata, carp roa caviar spread, Tzatsiki, which is made with cucumbers and yogurt, Melitzanosalata, a roasted eggplant spread with garlic and herbs and Tiriokafteri, a spicy cheese spread. Little one loved the Tzatziki and Carl loved the spicy, cheese spread.

In addition, we ordered Dolmadakia, lettuce leaves stuffed with beef and rice, their homemade spinach pie, Piperies Psites Me Tire, grilled peppers stuffed with graviera cheese and of course, a large Greek salad. Big Daughter got Bekri Meze, veal and pork stewed in tomato sauce and topped with feta. Sbe and little one both ordered the traditional Greek chicken and rice soup which was liberally infused with lemon. For dessert, we all shared Galaktoboureko, a sweet egg custard encased in thin layers of phyllo.

Not only was the food amazing, it was extraordinarily reasonable. Going to Philoxenia was a big step because we usually eat only at Agnanti, another Greek restaurant that we love in Astoria. After a long, hot day at the beach, the food there hits the spot. Agnanti serves amazing Greek Cypriot style food - one salad in particular is perfect on a hot day. It's prepared with tomatoes, capers, feta cheese and cretan husks (little wheat husks) all mixed together and served cold. Agnanti has amazing fish entrees but I love the grilled sardines. With a little lemon squeezed over them, they are a meal in themselves.

Big Daughter and I always get the grilled Kasseri cheese and little one clamors for a cheese puff with phyllo that's made with a tangy, soft cheese. As a family, we always order too much food at Agnanti. We still eat the complimentary dessert, a semolina honey cake with large stewed cherries in greek yogurt on the side. Since the weather was so balmy today, we decided to visit the Pepisco Sculpture Garden in Purchase, NY.

When I called my friend John in Chicago to talk art (he works at the Museum of Contemporary Art in downtown Chicago) and proudly say that I identified a Giacometti sculpture from afar, he was amazed that we were walking around a Sculpture Garden. John said he was stuck at home because it was 14 degrees and windy!! The Sculpture Garden was gorgeous -even in winter-and an easy 45 minute ride up the Hutchinson Parkway. I can't wait to return in the spring, when the Magnolia trees are blooming.

On our way out of the city, we visited Oro, a new bakery/bar located in Nolita, at 375 Broome Street between Mott/Kenmare. That part of Broome is still a little funky which was strangely comforting. So much of NYC is becoming airbrushed these days, and much of Soho is like a mall. Anyway, for breakfast, I selected a bread pudding. It was the perfect eggy mix of bread and raisins. Carl was happy to share it with me. Little one selected a blood-orange meringue.

Together, we ate little spoonfuls of the stiff, sweet meringue topping and I ate the tangy blood-orange filling. Little one then asked for a cup of potato-leek soup. It was creamy and warm with lots of leeks and potatoes. Carl and I ended up sharing that as well. He also ate her cheese bread with chives.

Oro is an elegant space, with seating in the front and rear separated by a sleek bar with stools. I wanted to try a little chocolate truffle cookie and a bunch of other miniature pastries, but figured we can always go back. There was a nice selection of tea and coffee drinks. Oro is open until 10 p.m. for wine/snacks. There were sandwiches (a smoked salmon with dill and creme fraiche) and quiches too. On the way back to our Zipcar rental, we stopped at Parisi Bakery to get little one a Turkey sandwich with lettuce and mayo. When she saw the sandwich, little one's eyes widened and she said "that's so big." The counterman laughed. I overheard the counter lady tell another customer that Parisi's has been in their present spot since 1908 and the world seemed in balance.

The Shifting Mirage called Food in South Beach

2008-02-04T17:04:00.000-08:00

In the past decade, it's become a tradition for our family to trek down to South Beach (Miami) at least once a year, sometimes even twice (if we're lucky and Carl is in a good mood). I say trek, because after hauling two weeks worth of clothes for little one -you need 12 days worth of clothes for 6 days, believe me- her car seat and her stroller on/off the plane, I feel like I've climbed Mount Everest. Forget about my luggage, it's the least of my worries. My carry on bag weighs at least 100 lbs and is crammed with a hodge-podge of snacks (nuts, cheese and crackers,etc) coloring books, crayons and games and various articles of clothing. I bring magazines and Christian Science Monitors so I can catch up on fashion and foreign affairs but never get to read a thing. Big Daughter packs separately. She is fastidious and could never tolerate a communal suitcase. We officially retired little one's stroller last fall but brought it out of retirement for the trip to South Beach, because we always do a lot of walking. South Beach runs from 1st/Ocean to 17th/Lincoln road and our family favors the area near the lower-numbered streets. At this point in her charmed existence, little one believes that her legs are not yet meant for walking. Rather than vainly propose the concept of walking, it's easier to offer her the stroller. This means that one out of every passerby motions at her feet, which dangle out of the stroller and begin dragging on the ground. For the past two visits, we've stayed at the elegant, Art Deco-style Astor Hotel (10th/Washington. We can generally be found at the beach or pool around 1st/Ocean. Over the years, Big Daughter, Carl and I have tracked the ascendance of South Beach from slightly gritty beach town to hip, shining star i.e. E. Village meets Madison Avenue at Ocean Drive. It's always fun to observe the residents and tourists meandering down the street in a style particular to South Beach i.e. stylish but bare with great sunglasses and jewelry. Eating in South Beach is also a unique experience; each year the place you remember liking a lot is closed, replaced by something else. Restaurants in South Beach are a mirage. Beckoning from afar, they generally disappear into a morass of overpriced food and convoluted service. To combat this and adjust to our beach schedule, we devised an eating plan which is comprised of an early breakfast (often the price of a good lunch or bargain dinner in NYC), no lunch and then dinner in big, bright lights (figuratively speaking) because after a day of sun/swimming, we're hungry. When Carl is with us, we have the luxury of a rental car. The car pays for itself in the trip to/from South Beach from Fort Lauderdale airport and allows me to map out exotic food adventures in various Miami neighborhoods for a better culinary experience overall. Last year, I created a food itinerary indicating breakfast and dinner choices for each day of the trip. Changes were allowed only after serious debate, weather considerations or the occurrence of sunburn. Big Daughter was a high school senior then, and on that trip she brought two friends - the Devster (her best friend) and Will -a classmate who joined us for a few days after visiting Florida colleges. Will's mother couldn't believe we a) wanted him on the trip and b)loved him after it was over. Also along for the duration was the Big N, big daughter's dad. The Big N was in from Belgrade and in the spirit of roughing it, stayed at the spartan hostel (in a communal room, yikes)a block from the Hotel Augustine. The Hotel Augustine was a nice hotel save for the manager, who thought we were sneaking the Big N in the room with Big Daughter and friends, natch. During that trip, we had some great food adventures. After a day at the beach, everyone would shower and meet outside of the hotel. Off we'd go, Carl at the wheel of the rental car, me holding my handwritten (and often confusing directions). Big N smoking furiously and commenting on the capitalism of Americans and Will riding shotgun in the back, staunchly defending Carl. In the back seat, little one was watched over by the Devster and Big Daughter with mixed results. The culinary highlights of last year's visit were Garcia's Fish Market, (located in downtown Miami directly over the causeway from South Beach), Guayacan (a Nicaraguan restaurant located in Little Havana) and Monty's (located on the edge of South Beach). Garcia's is one of our absolute favorite places to eat in Miami. It's a real down-home fish market that serves all manner of fresh-caught fish and really good conch hush puppies. Whenever we go there, it rains. It's exciting to sit out on the back porch and watch the big rain drops plop into the canal while a slightly chilly wind dampens us while eating. Maine in Miami. Eating at Guayacan was pretty much what you imagined it would be like to be in Nicaragua and eat amazing food. Monty's is a divey fish place on the bay. They have a raw bar with raw clams and mussels as well as boiled shrimp (we peeled off the shells) and all manner of deep-fried fish along with hamburgers etc. Lots of good old boys (and girls) like to go there to drink so we usually go early for dinner. For our most recent trip to South Beach last week, Big Daughter, little one and I spent six great days in South Beach. My challenge was to map out good food in South Beach proper (something that I hadn't done before). This time it was just us girls. At the last minute, Carl found the lure of college basketball too great to resist. In the spirit of harmony, we didn't protest and I'm happy to report it was a win-win for all involved. We loved South Beach and Carl loved being solo in NYC. I didn't mind pool duty with little one. During this recent visit, breakfast wasn't a problem. Little one and I would generally wake up around 7 a.m., get the newspapers at LeeAnns Pharmacy across the street, pick up a coffee for Big Sister at the French patisserie on Washington and then head out again for a proper breakfast. Big Sister always required coffee before her obligatory gym visit to Crunch. The first morning, little one and I ate breakfast at Joley, the restaurant in the Astor Hotel but that didn't work too well. The water for tea was infused with a coffee taste and the manager was more than grouchy which gave me indigestion. Apparently, Joley had just inaugurated breakfast service that morning and it was enough to dissuade us from repeating the experience for the duration of our trip. Because we were upgraded from a Junior Suite to a Presidential Suite gratis, I couldn't bring myself to tell Corey (the amazing, sweetheart of a manager at the Astor) the truth about breakfast. The next morning, little one and I upheld family tradition and ate breakfast at The Tides, a very fancy (newly-renovated yet again) hotel on Ocean Drive. It's a tradition for us to eat breakfast, once per South Beach visit, at The Tides. This time around, their tea water also tasted like coffee. Carl, I'm pleased to report, has gamely gone along to breakfast at The Tides on past visits. He finds it interesting to observe his fellow breakfast eaters. In past visits, we've encountered a "regular" who looks homeless, but staff treats her like royalty. I wonder who she really is? Little one and I didn't see her this visit. Anyway, as is always the case at The Tides, the fruit plate was phenomenal. It arrived with a small, hollowed-out papaya packed with blueberries, strawberries and raspberries along with generous servings of sliced kiwi, pineapple and one plum. Little one kept referring to the kiwi as celery but ate it all nonetheless. The staff couldn't have been sweeter. Nothing beats sitting in early morning sunshine on the swanky terrace of The Tides and gazing at the ocean. It just screams "ahh vacation." The waiter invited us to visit the newly-renovated lobby and as we checked it out, little one said "this is too fancy mommy." As we wandered about, I worried that one of the 2000 turtle shells affixed to the walls of the dining room might fall on my head. There was so much stuff in the lobby seating area, I thought we might get lost especially among the large piles of dried white driftwood artfully stacked around. After that experience, I opted for a few mornings of fruit tarts from the Patisserie and then ventured out again to the Maison d'Azur at The Anglers Boutique Resort (5th/Washington) for Sunday Breakfast. $104.96 later, I decided they too couldn't cut the tea thing, it wasn't served in a teapot and there were tea bags! The hot chocolate was good though, it was unsweetened and made with real Valhrona chocolate and had a creamy finish. Big daughter and a visiting pal opted for omelets and TWO orders of slab bacon (at $7/pop) and little one ordered two eggs over easy with potatoes. I got the traditional Soupe de Poisson with little toasts and Rouille (saffron aioli sauce), in an effort to remain restrained. I truly love this soup (after having it years ago in the South of France) and this one didn't disappoint. It was a good breakfast made better by the fact that the clouds blew away while we were eating and a clear blue sky emerged. The best breakfast was at the Hotel Victor on our last day in South Beach. I was looking for their little tea/coffee cafe (which I discovered last year) but it had closed. The manager was very sweet and hallelujah, they had tea leaves from the NYC-based T salon. Little one and I shared a continental breakfast (which was a basket of pretty yummy pastries, especially the chocolate bread) and two miniature fruit plates (raspberries, slice of honeydew, watermelon and pineapple) drizzled with a mango sauce. Little one was not enthused about the mango sauce, she pronounced it "weird". The waitress (who was a true sweetheart) kindly brought her another mini fruit plate sans the mango sauce. We had lunch only once. Our first day, we stopped at Lario's on Ocean Drive, after a few hours at the beach. Eating at Lario's is primarily about observing the "scene" of Ocean Drive. Considering the abundance of seriously over-priced tourist traps, Lario's is ok. They have very good strawberry mojitos (the only alcohol imbibed this trip) and yes, Big Daughter did get a few sips. In South Beach, the restaurants on Ocean Drive are packed side-by-side on the sidewalks in front of the various hotels. There is a little path to traverse amongst the tables and it's great for people-watching. At some restaurants, there are platters of food for passerby's to examine (usually a good reason not to eat there). Noteworthy places for breakfast/brunch are: The Front Porch, The News Cafe and the Pelican Cafe (which is affiliated with the Pelican Hotel.) None of them display food outside the restaurant. I prefer breakfast early- between 8-9 a.m. At this time, Ocean Drive is empty and blessedly quiet (hence our affection for Washington Street). There's a special early-morning vibe and the blue green ocean dominates, as it should. Besides the tea at Hotel Victor, I had one other truly amazing cup of tea during the visit, at Hakim's Turkish Restaurant(Alton Road and 10th Street). To get there, we just turned right and walked down 10th street for 10 minutes through quiet, residential neighborhoods with well-maintained art deco buildings. (We'd headed that way last year to Taste Bakery, which Carl loved.) Anyway, during dinner, Hakim, the owner, brought me the black tea leaves to smell (straight from the mountains of Turkey where he said he really did grow up) and a tin of Turkish Earl Grey. He then made me a heavily diluted version of his tea. As he predicted, the tea was a real delight. Hakim warned me the tea would "reset my clock." In a gentle way it did. (When I got back to NYC, Elspeth at Podunk was able to recreate the taste for me by mixing Russian Caravan and some Earl Grey.) Anyway, the food at Hakim's was terrific. Big Daughter and I shared an appetizer plate of cacik (the yogurt with garlic), eggplant dip, cous cous, hummus and grape leaves. It was all tremendously fresh. I ordered spinach pie. I couldn't finish it, so ate it for breakfast the next morning. Big Daughter ate the mixed grill with lamb, Turkish sausage, chicken and beef. Little one napped until dinner was over. We brought home a delicious chicken noodle soup with sweet potatoes added to the chicken and carrots. She ate all of it. Hakim was a decent and thoughtful man who wished every customer a genuine good night at the end of their meal. It was nice to eat at a place frequented by "real" people as well. Our first night in South Beach, we had dinner at Frateli Bufala (5th/Washington) an Italian restaurant specializing in Pizza Napolentano. We walked by it frequently last year but never ate there. The portions were quite generous. Little one had a thin crust plain cheese pizza. It was excellent and enough for two very hungry people (so that was lunch the next day). My salad was a bit wilty although the grilled eggplant was very fresh. Big daughter ordered pasta that came in a Parmesan cheese crust. It was a bit over the top. There were two other highlights for dinner. One was DAvid's Cafe, an old favorite for Cuban food. It's located off Lincoln Road on Meridian. They also have a cafe in South Beach. David's Cafe is not too far from the Ice Box Cafe, which has really yummy cakes. Unfortunately, Oprah spread the word on her television show and it's painted on their window (Oprah's best or something). Since then I find it unnerving to visit the Ice Box Cafe. I always think a marching band should strike up a tune or something. David's Cafe on Lincoln Road, is an unpretentious, comfortable restaurant that serves up generous portions of Cuban food. The appetizer platter is comprised of fried yucca, plantain chips, and croquettes, all of which are quite filling. Little one opted for chicken soup and Big Daughter ordered the pork chops. Her pal ordered the Churrasca steak which arrived with sublime mashed potatoes. The other dinner meal highlight was at Chalan's on the Beach (16th Street/Washington. Chalan's serves Peruvian food but the thing to get is the batidos, or fruit shakes. I ordered one made with blackberries in a frozen milk base and it was sublime (and enough for dinner). I knew Big Daughter would be disappointed in her seafood platter because it was deep fried (even the mussel shells). I ordered Bistec with Onions and simply switched with her. After drinking the batido, I didn't need anything else. Little one had chicken noodle soup and finished every drop. Next visit to South Beach, I think I'll just drink shakes at Chalan's every day and skip the food.

