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

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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.