Be Careful of What You Wish For

2008-01-26T18:30:00.000-08:00

I have always been amused at the experiences I have when eating out with Big Daughter. Case in point, when my friend and I went to Balthazar for breakfast a few months ago, we were squeezed into a tiny table between a friendly, tattooed older Soho rocker babe and several intimate couples. We were pretty much in the Gobi Desert. So much for the experience of being in Paris, I think it was more like Libya. When I went back to Balthazar with Big Daughter a week or so later (yes, I am sometimes a glutton for punishment when seduced by pretty white china teapots and bread baskets with chocolate bread), we were seated smack in the middle of the main dining room at a prime booth, complete with overly attentive service. We were in Paris in NYC! I don't know which comes first in NYC, food or beauty -it sure seems that beauty is where it's at. (Of course, after reading that waitstaff in Balthazar must cover bounced checks, I will no longer eat there). That same day, we also got a prime spot for lunch at Gemma, the new space in the Bowery Hotel complete with, you guessed it, a lot of solicitous waiter attention, We joked that this was our B for restaurants day because later that evening Big Daughter took the family to Buddakan (where she's a hostess) and we were treated like royalty. A testament to her hard work and sweet manner. I was impressed by Buddakan; the food, the professionalism and the ambiance. Every manager came to say hello and each of them was truly an ambassador of hospitality. But I'm getting beyond myself. Big Daughter does not expect this special service but aside from Buddakan, where is she known to staff and co-workers as a genuine, hardworking sweetheart - she is unfortunately attended to because of her looks. I am sympathetic because it means she can never hide, or be anonymous and disappear in plain sight (all things I take for granted). Recently, she took me to Rohm, a lovely new Thai restaurant on E. 20th between Madison and Park. For whatever reason, I had some misgivings -perhaps it was Friday night on Park Avenue (something I never even consider.) Or maybe it was my mood - I am not always the best company at 8:30 p.m. on a Friday night, after work and then my private clients. But she persisted, her friend Shan and his family had just opened the restaurant and she had promised to stop in. Big Daughter is very loyal to her friends. When we arrived, the place was buzzing and every table was taken, and people were still pouring in. Shan seated us in the upstairs area, which gave us a vantage viewing point of the whole space. On the ceiling, there was a striking collection of hanging lanterns. Unfortunately, our status as special friends of the owners meant that we tasted the wonderful food faster than the long-suffering table sitting next to us. In this case, beauty made things ugly and we were both mortified (as was her friend). As each appetizer kept arriving, and 8 pairs of eyes looked at the food -one of them a very, pregnant mother-to-be, it became increasingly difficult to enjoy the food. In desperation, I rifled through my bag and offered crackers, fresh-cut mango and cheese. In addition, we handed over a side of rice which accompanied the tasty green curry with duck. Rohm had just been mentioned in Citysearch and was overwhelmed with business. There is a dearth of affordable, good Thai in the Flatiron district and Rohm hit the spot. The cook apparently had a panic attack in the kitchen (after preparing our food) and mixed up all the food orders. We were thinking of eating under the table but that was not an option. Big Daughter's response to the confusion in the kitchen and the envy at the adjacent table, was to accuse me of being "a good Samaritan." I knew she was starving but found it hard to enjoy the very well-prepared food. Oh the perils of success and beauty -hand-in-hand they can be a true bane on one's existence and kill the appetite -even in a good restaurant like Rohm!

The Comfort of Tea (and Coffee).

2008-01-23T10:55:00.000-08:00

From mid-January to the end of March, Carl is officially in the throes of March Madness frenzy. I feel like a football wife, except that I've been officially left for college basketball not pro-football. To add insult to injury, the Australian Open is being televised late at night so he's become a night owl, prowling the apartment while he watches Federer dispatch Blake and Ivanovic blow Serena off the court. I am quite bereft in my suddenly-single status but continue to find a measure of comfort in visiting new tea/coffee places and vicariously experiencing the thrill of discovery with those who accompany me. Since an early morning sojourn in the E. Village was necessitated this past Monday morning, I mapped out a stop at Abraco Coffee (E. 7th Street at 1st Avenue) for Carl and to Gramstand Tea (Ave A. between 13th/14th) for me. I was certain Carl would love Abraco and he did. Although I wish he'd notice me a bit more, his appreciation of the coffee will have to suffice. As we waited for his coffee, little one kept winding my grey wool muffler around my neck, pulling it with a yank and I think, attempting to strangle me. I'm certain she was reacting to a continuous low-grade anxiety that I'd been buzzing around with for most of the weekend. This is noteworthy because I've been told that I am quite calm in nature. Later on, when we returned home, I noticed one of my favorite earrings was missing. Apparently, little one hooked the beautiful citrine green earring into the scarf and tugged it out of my ear - an ominous sign. Whenever I lose something, it reflects change. That is certainly the case with the earring (but that's another story entirely). When I called Abraco to see if the earring might have been found, the lady barista obligingly looked on the floor for it and then said "you come in a lot so I'll hold it for you, if I find it." I was flattered to be confused with a regular so I just said ok. While we were at Abraco, Carl could not seem to order and kept schmoozing. I think he was a bit distracted with thoughts of impending basketball glory, this is why I'm buzzing around with low grade anxiety; the man has disappeared! I've been ignored a bit too long mister and I'm dying here. Nonetheless, in the spirit of love, I smoothly intervened and ordered Carl a drip coffee. The lady barista at Abraco was a total sweetheart, and completely unfazed by Carl. She asked why we were out on such a cold morning. She also agreed with little one's rejection of an offer of a black sesame seed cookie. The lady barista told little one that she too would have wanted, like little one firmly stated, a chocolate chip cookie. Abraco was empty and peaceful so early in the morning. Big Daughter and I visited Abraco Saturday afternoon (as she slowly dissolved into pudding mush due to caffeine withdrawal after our monthly pedicure at Jin Soon on E. 4th Street). The place was packed to the gills with customers. I'd noticed Abraco during one of my many neighborhood walks in prior weeks. It looked like a sweet little -and I mean little -space just above First Avenue. Big Daughter's coffee fit gave me an excuse to visit (since I cannot digest coffee but love the smell.) Because it was so crowded, we hesitated about entering but were firmly and gently urged in by a young, friendly blond surfer-dude type sitting on the bench outside. He said we'd regret it if we didn't try the coffee. The "crowd" was comprised of several coffee-drinkers savoring their coffee standing up and there was actually no wait. The Warhol-look-alike barista asked Big Daughter if she wanted a "drip coffee" and she assented. It took a few minutes to make and I was able to examine the cardamon cakes, olive bread and cookies. Big Daughter unwittingly offended Mr. Warhol barista when she requested Sweetnlow. When told "we don't carry that stuff here," she huffed out and made me buy some at the neighbor deli for 15 cents. A few minutes later, Big Daughter admitted the coffee was "amazing." Monday morning, after bringing Carl and little one to Abraco for his coffee, I left them briefly at Odessa for a quick breakfast, while I ran an errand. I then whisked them down to Gramstand Tea on Avenue A (between 13th/14th). Little one was having her bangs trimmed at Trini in Private, a new salon that my long-time hair stylist recently opened at 12th street and 6th Avenue, and we had a little extra time before the appt. Big Sister complains that little one "tosses" her hair around after having her hair washed and dried following the trimming of bangs. I reminded Big daughter of her many manicures at a tender young age but she claimed to have been more modest. The battle of vanity. Anyway, I had visited Gramstand a few Saturdays ago and was thrilled to discover "Proper chai" listed on their menu. They prepare their chai with either halfnhalf or soy and steep the tea leaves in the milk for a very creamy, smooth finish with a hint of spiciness in the taste. Gramstand is a simple place with two futon couches in the front part of the cafe. There's a row of constantly-occupied tables in front of the counter. On my previous visit, a young woman was using two tables and seemed put out that we asked to sit at the adjacent table, where she had spread her papers. There is also a downstairs seating area. The crowd at Gramstand is quite eclectic and very much a mix of young e. villagers and those who carry a whiff of real time spent in the neighborhood. Little one's eyes alighted on some legos and an etch-a-sketch toy. After asking me if she could play with them, she was instantly content. Carl was happy to read the paper and I of course, drank my chai. It was a time of pure bliss for all of us.

Dennis Foy- When food is prepared for its own sake

2008-01-15T00:04:00.000-08:00

Our dear friend, and honorary family member, Miss M. was in New York City for a quick visit from L.A. for a few days between Christmas and New Years Day. In our family, there is a special place reserved in our hearts for Miss M. She was the first caregiver we ever hired for little one and we never worried when Miss M. was home with little one. Since she just graduated from USC (You Go Miss M!!) I thought dinner at Dennis Foy restaurant, (313 Church Street, between Lispenard and Walker) would be a good choice to celebrate this major life moment -and it was. I'd been wanting to eat at Dennis Foy for awhile and this presented the right opportunity. Miss M. and I met for dinner the Thursday evening after New Year's Day, one of the first seriously cold nights in NYC. The wind was so gusty, it pretty much blew us in the door. Miss M. had spent the previous few days snowboarding in Pennsylvania, yet when I met her, she still exuded an aura of Southern California warmth. The dining room at Dennis Foy also carried an inviting elegant, tropical warmth. Throughout dinner, I kept looking at one wall in particular which was painted in layered, tonal shades of gold. The art on the walls was the chef's own work and his varied paintings evoked the work of English artist, Howard Hodgkin, whose pieces are beautiful foggy blocks of jewel-like colors. Since my dinner with Miss M., I've been reflecting on the experience. This is not a restaurant that panders to the latest trend, or the latest big spender, for that matter. Eating at Dennis Foy provided me a rare glimpse into what it means to eat good food. Something quiet and serious was going on in the kitchen. It's the complete opposite of the big, brash, larger-than-life New York City food scene where everyone becomes a wheeler/dealer -the chef, the wait staff and the diner. Every dish was showcased as an edible array of jewels. It was quite enjoyable to sink into the luxury of simply eating beautifully prepared food. Now, as I meander around NYC, I can't quite get Dennis Foy out of my head. It's a warning bell, dinging against my vulgar interest in the "next best thing". The Jane Austen of restaurants -subdued, austere and very complicated. I sincerely hope Dennis Foy becomes a Tribeca mainstay. Esquire voted them Best Restaurant for 2007 and I understand why. The only comparison I can make - to help the gentle reader understand what I'm trying to communicate - is with Le Miu, a very unique Sushi restaurant in the E. Village (at Avenue A right off 7th street). I feel the same energy happening there with Japanese food and sushi. It's also prepared with a similar quietness of effort and intensity. Our defining moment at Dennis Foy was when the waiter came back from the kitchen and informed us that the chef wanted us to pick another dessert because our choice -the chocolate cake- "did not turn out so well that night." This was after a starter of exquisitely simple haricots verts (green beans), which were astonishingly good. Who would have thought green beans could be elevated to such a level? Miss M. started with pate -which was also very good. We switched plates midway to share our appetizers and not even a crumb was left behind. I selected scallops for my entree and she opted for steak. The scallops melted in my mouth and the steak, which arrived with beautiful bright green peas and mashed potatoes swirled together like an artistic palette of color, was the perfect touch on a cold, frigid night. The waiter presented the last little uneaten piece of steak to us in a gorgeous little bag so we could take it home. We ended up with a sublime chocolate souffle for dessert.

Thursday Night Date Night

2008-01-14T17:41:00.000-08:00

After a short hiatus, Carl and I resumed Thursday night date night last week. The goal of Thursday night dates, according to me, is to transport us out of our normal routine of work, home and family. This can be very stressful for Carl as he believes that one can rarely escape the routine of life. Much to his surprise, he has begun to enjoy these evenings. He is generally game to accompany me unless a major sports event is going on. In the past months, I stopped picking places for wine and cheese which has significantly impacted his motivation to join me. Not only does he find such places annoying, he complains that wine makes him sleepy -which is actually true. Last week, we ended up at Spitzer's Corner, (located at the corner of Rivington and Ludlow Streets). I walked by Spitzer's Corner several times in prior months, and also read about it but wasn't drawn to it. Initially, I visited them out of guilt because the week before, on the Friday after New Year's Day, little one and Carl stayed home and we made plans to meet for lunch. We planned to meet at Shopsins (now located adjacent to Saxelby's Cheese in the Essex Market) but it was closed. For some odd reason, whenever I try to visit Shopsins it's always closed -this is at least my third attempt. I saw a chalkboard in front of Spitzer's Corner that said something about brunch so we went in and checked it out. Carl is always great for that, he has no problem walking into empty spaces that look closed and asking questions. I have a thing about going into places that look closed, I just can't do it. Carl thinks that's ridiculous. Anyway, after we walked into Spitzer's Corner, little one began wailing,saying "no, no, not here." She's known to get in this kind of state for no discernible reason. The hostess was slightly perplexed but gamely told us the lunch specials. I apologized to the hostess, because little one had increased the volume of her wails. Under the threat of death by wailing, we reluctantly opted for Inoteca (which is directly across the street). Carl made a vain attempt to go to some Turkish place on the corner but I wasn't having it -falafel and coca cola was not cutting it. I think little one found Spitzer's Corner a bit plain. It was completely empty when we walked in, with the wooden picnic tables, backless benches and wooden walls creating the feeling of being in a cabin in the Northwoods. Maybe that's why I went back, because I've spent some time in the Northwoods and it's beautiful and isolated at the same time. The only difference is that outside of Spitzer's floor-to-ceiling windows a big, bustling city is meandering by so the effect is a bit surreal. Little one is extremely attuned to how places and things feel. It runs in the family. I have been known to leave a place because the chairs look funny. At Spitzer's Corner, I was intrigued as I read the list of ales/beers on the blackboard. A while back their pork fat popcorn was featured in a piece in the NY Post about the exotic popcorn wave hitting NYC - so I decided Carl and I would try Spitzer's Corner Thursday night. Little one, in fact, encouraged us to go there without her. On a side note, lunch at Inoteca turned out perfect sans meltdowns. I've had lunch at Inoteca several times in the past 6 months, and dinner once or twice in the past year. The quality of the food at Inoteca is outstanding. I talked Carl into the butternut squash because I ordered it for lunch on one of the last warm fall days. It was accompanied by polenta and tasted so naturally sweet, creamy and soothing that nothing else was needed. At our recent lunch, the waitress was very sweet to little one. She admired her new markers-we always bring paper and markers or coloring books. I was proud of Carl. He had a plastic bag of white paper and little one had her new colored markers. The friendly waitress brought her mini grilled paninis with a tomato dipping sauce. I had the meatballs and they were just what I wanted. But back to Thursday evening at Spitzer's Corner; I was surprised to have so much fun while I was there. There was a mixed crowd, and it was a bit noisy but the overall vibe was relaxed. The appetizers were presented in a way that made us eat them all. The pickle plate wasn't too salty or too sour and was a nod to the Jewish roots of the Lower East Side. The shrimp was served in a tall beer glass and accompanied by tartar sauce and cocktail sauce. They were pretty filling. I selected a winter wheat ale that was described has having hints of vanilla and citrus. I normally can't drink beer, but this one went down pretty easily. At the end of the meal, we ordered the bag of just-made donuts. They were warm, and covered with cinnamon and brown sugar. As I sat and looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows, I thought about how much the Lower east side has changed since the mid-1980s. Not too long ago, walking around Stanton, Rivington and Essex streets was like being in the Wild West. I started out in NYC at the corner of Suffolk and Delancey with my college boyfriend, Michael and his cousin John. We stayed for a few weeks with Michael's sister. In my minds eye, I can still see her sitting on the fire escape in a man's white t-shirt wearing vivid red lipstick and looking very French, with her-then boyfriend James. He later found us apartments in his building at E. 12th street. James had a pit bull before everyone and their grandmother had one. Michael, John and I were so poor then that we would gather our pennies and dollars and go down to Ratner's on Essex Street and eat soup and challah bread. When Ratner's closed several years ago, I was heartbroken. On our road trips back to see Michael and John's family in the Midwest, we would stop in the early morning at the Bialy place on Essex and Grand and buy a big, warm fragrant brown paper bag filled with Bialys. We would eat them in the car as we drove out of NYC and across Pennsylvania and Ohio to Indiana. I watched the stream of people walking by the window of Spitzer's Corner and I was nostalgic for those gritty, heady days when we listened to David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Prince and Bryan Ferry. I remembered the flea markets on Canal Street where I bought a leather mini-skirt and a green, oversize wool sweater and thought I was so cool. Untitled, a great postcard store, was still on Spring Street in Soho and all the great galleries were still there too. My first job was in Soho and I made $150/week. During my lunch break, it was a thrill to go to Untitled and pick out postcards. Afterwards, I would eat at Food, a collective restaurant with great big slices of homemade bread. Then I would visit galleries and view the work of up and coming artists who are now mainstream - Peter Halley, Jeff Koons, and Richard Tuttle among others. Being at Spitzer's Corner melded the past and the present in a way that left me feeling young despite the memories evoked.

The Wisdom of Tea

2008-01-04T19:07:00.000-08:00

When I moved back to the U.S. with my family at the age of 12, I was truly a fish out of water. We landed in St. Paul, Minnesota during the heart of winter, arriving into a arctic landscape of below-zero temperatures, towering snow drifts and nordic restraint. I was in junior high then and I cried every day -much to the dismay of my studious, older sister who was frequently summoned to the main office to comfort me. Her refuge was her studies, and she was none too happy to leave them for my despair.

I desperately missed the Indian and English friends we left behind in Kumasi, Ghana as well as the tropical warmth and openness of West Africa. It was only recently, since I took up the habit of visting teahouses like Podunk, (E. 5th Street between Second Avenue and Bowery) and Verdigris (13. S. 3rd Street, Hudson, New York) for a little teatime that I finally regained a sense of belonging that had evaded me for so long. It was the little things that made living in Africa so special. There is the simple memory of my mother receiving a little jar of "starter" yogurt from one of our Indian friends so she could make her own Indian-style yogurt at home. The magical sight of myriad, flickering candles arrayed around the end of our neighbor's balcony, as we celebrated the Hindu Festival of Diwali; the long, dusty car trips from Kumasi to Accra (the capital of Ghana), and from Ibadan to Lagos, (the capital of Nigeria).

My mother would prepare Samosas and fried egg sandwiches to eat on these trips. To this day, I can't eat Gulab Jamin, an Indian dessert of fried balls of dough in a thick sugar syrup, without thinking of my younger sister. As a child, she was addicted to my mother's homemade Gulab Jamin. Any leftover Gulab Jamin would mysteriously disappear when it was her turn to be downstairs while my older sister and I took "forced" afternoon naps upstairs.

It was a drastic change for our family to relocate to the Northwest suburbs outside Chicago and our family rituals were strangely truncated. There was the erratic Sunday afternoon tradition of eating my father's famous curry and homemade Halvah. If we reached for multiple glasses of water as we ate, my father would laugh delightedly. Forget the fact that we were all breathing like dragons due to the spiciness of the dish. His recipe remained his top secret.

If my father decided to make Halvah, I knew he was in a jovial mood. We were not as well-acquainted as I would have liked. Drinking chai has allowed me to tap into a larger genetic connection that restores the dislocation of our relationship. After my father died two years ago, I found solace in preparing my morning chai. Grinding the spices - black pepper, cardamon and cinnamom - was both contemplative and restorative. It was comforting to engage in the daily ritual of boiling the water and tea, setting it aside, boiling the milk and then rebrewing it all together. A soothing habit during a difficult time. I've since stopped this practice as it's more fun to drink other people's chai.

My father was happiest when life was simple. After leaving India to obtain his PhD at the University of Minnesota, he spent his entire life traveling all over Africa working as an agronomist (in Nigeria, Ghana, Ethiopia, Botswana, Swaziland, and Togo) - he was always on the go. On those Sunday afternoons as he prepared Halvah, he was content. Taking a little butter, he would mix in a few tablespoons of flour, add powdered milk and then brown it all together in the frying pan until it crumbled together and voila, dessert.

On Thanksgiving, he would play his records of Bollywood Musicals and Ravi Shankar; we would eat Turkey and stuffing to the accompanient of sitar music. Later, after I moved to NYC, I went in search of Indian food and sitar music in the restaurants on E. 6th street in Manhattan and Jackson Diner in Queens (when it was THE place for Indian food).

My old friend Goyal, himself an Indian deity of goodwill and common sense, owns Dresse Shoppe, (Second Avenue at 5th Street). Dress Shoppe is a small store specializing in all manner of Indian goods: bridal earrings, quilts, kurtas, prayer beads; you name it, he has it. At our first meeting (back when his store was next to the old American Express office on 9th Street between Lafayette/Broadway) Goyal said to me after looking at the name on my credit card, "If you're Indian, I'm Dutch." At least once a year, I drop into Dresse Shoppe to say hello to Goyal and his wife. While I'm there, I always buy beautiful, colorful silk kurtas for all the girls in the house,including me, or long ornate Indian bridal earrings. Funnily enough, I never leave that store without being convinced by Goyal to buy one additional thing.

Last spring, I read an Indian novel, Sacred Games, by Virkram Chandra. It was a compelling, epic story that touched on class, love and life against the backdrop of the kudzu-like corruption in India. It was recounted through the eyes of the main character, a detective who finally captures a legendary gangster. In the story, the detective, along with many other characters in the story, frequently stops to drink chai throughout the course of a day. I think of them often whether I have an hour at Podunk, or ten minutes at Pakistani Tea House. In these moments, I am able to reflect as I sip/slurp my sweet, milky aromatic chai, and return to a community that is familiar to me.

Here are a few of my favorite places:

Podunk (E. 5th Street between 2nd Avenue and Bowery). I mentioned Podunk in the Hot Chocolate post but Podunk's real focus is tea - really, really good tea - all kinds of it. Elspeth and family have created an oasis of calm in this small, sweet tea room filled with little mismatched chairs and tables. When I open the door to Podunk, I am assailed by the scent of love - in the smell of scones, cardamon cake, ginger cookies and lefse, just to name a few - baking in the oven. I bring only special people to Podunk because it is truly a temple of tranquility for me and a select group of others. I know this, because we see each other at Podunk regularly. If you meet the wrong person at Podunk, chances are high you will not see them again. I can attest to that! There is something in the air that repels bad energy pretty quickly. Elspeth carries a large selection of teas; green, black, herbal, and a large variety of custom-blended chais. She is extremely knowledgable about what a particular tea can do for the gentle drinker. In that regard, she will take time with a customer to decide on the right blend. Lately, Elspeth makes me a decaf ceylon with chai and rooibos added in. This soothes me, before I set off to meet my Wednesday/Friday evening clients. Podunk is completely unique. The only other place that carries the same scent of love in the smell of the food is PieNThigh in Williamsburg. I don't say this lightly because I am always searching out, and visiting tea rooms all over NYC.To establish my credentials, here are a few places of note:

Chae An, a Japanese-style tea room (on 9th street between 2nd Avenue and Third). (Don't tell Elspeth but I go there only when she's closed, which is hardly ever because Podunk is closed on Mondays.) A large part of Chae An's charm is simply ascending the smooth, wooden stairs one flight to the tea room. I always have a slight feeling of anticipation as I do that. At the entrance, there's a little counter with seats (sort of sushi-style) where customers can watch the chefs making the 15-grain porridge, which arrives with tiny side orders of pickled plum, seaweed, little potato dishes etc. That tea is finished off with a black sesame creme brulee or green tea ice cream.

Chae An also offers traditional teas sets with scones and cookies as well as tiny shumai dumplings. The space is very soothing. There is a private, little room with tatami mats and low tables. The tea selection is extensive - I recently broke away from always selecting chais and tried an Assam, which was very smooth. The customers are predominantly Japanese, which I think attests to the high quality of the food/tea.

Sanctuary Tea Room- This was mentioned a few blogs ago, as a Thursday night date destination. Sanctuary T has an impressive selection of teas. I love their chai tea for breakfast. It comes in a large, glass tea cup and tastes very creamy and smooth. I order it with soy. Sanctuary T is interesting because it's a tea room that has also positioned itself as a lounge. They offer tea-infused cocktails which are quite good.

I always see a good-sized good crowd in there around 9:45 p.m., when I walk home after meeting my Friday night clients. All of the food at Sanctuary T is prepared with varied tea infused flavors, and it's very tasty. Being small plate sharers, Carl and I are delighted with the portion-size at Sanctuary T. We usually share the salmon and the roasted vegetables.

At the urging of one of the waiters, I tried some new teas: Russian Caravan - it has a deep, smoky flavor, and Imperial Wedding, which has a very layered taste - sort of green and black together and pungent. We often go there for breakfast on Saturday mornings because little one's ballet/gymnastics class is nearby (at Watts/Thompson Street). A few weekends back, we met Carl's very special friends, Steve and Nancy, who were visiting from San Francisco, for breakfast. It was a great success. A lot of the staff at Sanctuary T is Serbian. They are extremely warm and hospitable in manner which adds to the pleasant experience. As I listen to them talk, it's fun for me to translate to myself. I lived in Belgrade in 1986, and big daughter is half-Serbian so it's like being home.

Common Ground - A very very cool, hippiesque coffee/tea space at Jane and Horatio Street. When I have my once-a-month Council meetings at the 15th street/7th Avenue site of my office, I disembark the 1 train at Sheridan Square and walk down W. 4th street to Common Ground. The walk, and the chai, prepare me for these War Room-like meetings where my co-workers and I develop strategies for tackling the multiple obstacles challenging anyone who works in the mental health field.

Early in the morning, Greenwich Village is still charming, and it's a very sweet time-warp walk. At that time of day, we pedestrians are civil and courteous to each other. I pass sleepy people heading into what must be the neighborhood deli to get their newspapers and coffee. This is reassuring to me as I watch, and read about NYC housing becoming a domain of the wealthy, very wealthy and superrich.

Lately, I've been talking Carl and little one into taking a trek up to Common Ground on Sunday mornings for breakfast. It's fun to jump on the No. 1 train and get them to walk from Sheridan Square. Little one likes to act like her legs don't work, but I'm able to distract her until we reach our destination. Even for little one, the well-kept brownstones and picturesque streets we pass are entrancing. Tartine is actually accessible at this time - with a few early birds reading the paper and drinking coffee. They (unfortunately) do tea bags there, but it's still a charming place.

At Common Ground, I always order the Masala chai and the grilled cheese sandwich on multigrain (the only time I eat bread). Carl loves the coffee. For some reason, he makes a lot of requests of the lady owner. She is fiercely sweet in manner and kind. I can see her becoming annoyed at him. To thwart this, I do all the ordering. In this way, my Common Ground frequent-buyers card gets quickly filled up, and I get a free drink. I've already gone through one.

I'm not quite sure what the story is with Carl and fierce sweet lady owner. He's usually not demanding in that way (those who read this blog know that Carl refuses to go to fancy places). On a recent walk to Common Ground, Carl told me Cafe Cluny was "wierd" and he quashed any ideas of breakfast there. Carl is an old hippie. It's possible that he's too comfortable at Common Ground. So it's the reverse - hippie as demanding consumer. Big Daughter loves this place too. I brought her there one morning for breakfast. She had an iced mocha, a piece of cherry pie, an everything bagel and half of my grilled cheese - it didn't add an ounce to her skinny little body. Go figure.

Wild Lily Tea Room (Chelsea) I think they closed, but the vibe was English tea house mixed with Zen energy and nice. I remember feeling soothed and eating Japanese-influenced tea snacks.

Kiva Cafe - I talked about their hot chocolate a few blogs ago. They have great teas - it's always fun to smell the aromas of the teas in the jars on the counter. They make a really nice Chai along with an assortment of green and black teas.

La Colombe Torrefaction - they were in the hot chocolate blog, but they also have a really nice Lavender Earl Grey tea.

Amai Tea and Bake House (17th Street and 3rd Avenue) I wrote about them in a previous blog - A really special, Japanese influenced tea room.

Plaza Hotel (High Tea) I had High Tea here back in the 1980s when I was dressing punky and had a purple streak in my hair. It was the standard high tea and I did really like it. I know the hotel is gone, but I have to check to see if tea is still offered.

Brown - a restaurant on Orchard (between Hester and Essex) serves an amazingly brewed milky chai. For some reason, New York Magazine gave them a wierd review. I really like the food and the energy of this place. The chai comes in a little iron Japanese tea pot brewed with the milk and I swoon.

Alice's Tea Cup (Upper West Side ) I thought it was a cool space and I liked the food. They have a lot of good sweets.

Ritz Carlton Battery Park. Their afternoon tea is pretty cool with all sorts of whipped pudding-like things and interesting sweets, along with the scones, cream and cookies.

Neue Cafe at the Neue Gallery (Upper East Side)- they have traditional Austrian desserts (Sacher tortes and such) and good teas if you're up for the wait. It's usually crowded here. I liked the tea and desserts, but the atmosphere is a bit strained. I always feel like I have to rush.

Blaue Gans - Tribeca (Duane Street between W. Broadway and Church). They serve really good teas at breakfast, or in the late afternoon. The Vanilla 1900 tea is a real winner. I had Vanilla 1900 this morning at breakfast with a danish and I was set for the day. (I wrote about them in this week's blog under breakfast.)

Punjabi Deli (2nd Street and Second Avenue). All the cab drivers come here for their lunch/snack stop. The proprietor makes a good cup of really good "ghetto" Indian chai for one dollar. I say "ghetto" because it's a tea bag in milk/water with cardamon pods, spices and sugar and then frothed at the cappuciono machine.

Khushdies (Essex at Rivington Street)- same deal as Punjabi Deli. Their chai is so hot that I can take it on the J train over the Williamsburg Bridge, if I'm heading back to work. When I reach my office, it's the perfect temperature to drink. I sometimes buy some pakora to go and it's like the old days!!

Pakistani Tea House (Church at Reade Street). Also mentioned in the breakfast blog. Same deal as the above two places but I recommend an order of just-made Nan to accompany it. This is a perfect remedy for a migraine (I swear). Little one is now a convert so Carl has to buy two chais or I have none!!

Verdigris (13 S. 3rd Street, Hudson, New York). Part of the draw of visiting Verdigris is the beautiful drive to Hudson (about 2 hours). I love looking at the Hudson River as we drive over the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. Ten minutes later, we are at Verdigris, an inviting tea shop, bakery and gallery just off Warren Street, the main drag in Hudson. When I arrive at Verdigris, I experience a sense of homecoming. Kim, the owner of Verdigris, is a NYC native (she taught art at Long Island College) and has since relocated to Hudson. Kim is the unofficial mayor of Hudson. She has so much civic pride and caring for Hudson and this same, careful care is expressed towards her customers. At Verdigris, Kim offers a wide selection of teas for the discerning customer to drink, buy or sample -black, green, herbal, and many chais. There's a little tea library where customers can browse among little jars of her tea selections. Customers are encouraged to open the jars and smell the tea. Little one and I did this while Regina, the baker, warmed up our Broccoli and Pasta soups. I finished all of my Pasta soup on our visit two weekends ago. Normally I don't like beans, but the broth was wonderful with a light parmesan flavor. I hadn't eaten much that day and my stomach was rebelling with cramps. Kim suggested a locally-produced, herbal Five Mint tea to drink and sure enough, my stomach calmed down. The homemade cheese biscuits and cornbread which accompanied the soup were very savoury and hit the spot. Before leaving, I bought some tea leaves and tea chocolates (Chocodrops) for Christmas presents. Little one added homemade gingerbread cookies in the shape of flowers as additional presents (while eating at least two of them). Carl kindly bought me a beautiful book on Tea (which I read in bed when I got home). It's an amazing book about the history of tea. There are many other sweet baked goods offered at Verdigris, biscotti, pumpkin breads and other delectable sweets. Afterwards, we took a walk down picturesque Warren street and looked in some art galleries and little boutiques. It was the perfect afternoon.

*There's a place called Gramstand Tea (Avenue A at 14th) that I have been meaning to try. I mention it here as an incentive to get over there.

Breakfast on the weekend

2007-12-31T14:32:00.001-08:00

In our household, going out for breakfast on the weekend has always been a tradition. Back when we spent more time in the E. Village, breakfast at Odessa's (which I wrote about in last week's blog) or Veselka (9th Street at Second Avenue) was pretty much a mainstay. Somewhere along the line, I began to view breakfast as a reward. My reasoning was that being seriously high-energy i.e. working two jobs, managing the household and most of the kid stuff, entitled me to breakfast. This was a dangerous shift on my part. Once I viewed breakfast as a reward, it literally disappeared and became an enticing mirage. This is probably what people mean about familiarity breeding contempt in close relationships. When breakfast became a mirage, rest assured that I waged fierce battles to reinstate it. I won't get into details since this information is not so food-oriented. All I will say to Carl is, remember the Neil Young tickets buddy.

If my breakfast battle has flagged a bit, a major contributing factor is the dearth of good breakfast places in Tribeca. In the past year, Tribeca lost Socrates, a venerable breakfast/lunch place for cops, sanitation officers and the "real" people who reside down here. Socrates resided right across from Nobu, at the corners of Hudson/Franklin for 25 years. At this point, big daughter would push me for full disclosure. Yes, it's true that I'd stopped going to Socrates awhile ago. I felt the end coming and it was just too depressing for me to eat there. The few times I visited Socrates, I was informed that "the waffle machine broke," or "the cook didn't know how to use the waffle machine" or they "ran out of buckwheat pancakes". I viewed this as an omen. I kid you not, each time I visited, such things really occurred. Finally, I decided it was best to go elsewhere.

Privately, I agonized over their failure to renovate - especially after Gee Whiz did after 9/11. Gee Whiz became "the neighborhood spot" for diner food, but not for me, of course). Carl has been eating at Socrates since it opened. Through his tutelage, little one was inducted into the Socrates Hall of Famers club. I think Carl liked Socrates because he achieved the commendable feat of taking little one off to breakfast at Socrates AND STILL MANAGED TO READ HIS beloved sports pages. He does this whenever the family is out for breakfast.I can safely report that it drives big daughter crazy. He did it this morning at Blaue Gans, see below (an Austrian restaurant on Duane Street between W. Broadway and Church) and I didn't mind.

Anyway, back to Socrates, they served really good buckwheat pancakes, challah French Toast. Their oatmeal with bananas had the perfect consistency. As Socrates slowly wound to its untimely demise, I managed to get us over to Blaue Gans, located on the site of the old Le Zinc. I must share that I used to love Le Zinc's oatmeal - it was so rich, it tasted like Indian rice pudding and I always felt (happily) sick after eating it. At Blaue Gans we became good friends with Miri, the young Austrian waitress who was there early on Saturdays/Sundays. She was extra sweet to little one and always prepared an amazing juice drink of orange juice and cranberry juice that little one adored. At Blaue Gans, we love to order the thick brown bread with jam/butter, the boiled eggs in a martini glass and the muesli along with a selection of very good loose teas.

Blaue Gans is part of the Wallse and Neue Cafe empire. The chef is really smart, talented and tough. In the early morning, I examine the just-made Austrian pastries arrayed beautifully on the bar: the Linzer Torte, Gugelhopf (a kind of coffee-cake), the huge meringues and the milk breads, which are yummy - both with and without chocolate.

As the weather became warmer, and little one had Sunday morning soccer practice on the track in front of Pace High School by the Manhattan Bridge, we hiked through quiet Soho streets to Caffe Falai (265 Lafayette Street at Prince Street). Caffe Falai is an offshoot of two namesake cafe/restaurants on the Lower East Side (both around Clinton Street). Caffe Falai has an all-white decor, with glass chandeliers, small tables and a counter of Italian pastries, chocolates and breakfast treats.

Caffe Falai is staffed by high-energy, charming Italian men who cater to a constant stream of exotic-looking, stylish hipsters who line up at the counter seeking good coffee. Their pastries selection are the real draw - all manner of apple turnovers, little banana/almond tarts, chocolate domes and a selection of baked egg dishes.

Falai Iacopelli is a total sweetheart (and very cute too, in a retro 60s way - I must say that). He very sweetly gave little one a box of yummy cookies early on in the summer and I was a fan for life. How nice is that? Carl pronounces their coffee amazing. We would alternate between breakfast at Blaue Gans and Caffe Falai (until Blaue Gans stopped serving breakfast at 9 a.m. during the summer). The ambiance at Blaue Gans is more winter/fall and everybody (but us) likes to sit outside at Bouley Bakery (at W. Broadway/Duane), and sip their coffees.

When soccer stopped, and it became too hot to walk over to Lafayette street, we began having breakfast at Mocca, an Israeli cafe/lounge (at the corner of Reade/Church). We followed one of our other favorite waitresses from Blaue Gans over to Mocca -that's a secret. Mocca has a bustling takeout service - they offer a dizzying array of coffee drinks, decent teas, some hot chocolates and everything in between. Their breakfasts are good and they serve traditional middle eastern breakfasts. In mid-to late evening, Mocca morphs into a lounge and that vibe is still floating around at breakfast time. It makes me feel a bit wobbly, so I'm inconsistent with Mocca.

For those moments, there is My Bigger Place (used to be My Little Place) a Mexican/American restaurant on Warren and West Broadway. Carl is a huge fan of their food. Besides truly good Mexican food, they serve really good biscuits. I usually get the egg white turkey omelet and hash browns. The oatmeal is also very good-accompanied by generous helpings of bananas and other fruit. It enough food for two or three people according to me. Sometimes I get their steak with green pepper and guacamole. It's good but a bit greasy so I can only eat that one time per month or so. My stomach always hurts right after eating it.

Unfortunately, My Bigger Place doesn't have loose tea and that's a bit problematci for me. I realize I sound a bit ridiculous, but good tea is good tea and tea bags don't cut it. Carl is always up for breakfast at My Bigger Place, but sometimes I'm searching for something more.

There's a new (very HIP) place at the corner of N. Moore and Greenwich, Smith and Mills. When it first opened, we stopped in for breakfast and somehow Carl survived the experience. He has an antenna for over-the-top behavior and yes, that does exist there. Here's the rub, the ambiance is great for me at Smith and Mill. It's a cozy little space with real cloth napkins, little china tea cups and croissants but that's where it ends.

Carl's right - the staff is really into themselves. The first time we were there, the cook (who looked REALLY GROUCHY) got mad because Carl couldn't figure out how to slide open the bathroom door. (Carl's a bit spatially challenged and readily admits it). He once broke a handle on little one's stroller because he couldn't figure out how to slide the lever and yanked it off! He didn't tell me and one day I reached for it and it was gone. Although I have my own run-ins with Carl, when he's unfairly mistreated, I get protective. The grouchy cook was lounging at the bar and reading our NY Post so in retaliation for his meanness to Carl, I started loudly looking for the Post.

When the cook went off to the bathroom, I muttered some choice things. To top it off, we all had to eat croissants because they said they ran out of muesli. I guess the party of four that was there before us ate everything, or maybe we didn't have a "hip" enough vibe?. Come to think of it, maybe they were trying to get rid of us, hmm. They were just mentioned in one of the NY Posts Sunday Magazine's breakfast assignments. On our way upstate to a very cool tea house - Verdigris (see the tea post), Carl went in there yesterday morning to get us some tea. He did this for logistical reasons.

We picked up our Zip Car at the garage on N. Moore, directly across the street from Smith and Mills. Carl said the guy said "BYE" very loudly to him after he left a $1 tip on $6 (for one tea/one coffee.) I could just see it. I'm sad to say that aside from Blaue Gans, I've given up on the idea of a nice breakfast in Tribeca. If it's early, we walk over to La Colombe Torrefaction and get a Hot Chocolate and have a nice chat with the friendly barista-man/manager. He never fails to ask after beautiful big daughter (which scores significant points with me) and is very sweet to little daughter. So it's a win-win.

If we're heading out around 11 a.m., I ask Carl (or go myself) to get a chai from the Pakistani Tea House on Church at Duane Street. Pakistani Tea House serves great Pakistani/Indian food. Their Samosa's and Pakoras are as good as my mother's, and those prepared by our Indian neighbors during my childhood in Africa. It's fun to watch the counterman make the Nan (the flat ridged bread) right there on the hot stone surface. Although the counter ladies can seem a bit tough, they are actually very sweet. And they have great Gulab Jamin (balls of dough soaked in rose syrup), my favorite Indian dessert!! My current fantasy is to rent an available space, which for some reason has remained un-rented forever, at the corner of White Street and W. Broadway. I'd find a terrific short-order cook to prepare simple breakfasts, without attitude. I'm sorry I can't eat at Bubbys (Hudson at N. Moore) because Saturdays and Sundays are reserved for all the people visiting from other cities, countries or NYC neighborhoods. It is fun to walk by Bubbys and see the families and groups of friends gathered together while they are waiting. I call that the visitor breakfast buzz.

I get that same buzz when we eat at Clary's Cafe in Savannah, Georgia. They prepare and serve the best sweet rolls (other than, you guessed it, my mothers). If we're renting a ZipCar car at Leroy Street, we stop in for a quick breakfast at Giorgiones on Greenwich Street. I make sure the owner, Giorgio, a founder of Dean and Delucas, isn't ther). He's really nice, but gruff and he starts hectoring his staff too early in the morning. Giorgiones is a nice space, very minimalist - a long frosted-glass counter with high-backed stools and good (but pricey breakfast). I can overlook their lack of loose tea since the tea quality at Dean and Deluca is not bad. Their cheese/ham grits are very good and their oatmeal can be good, if they don't overdo it with cream). They've got a selection of good egg dishes and the pancakes are tasty.

Farther afield, I was early to an appointment in the E. Village on Saturday, so I made a visit to Veselka's counter and ordered a farina. Their farina is heavenly. No one else even serves it anymore. It wasn't crazy bustling at Veselka's, but it wasn't empty either. I sat and read all the specials up on the wall and was reassured that time passes and yet stays the same.

When she was still in elementary school, big daughter and I used to sit at the counter on Tuesday evenings and have cabbage soup with thin-sliced, slightly sweet challah bread. It would be steamy up front, and the windows would get foggy and we would talk about our day. Over time, we got to know the counter guys, and they'd ask about our day too. This morning though, I had to laugh. As I ate my Farina, there was a lot of drama. The waitress kept getting upset with the counter guy for making the wrong pancakes - literally every 5 minutes. The man sitting next to me started laughing too - we both acknowledged that we've been visiting Veselka for years. We usually visit on week-day mornings, when it's nice and calm. My waiter had a great voice and I wondered if he was an unemployed actor moonlighting as a waiter due to the writer's strike, so I left him an extra-large tip on the Farina.

Marketplace

2007-12-25T18:57:00.000-08:00

I ordered Carl a 15-1b cooked ham from Calhouns, in Culpepper W. Virginia, for Christmas. It was a bit sneaky of me since I wanted to try the ham, but needed to give it to someone in order to do so. Carl is notorious for not liking gifts so I figured food was safe (since he could hardly eat an entire 15 lb ham by himself.) In year's past, Carl has "accidentally" disposed of gifts I gave him i.e. one year, a new pair of very cool Puma sneakers somehow "fell" down the incinerator chute.

I'm happy to report that the ham is pretty yummy (and still in the fridge.) I would have to agree with the shout-outs touting the wonders of Calhoun's hams (on the back page of flyer which came in the package.) The first shout-out was from the chef/owner at The Inn at Little Washington. I've always wanted to eat there, but doubt Carl would accompany me. Oh well, I have the ham, which the chef from the Little Inn apparently likes, so that will have to do for now. Anyway, I was the only one who tried the ham today. It was a bit unnerving to cut off the double-plastic wrap and then snip away at what seemed like a hair net. Carl came into the kitchen and reassured me that he thought the hairnet helped flavor the ham while making it clear that he wasn't hungry. The ham was finely cross hatched all over so I think he's right; the hatching must allow the flavor to seep in. The flyer said the ham is rubbed with "old fashioned cure three times in the first 8 weeks and then hung in the ham house to age six to 12months."

When I ordered the ham, I asked them to send it cooked. The idea of boiling it was a bit off putting to me. I ended up eating slices of the ham with mustard and alternating it with slices of pear. The pears arrived in a Tower of Treats from Harry and David, courtesy of my mother. After a few slices of both, I had a very tiny taste of one little chocolate (also in the Tower of Treats). My appetite is a bit off because I reluctantly agreed to take antibiotics this week and they pretty much ruin me (appetite and energy-wise). Fortunately the ham still tasted good. (My cool new doctor in Chinatown firmly insisted that 8 weeks of bronchitis is a bit extreme and thus prescribed the medicine. So much for my aversion to antibiotics.) At least she didn't quibble with my daily diet of cheese and said it was a good source of calcium.

The rest of the family wasn't hungry because they were able to eat Christmas breakfast at Odessa's, (that good, old Ukrainian standby on Avenue A in the E. Village). Odessa's is our other home-away-from home haunt. Big daughter and I went there for breakfast every Saturday during her childhood. We would meet her little friends there and then go across the street to the playground at Tompkins Square park or roam around the neighborhood gardens ( most of which have become the site of newly-constructed apartment buildings.)

We don't get to Odessa's as much as we used to but it seemed right for Christmas breakfast today. Little one started melting down (I think Santa overexcited her) over the vanilla egg cream and demanded juice, but refused my orange juice. Big Sister looked alarmed, but luckily little one's food arrived - two eggs sunny side up and hash browns. She calmed down as she dipped her bread into the yolks and I ate the sliced steak that came with it. Carl got his usual order of Challah Bread with no butter and orange marmalade. He couldn't resist my order of Challah Bread as well. (His only other meal of the day was homemade crepes and strawberries. After I melted butter for little one, as part of playing "chef" with her new set of toy cookware, I decided not to waste it and made the crepes.) Big daughter was in heaven over her omelet, and two sides of Kielbasa. We didn't see our regular manager this morning but it didn't matter - nothing ever changes at Odessa and that's why we love it. The menu still says Farina even though they stopped making it years ago! By the time we left, Odessa's was jumping.

I have a shout-out of my own for big daughter. She gave me a personalized Breakfast at Tiffany's gift - an Izzy Gold tshirt and a Tiffany's box holding a little silver heart-in-a-heart necklace. When she gets back from a three-week visit to see her father in Belgrade, Yugoslavia, I'll have found us the perfect place for our own real-life Breakfast at Tiffany's. Maybe we'll try a new Viennese cafe I just read about on the Upper West Side.

Christmas Eve at Lanza's

2007-12-25T17:09:00.003-08:00

It's becoming a tradition to have Christmas Eve dinner with our friends Sharon, Harry and their five-year-old twins at Sal Anthony's Lanza's, an Italian restaurant in the E. Village on First Avenue at 10th street. I've been eating here since the mid-1980s, first as a young, wide-eyed college graduate new-to-the city, then as a single mother of then-little-now-Big Daughter, and now as a mother of one big and one little daughter.

Sal Anthony's Lanza's has become a special place to me over the years, filling in as a home-away-from-home during those tumultuous years when home was my E. Village apartment. As a restaurant, it manages to be both homey and comfortable. Holiday meals there are special yet remain down-to-earth. As I was leaving last night, I overheard one diner explaining to his table mate that he needed to do something with his jaw (I assume plastic surgery). I mistakenly thought I'd lost little one's coat (it was at my E. village apt). When I went in to look for it, the family eating at the adjacent table was helpful and tried to help me find it.

Around Christmas last year, three of us from work impulsively decided to have lunch at Sal Anthony's Lanza's. My boss ended up joining us for lunch and it turned into a wonderful holiday moment. While we were eating, a fellow diner began singing an Aria. After he was finished, we resumed our conversation and continued eating until he burst into another Aria. It was opera at lunch.

Big daughter's high school graduation dinner was also held there this past June - an interesting mix of friends and family. And for the past two years, we've met Carl's mom there for the Thanksgiving meal, which is always very tasty. I love that cranberry sauce. The first year, after our meal ended, we sat and talked for awhile. Surprisingly, there no pressure to leave. We checked to see if they needed the table. When they said no, we ordered more dessert and coffee while it poured buckets outside. This year, the meeting did not go so well, but the food remained great. No matter how difficult the company, the food and ambiance at Sal Anthony's Lanza's always carries the evening. Many of the staff have been working there for several years and we are always warmly acknowledged.

Last night, we adults were quite lacking in yuletide cheer having braved far too many personal challenges this year. Little one, and the female half of the twins, compensated for our lackluster spirits as they played with small gifts that were handed out at the beginning of dinner. As I told Carl and big daughter afterwards, I think the point of holiday dinners is simply to be with each other - perhaps more so during difficult times. Having survived the year, what's truly meaningful is that we all managed to show up.

In a similar vein, over the years, I've watched the restaurant evolve from an old, almost-forgotten place into a vibrant, energetic neighborhood spot. In the mid-80s, it was a shadowy place - dimly lit and slightly menacing. It was hard to really see the murals (they are painted directly on the walls), and saturnine-looking waiters moved ponderously about the place. The experience could be likened to a culinary riff on the movie Blue Velvet. Luckily, in the early 90s, the place metamorphosed into a real neighborhood spot.

Whenever big daughter left elementary school early for a doctor/dental appointment, her treat afterwards was lunch at Sal Anthony's Lanza's. In those days, lunch was a real bargain, but it was also much more than that. She and I were regulars, and for our little family of two that went a long way. In those years, she and I spent many holidays there with friends and visiting family members: Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve lunch etc. Ronnie, the manager, reminisced with me during her high school graduation dinner about how she would play in the old 1930s style phone booth near the front door.

The phone booth is gone now, as is an adjacent table that displayed the desserts (fresh strawberries and whipped cream, ricotta cheese cake and tiramisu). They took the phone booth out to make room for more tables and created a bar in the middle of the room. And last night I noticed that there were some new menu choices. Along with the melon and prosciutto, which is one of my favorites, and the mozzarella and peppers, and the calamari and Arugula salad, there was for the first time, mussels in marinara sauce and cod and bacalao. I also saw a new pasta with wild boar and venison, a whiting dish and a new cod dish I'd never seen as well.

I didn't order an entree figuring I'd just eat a lot of the different appetizers and that was exactly what I did. It was perfect to have a taste of everything; I especially liked the mussels. The three little ones shared an order of spaghetti, Carl ordered the cod (didn't like it) and big daughter ordered chicken rollatini that she loved. Sharon and Harry shared the Veal Scallopini and finished it all.

After dinner, we went next door to De Robertis Bakery and bought cookies, biscotti and limone (lemony, donut-like cookies) for big daughter to bring over to her boyfriend's house on Christmas Day. De Robertis was minutes from closing; our bakery man said he was "vestless" because he thought he "was going home," but still graciously filled our order. Little one scored two Anisette-flavored biscotti - one plain and one-half dipped in chocolate. We discussed whether the chocolate-dipped side should be visible, or wrapped as she finished the plain biscotti.

I told our bakery man that back when I lived around the corner, (at 12th and 1st from 1982 to 1986), I would get the fig cookies when I didn't feel well. Those were also the days when my Greek landlord, Spiro, was always trying to hawk things to me, "I have Ringo's guitar - would you like to buy?". He would open his door and offer me homemade soup as I walked the five flights to my rickety railroad-style apartment with the shower in the kitchen on the top floor. But back to the bakery man, he shuddered and said he hated figs. He couldn't believe that was what made me feel better - so much for nostalgic memories.

Lunching in Willliamsburg

2007-12-23T15:53:00.000-08:00

Lunch in Williamsburg has become a much bigger deal in the five years I've been working on the South Side (literally next to the Williamsburg Bridge). During lunch, it's fun to walk around and pick out places that definitely did not exist in 1989 when I was a new, single mother living on N. 5th between Driggs/Roebling streets. Each time I walk down Metropolitan Avenue to the Roebling Tea Room, I think back to the days when Metropolitan was the dividing line between the relative safety of Greenpoint and the "wild" South side. At that time, the truly intrepid lived on the South-numbered streets (in very cool apartments, I might add). I remember going to a party on S. 2nd street; you would have thought I was heading to Beirut. In the end it was a nice party and a neighborhood of real people doing what we all do. These days there are all kinds of places to eat and drink scattered around the South side and I much prefer being there than on Avenue of the Hipsters aka Bedford Avenue. Here are some of my lunch favorites:

Roebling Tea Room - (143 Roebling/Metropolitan Avenue)They carry a selection of teas that are truly flavorful. Because of Roebling, I now say things like "is it loose tea or a tea bag" and wince when I do so, but there's a difference, sorry. At Roebling Tea Room, I mostly focus on the black teas. I've fallen into a rut of ordering Mandala Chai, with or without caffeine depending on my energy level. I'm happy to report that the other day, I tried a black vanilla. On other occasions, I've tried the Assam and the Darjeeling but I always return to the Mandala Chai.

Along with the teas, there is a good selection of food. I've noticed the menu has changed a few times for the better. Most of the time I opt for the soup of the day; last week it was a butternut squash which hit the spot. I have a thing about bread. I love it, but it doesn't do my figure well, so I try not to eat more than a crumb of it. The other day I ordered the pork sandwich after deliberating between that and oatmeal. The waitress couldn't help me decide because she said she doesn't eat pork. Once the sandwich arrived, I ate the pork, leaving aside the fried egg and the bread. I noticed that most of my fellow diners happily ate their entire sandwich. The homemade potato chips that accompanied the sandwich were excellent. I've gotten semi-friendly with Michael (the tea/coffee somnelier). He's always willing to discuss politics and give me steamed soy milk with my tea.

Pies-N-Thighs (351 Kent Avenue) - I should admit from the onset that I AM IN LOVE with this place. During the summer- at least once a week- I make the trek over to Pies-N-Thighs. My walk meanders past some construction sites of new apartment buildings and through neighborhoods with well-kept buildings mixed in with bodegas, dry cleaners and small hip restaurants. I keep walking by Papa Lima (a new sandwich place), but am always dead set on getting to Pies-N-Thighs. Once there, I sit in the small backyard - some have compared it to a comfortable prison yard - where I read my paper and observe the other diners while the traffic whizzes by above on the Williamsburg Bridge.

Each time I visit, the sight of the large weeping willow tree on the water's edge at the end of the block gives me pause. It feels very southern-Confederate-era and I channel Savannah, Georgia, Beaufort, South Carolina, and the food at BoBque (a favorite place to eat next to a gas station on Edisto Island, South Carolina where we have spent a fair amount of time.) Sarah, one of the owners of Pies-N-Thighs, literally infuses the food she makes with love. I am one of many who makes a pilgrimage for peace of mind and a piece of pie.

For lunch, I usually opt for the catfish with a splash of hot sauce and a side of cucumber salad, or get the iceberg salad with bacon bits and no egg. I cannot leave without picking up some crumble-of-the-day, be it blueberry/rhubarb, peach, a large rice krispie bar, a piece of pie or usually all of the above. Big daughter is also a huge fan. So much so, that I was dispatched to Pies-N-Thighs one cold day in February to get the food she wanted for her 18th birthday party. I was trying to figure out how I would carry all the food back on the J train to Manhattan. Luckily a co-worker drove me.

At least once every two weeks, big daughter heads out on the J train and off we go for her favorite lunch (aka birthday dinner): fried chicken, biscuits, macncheese and cheesy grits with a little salsa verde. After that, she usually ends up getting a cookie and lemonade and the sweet tea. Then she talks me into hiking back over to Metropolitan and visiting Cheeks Bakery. If I am alone, it's fun to walk back to work looping around Diner and down Broadway to my office on Havemeyer. One time, I was treated to a concert of jazzy sounding piano music as I walked past Bembe, a popular bar in Williamsburg.

Cheeks Bakery (378 Metropolitan Avenue to the right when Havemeyer ends)is truly an artisanal bakery. Melanie (the head baker and owner) makes all manner of cakes (German Chocolate with caramel frosting, Red Velvet, and Vanilla to name a few) I have been known to order a cake just to celebrate my team's good work. I always order them for staff birthdays. Melanie also makes homemade granola, little lemon tarts and all kinds of cupcakes along with crumbly scone-like biscuits with cheese and pear/or apple.

There has been some mumbling on Chowhound about Melanie's fierceness re: customers' questions and their attempts to order all her cookies (she has a limit of 10 and you must order birthday cakes 24 hours in advance.) I see no problem with these requests because the quality of her baked goods is truly wonderful. Melanie does not suffer fools gladly and that's who she is. Which reminds me, last year Melanie unearthed some gorgeous old molds from the bar across the street. She made some beautiful looking and great tasting gingerbread figures that were kind of ancient looking and sculptural. (Carl eventually ate them all after I put them on a table as decoration during a party).

Taco Chulo (253 Grand street off Havemeyer). Quite by accident,listening to the owner offer a regular a taste of Hot Toddy, I ended up tasting it. I discovered that a few sips is great for a)an ongoing cough and b) settling my nerves. With lemon juice, cloves, hot water and a shot of whiskey, the Hot Toddy restores my blood flow and quiets my cough. I've found it somewhat comforting to drink three sips of a Hot Toddy while eating their Chula salad, which is shredded cabbage, either fish/meat/vegetable, beans and rice. I usually forgo the rice and beans in favor of spinach and a shot of guacamole.

Buffalo Cantina (149 Havemeyer at S. 2nd) has all kinds of Mexican food (burritos, tortas, tacos, and salads). They are definitely not tacky Mexican. I love their shrimp tacos because they include tons of cilantro, raw onion and a great salsa. Their black bean soup never disappoints. I can remember laboring over black bean soup many years ago. Those beans have to soak for hours. When I request more chopped raw onion and grated cheese to go with their black bean soup, the guys at Buffalo Cantina are extremely obliging. We communicate in Spanish and they are patient when I momentarily mix up words. Their sopa de tortilla is especially good on a cold day. They also have horchata, a sweet, milky mexican rice drink which is served cold that's good in the summer.

Diner (85 Broadway at Berry Street) is another favorite place to eat lunch. I'm there mostly in the summer because I can sit outside by myself and read. On my way there, I walk down Broadway past Peter Lugers and an old bank. As I walk, I observe the mix of Orthodox and Spanish families along with the hipsters. It's fun to see the Wall Street traders parking their Porsche's at Peter Luger's private parking lot and then heading into the restaurant to eat their manly steaks. (I've gone in for the hamburger at lunch - a good bargain. It's a man's world in there, but there's still room for people like me). Every few minutes, the B61 bus to Red Hook rumbles by and I am always surprised by the sign for Red Hook on the front of the bus. I think of Red Hook as being far away, but I suppose it's all on the water. The fact that Diner is one block from the water adds to its charm. As I sit in the sun, I feel like I'm by the sea.

My favorite time to eat at Diner is mid-summer when the kitchen makes Italian-style bread salads with a mix of just-picked ripe, flavorful heirloom tomatoes. That salad is to die for -eating those tomatoes is an ethereal experience. This is another favorite place for big daughter to meet me for lunch. After we listen to the waiter/waitress write down all the specials on our paper tablecloth, we deliberate over our choices and then make our selections. Once in a blue moon, big daughter just opts for the pressed ham sandwich listed on the little menu provided to diners. After lunch it's always fun to go next door to Marlow and Sons (81 Broadway) and browse. There is a large assortment of honeys, English and Australian chocolate bars and a whole lot of other speciality foods. We usually peruse the baked goods and settle on some sweet thing. For the goodbye dinner of my predecessor at this program, we traipsed off to Marlow and Sons (my idea of course) for small plates of oysters and cheese.

The staff at the outpt. clinic upstairs turned me on to a divey, really great chicken place on Broadway (past Marcy Avenue) called Chicken Q (341 Broadway). They also have really good pernil (roast pork). Every once in a while, big daughter gets a craving for a traditional Spanish lunch of rice/beans, roast chicken and plantanos and that's her spot. (I'm certain that one of the scenes in the movie Enchanted was filmed at the SRO next door to Chicken Q. Of course, in the movie it was transformed into a luxury hotel room. I recognized the SRO doorway when I saw the movie with little one the other day.)

Over on Bedford Avenue at South 2nd, there is Bonita, (which I mentioned in a previous post). There is also DuMont Burger at S. 3rd, the less-expensive sibling of Dressler, a fancy restaurant located on Broadway, a stone's throw from Peter Luger. DuMont Burger has great burgers (small and little) and good macaroni and cheese and one sits bar style. It can be a bit off-putting to go in when it's crowded. I haven't eaten at Dressler, but I love looking at the dramatic flower arrangements in the window as I walk to Diner.

Thursday Night "Date Night" on Hiatus

2007-12-22T18:53:00.000-08:00

Thursday night date night was temporarily suspended this week leaving me benched. The combination of basketball (Duke vs. Pittsburgh) and the South Beach vacation of Cyndi (our little one's amazing caregiver) sidelined any hopes I harbored of engaging in uninterrupted adult conversation with Carl. (Luckily, there was time for adult conversation today during a holiday lunch at Chanterelle with my friend Maria, but that's another post). I'm anticipating more Thursday night cancellations in February and March during March Madness. Fortunately, I think I can enlist my friend Emily to join me for Thursday night dinner during that time.

In prior years, I made the trek up to Madison Square Garden (MSG) and enjoyed watching the Pittsburgh players (not the least because many of them appeared to be football players sidelining as basketball players, and yet remained amazingly light on their feet.) This year, I wasn't too keen on watching the Duke players. For me, Duke is too much of a well-oiled powerhouse and many of the players seem to be already playing for the NBA which defeats the excitement of college basketball.

Even the offer of Korean food - Carl and I have many favorite Korean restaurants on 32nd street between 5th and 6th - couldn't entice me to head up to MSG. Despite my enormous love for kimchi (spicy pickled cabbage) and pan chan, (the assorted small gratis offerings of pickled vegetables, raw fish or meat - some spicy and some bland - that accompany every meal in a Korean restaurant), I opted to trudge disconsolately downtown. It seemed prudent to go home and console my bruised soul with crackers and Olga cheese (courtesy of Saxelby Cheese).

Unfortunately, my Montrachet cheese from Max at Formaggio Essex had dried up because I kept eating spoonfuls and did not wrap it properly. Eating Montrachet is like eating fresh cream. But back to Korean food... My very first date with Carl was at Gahm Mi Oak (43W. 32nd Street between 5th/Broadway). I remember being extremely impressed that he not only suggested a type of food that had been on my shortlist for awhile, but also invited big daughter along. She didn't go, but the thought counted.

For some reason, on that first date, Carl wore an inordinate amount of clothing: two sweaters and a jacket (was it that cold in mid June, or was he even skinnier back then?) Looking back, it's clear that my willingness to share food was crucial to the possibility of future developments between us. Our first meal together foretold a lot. The restaurant was (and remains) a clean, spartan space and the style of the food matched the setting. I've since figured out that Carl doesn't like things complicated.

We shared a thick soup with noodles and vegetables and a Korean beer. The soup is called sollongtang and is famous as a hangover cure (we don't drink but perhaps we needed a different kind of cure.) Since then, after repeated visits to 32nd Street, I've become enamored with the big, overblown Korean bbq style places where you sit at a table with a gas grill and sear pieces of meat, fish or vegetables, which arrive all diced/sliced and chopped. There is something extremely comforting about eating Korean food while presiding over your own personal fire-burning grill. Even the way the waiter/waitress lights the grill appeals to me. The process is so organized and orderly, I wonder how the world can ever seem unpredictable.

For awhile, we were returning to Kang Suh (1250 Broadway - on the opposite corner of that horrible Manhattan Mall) and sitting upstairs to do BBQ. When we saw that the waiters were unhappy about our request to share one order to grill, we decided to move on. It was impossible to eat that much food. After that, we opted for Mandoo Bar (further down 32nd - closer to 5th Avenue). Mandoo Bar is smaller and has more snack-like offerings, which are perfect for us. There is a large glass window through which passerbys observe the making of dumplings, which come filled with pork and scallion or kimchee.I think there was (briefly) a Mandoo Bar at University and 11th Street (between Dean and Delucas and Patsy's Pizzeria). It seemed out of place and ultimately closed.

Hangawi (12 E. 32nd Street between Madison and Fifth Avenue) is a completely different kind of Korean restaurant - very zen-like and root-vegetable oriented. Diners sit in their own little self-enclosed rooms, which are very peaceful. I'm recollecting the sound of water gurgling around us. During a meal with Carl's mother, we all managed to remain calm and tranquil and I remember cold sweetened teas that tasted like tropical juices.

Recently, we tried (and liked) a new favorite place. I think it's called Hang Suh (on 32nd closer to 5th Avenue.) Carl's former co-worker JoAnne had also recommended we try it. We were lucky enough to be seated immediately. Usually, there is a horrifically long line. Indeed, such a line started to form as soon as we began eating. I thought perhaps I should eat very fast, but the waiter seemed to be in no hurry so I followed his lead.

Re: Korean food downtown: Li Hua (Grand at Baxter). I think they are connected with Mandoo Bar -the clean, mod design of the space is very similar. Li Hua is not as bright and warm as Mandoo Bar, but the food is very good especially during winter. Whenever my big daughter and I eat there, ColdPlay is on the soundtrack and we inevitably lapse into melancholia at some point during our meal. She has even become teary at times so we keep that in mind when heading over to Li Hua. I always get the BibimBop, a rice/vegetable dish that is served sizzling hot in a little stone pot. I prefer it without egg. If you eat it with egg, the raw egg yolk is mixed in by the waiter/waitress tableside. I like eating the different vegetables resting on top of the rice while they are still very hot. I add dashes of the hot red sauce as I do this.

Most people love the very crispy rice at the bottom but I ate too much rice as a child. With an Indian father, we literally ate rice every day and I cannot eat one grain more. Big daughter and I usually share the crisp avocado salad with carrot dressing. She always orders the Beef Bulgogi. This requires that she enter into protracted negotiations with the waiter/waitress to substitute lettuce for the rice. Although we offer to pay for the heads of lettuce involved in the substitution, it always unnerves the staff. Almost every diner in Li Hau seems to involve the seafood style pancake (called hae mool pajun)which looks like a eggy pizza and is actually very tastya>

Wintermarket Goodies

2007-12-18T12:40:00.001-08:00

Despite the sleety, windy rainy weather, we (along with a lot of hardy souls in search of good food) braved the elements to go check out the Wintermarket at the old Fulton Fish Market at the South Street Seaport this past Sunday. It was hard to get too close to some of the stands but we managed to get some pickles from Ricks Picks and great cookies (with actual ginger slices in them) from Milk 'n Cookies.

We also scored some really crunchy apples from the Marlow and Sons stand. I usually walk over to Marlow and Sons a few times a month to get honey (they have many different kinds of honey) and/or Smarties (which remind me of my childhood in Kumasi, Ghana - don't say anything Carl - he thinks I'm namedropping countries now!!)I really did love those smarties at King Supermarket in downtown Kumasi when we went grocery shopping. Anyway, despite the chill that day there was a lot of good cheer and enthusiasm and Carl finally met Andrew (the owner of Diner, Marlow and Sons, and the two Bonita restaurants)and shared that the Bonita in Williamsburg at S. 2nd/Bedford is his favorite restaurant!! The other Bonita is in Fort Greene but we have yet to visit it.

Saxelby Cheese had a stand that was mobbed by a crowd of people at least three-deep. We couldn't get close, but Carl hoisted Salena on his shoulder and yelled a big hello to Anne Saxelby (the proprietor of Saxelby Cheese). I comforted myself with the thought that I visit her stand weekly at Essex Street Market to get cheese (from the Northeast). Right now, I'm buying a lot of Olga (her newest cheese from Maine).It would be great if this became a regular market. Check out www.newamsterdampublic for more information

Thursday Night "Date" Night

2007-12-14T11:59:00.000-08:00

Thursday night has been, at my continual urging, set aside for the two adults in the house (Carl and I) to go to dinner and talk without the little one in the middle of us. For me, this is an opportunity to try a new restaurant every week (or a new tea place or dessert place.) Carl, bless his soul, is usually up for this but once in a while he wants something "known." This month, we've been back to Sanctuary Tea
(W. Broadway at Grand Street) for tea and salmon smoked in some kind of tea (which is great!). We've checked out Amai Tea House (17th/3rd), which is a tea house in the Japanese style with cookies flavored with Earl Grey, figs rolled in chocolate and other delicious things. I like it there; I love watching the neighborhood people come in with anticipation and leave happy.

We've also tried Barfry (50 Carmine Street between Bleecker and Bedford). It's Japanese-style bar food (a lot of tempura). We opted for a pumpkin-squash soup, tuna tartare, tomatoes in basil sauce, snow peas with wasabi, and a shared tasting of black sesame, bay leaf and green tea ice cream. In each of the dishes, the flavors built up to a medley of the different spices used (imagine mustard seed at the bottom of the tuna tartare).

Last night was Cafe Gray in the Time Warner building (59th/Columbus). Once a year we treat Carl's financial advisor to a FANCY dinner - and I of course love that!! Cafe Grey is interesting. I didn't expect to like the space but I didn't mind it except for the strange light bulbs in the ceiling (similar to the ones you find in dressing rooms at the theater). The kitchen is a big open room - positioned right next to all us diners. On the other side of the kitchen is the view of Central Park, which you can't see. I wonder what that means? Food is king? Anyway, in the brief moments that I was glancing around, I didn't mind seeing the chefs cooking away. Big Daughter ordered the entree of pork belly and cheeks and it was surprisingly good (almost creamy in taste). (Usually, when I see cheeks, I think of someone's face and imagine eating their cheeks, which of course is too weird and then I don't order anything with cheeks in it).

I had read some reviews about Cafe Gray so I suggested that Carl get the roast duck as it was highly praised by a few different different food authorities. He was in heaven. I didn't like the appetizer of Sashimi with Tuna; it was kind of strange looking (a pink slab of fish with some root vegetables dropped on top but who am I to say?). Carl ate my cod with rice flakes in a curry sauce and was surprised at his ability to eat two entrees, but he's really skinny so it doesn't matter. The desserts were pretty - and presented with a flourish - chocolate souffle with ginger, chocolate rum toast with raisins and bananas, and crystallized key lime pie with schlag and vanilla sugar donuts. I think the vanilla sugar donuts were the best, but I didn't like the chocolate dipping sauce or the vanilla one.

This probably sounds strange, but I found the atmosphere of the restaurant a little weird. The second tier servers (the servers and water bearers) were cool and had a sense of themselves, but the bartenders and the Maitre'd seemed a bit beaten down. Who knows serving people who don't really care about the food might do one in. I saw one woman snapping her finger at the Maitre'd as we were leaving and I was horrified. Earlier she was eating bread in a very strange way - one piece was just jutting out of her mouth like a little second tongue. I guess I'd get beaten down too. The experience made me think that of all the fancy dinners with the Financial Advisor (Daniel, Le Cirque, L'Impero, L'Cirque, Le Bernardin and Cafe Gray), the one which really stood out is Le Bernardin. From start to finish, it was a seamless experience and the staff exuded a palpable sense of excitement and pride, which gave the experience an almost magical feeling.

The only other restaurant that consistently recreates that same sense of a magical moment is Chanterelle (Harrison and Hudson Street - Tribeca. When I go to Chanterelle (not for Thursday night dinner of course because Carl would literally die. The poor man (he is actually not poor) refuses to eat "fancy" other than with his financial advisor once a year. I think the equation is that money=rewards. Or perhaps that's why he's not poor!! Anyway back to Chanterelle; when I'm there I forget everything that I am thinking about and I simply love the food and the person I'm with.(Carl are you reading this? Maybe you should go with me once in a while to Chanterelle!! and not talk sports to the poor man who was up for the next Sunday Salon).

Dim Sum Morning

2007-12-13T20:32:00.000-08:00

A typical day starts with Dim Sum before I drop the little one off at her school in Chinatown. We alternate between three main choices; Chatham Square (on Bowery literally at Mott), Hong Kong Noodle Station (on Bayard right off Bowery), or Mei Lee Wah (Bayard off Elizabeth). Lately, Chatham Square is our hands-down favorite - with it's old-diner-style booths and round tables.

Little one and I generally order the same thing and the Dim Sum cart ladies are so taken with her that they momentarily forsake their carts to watch her get her regular order: spare ribs, a baked pork bun and sticky rice full of small treasures like tiny shrimp, sliced mushrooms, a chunk of chinese sausage and roast pork all wrapped in a large Lotus leaf that tastes like it was steeped in tea!.

At Chatham Square, we have reached the distinction of being regulars (along with our elderly-cantonese-speaking counterparts who sit nursing their tea, and perusing us along with their mandarin newspapers). In the summer, we swoon over the Hong-Kong style iced tea which is milky and cold and forget to finish our food in favor of the tea.

If we decide to eat breakfast at Hong Kong Noodle Station, the environment is more modern and no-frills, almost diner-like. One one side, behind a glass counter, there are a multitude of toppings to select from. First, you start with the noodles (thick, flat, long) and the counter-girl cuts the noodles with a scissors. Then, you choose from chicken feet, fish balls, a myriad of different vegetables (chopped scallions, greens)and this is all mixed together in a broth. Little one usually skips soup for breakfast and simply opts for a grilled-ham sandwich on white toast (no egg). Hong Kong Noodle station is really big on white toast with peanut butter and jelly, or jelly, with butter. They also offer a sticky rice which she sometimes asks for (but doesn't finish). I am in the habit of getting their hot milk tea, which is a strong tea with a liberal dash of evaporated milk. It's heavenly and I pretty much nurse it through the day. My friend Emily (who's from Hong Kong) tells me that this is Hong Kong style tea (usually Assam). It's like having dessert for breakfast.

Hot Chocolate Galore

2007-12-13T20:31:00.000-08:00

Hot chocolate is something that I adore, but only if it’s thick and creamy. Before ordering, I usually check to see if the hot chocolate listed on the menu is “milky” or “thick and creamy.” Almost everyone I ask is very amenable and honest — tells me if it’s milky (which I don't like). These are my favorite places for hot chocolate —in no particular order, except as I remember them:

Counter – 1st Avenue/corner of 7th Street –E. Village – They offer a large cup or a shot of their hot chocolate. I opt for the shot at the bar as a recharge. I used to stop in at 5 p.m. (just when they're opening up for the evening) as was en route to my evening job on Wednesdays and Fridays.

Jacque Torres Chocolate – King Street at Hudson - Featuring several types of hot chocolate: Classic, Wicked and even a iced version of all of the previously mentioned and one with peanut butter). I always get the Wicked, which is spicy and bracing especially when I’m really sick with bronchitis. I prefer the hot chocolate to antibiotics. Jacque Torres is a nice space; there is always a comforting chocolate aroma wafting around. Inevitably, they are making chocolate in the preferred figures of whatever holiday is coming up; right now you can see the machines rotating large chocolate Santas round and around as you walk by on King Street. Every time I visit (no kidding) the master himself seems to be the subject of yet another television interview. I totally understand why. It's a cool space and it's fun to go in and buy chocolate covered cheerios and a Wicked hot chocolate and then keep heading uptown to my next stop.

I heard he opened a really fancy new space on the Upper West Side - sounds almost Viennese in style. At King Street, there are a million and one ways to buy his chocolate. You won't want to miss the displays of chocolate-covered cheerios, huge chocolate bars, plus a long bar where you can customize varied sized-boxes of truffles: earl grey, passion fruit, coconut, lemon... (and they are very yummy).

Otto – 8th Street/right of 5th Avenue - Thick, hazelnut flavored hot chocolate that is literally a dessert. I should mention that when I order any of these hot chocolates, I treat it as a meal in itself)

MarieBelle – Broome Street off W. Broadway in Soho – In the back of the store you'll find a charming little cacao bar; they have different sizes of spicy and regular hot chocolate (as well as an assortment of sweets/teas). I especially like the little shot of spicy hot chocolate and find it just perfect if I'm going in to meet my Friday night clients.

Chocolat Michel Cluizel - Located at the café in the back of the store, they offer (along with a newer menu of chocolate cocktails), a whole pot of hot chocolate and little shots too. Somehow I start to think I’m levitating after sharing the pot with someone because I drink too much of it. I usually stick to the shot of hot chocolate, which comes in a very nice little tea cup. I recently shared a tasting of the fabulous new chocolate dessert menu created by Will Goldfarb with my friend Emily; it was all about pushing the palate/envelope in a very good way. The chocolate soup not only sounded fun, it tasted fun with bubbles and a wash of dark chocolate espresso at the bottom. There was some confusion about the caviar with the white chocolate gelato with olive oil and smoked sea salt so we ended up with a free chocolate bar, which I promptly handed to Emily as an early stocking stuffer.

Podunk – E. 5th between 2nd Avenue and Bowery – Elspeth (the proprietor) and her family make this place the best tea house on the planet. I don’t say that lightly because I make it my mission to check out tea places not just in NYC but upstate too (and I've found some good places - Verdigris in Hudson, New York is really special.) But back to Elspeth. She warns her customers that her hot chocolate is best shared; and it's served in the most beautiful little teapots. After drinking it, I start thinking I've just turned into Alice in Wonderland at the Madhatter's tea party. I shouldn't say it but I've finished my little pot of chocolate ALL BY MYSELF a few times. I'm usually at Elspeth's a few times a week. For me, stepping into Podunk is about finding sanity in scones and tea sandwiches.

La Colombe Torrefaction - Church at Lispenard Street.
This is the only place I drink hot chocolate that is more milky than creamy. The incredibly personable barista-man told me the chocolate pedigree (I think he said Ivory Coast?) when I asked about the hot chocolate on my first visit. I've been here many times since (usually Monday mornings, when I don't take Little one to school as I get to walk by here en route to the J train at Canal). These guys make a seriously flavorful hot chocolate, which to my amateur palate has a lot of depth in the flavor. Mr. barista does not add sugar (unless requested to) and then he does it perfectly. This morning he noticed my Buddakan bag (big daughter is a hostess there). We bonded over our love of Buddakan. Of course, I had to share how our family was treated like royalty when we ate there recently, but that's another story). What is noteworthy is that Mr. Barista told me that restaurateur (Stephen Starr - he owns Buddakan and Morimoto) uses coffee from La Colombe Torrefaction. I am not surprised because Carl, who is an extremely discerning coffee drinker, says that the coffee here is "amazing."

Kiva - (Reade Street/between Hudson and Greenwich Streets)
Thank God for Kiva, a wonderful coffee/tea spot in Tribeca for the "real" people who live downtown. Beebe, the owner, an impossibly beautiful woman - seriously; both in personality and in looks - makes a really nice hot chocolate. She didn't flinch one morning when I asked if she could put less milk in to "make it thicker." Kiva also serves breakfast, lunch and dinner (pizza, sandwiches, soup and wine by the glass).

Right now, they have some wonderful christmas presents like the custom-made gift baskets of which we bought several last year for gifts! Kiva was our salvation one evening after .ittle one had a serious meltdown right at school pick-up. After non-stop crying from school to the M22 bus and on down the sidewalk (so much so that some guy yelled "stop crying" and then smiled), Kiva was our salvation. In her teary state, little one yelled "and you didn't wave at the Kiva lady," and in we went for some sprite, candy canes, chocolate chip cookies - and a little christmas shopping - along with conversation about Kiva's hot chocolate. We exited 45 minutes later feeling good will towards each other and the world. Kiva will do that to you every time - especially if you're lucky enough to visit when Beebe's there!