A Veritable Bevy of Burgers

Oh, my poor vegetarian friends.  Once again you shall be subjected to a meat-centric post.  I swear I eat vegetables!  I really do!  But somehow this blog always seems to heavily feature my base, carnivore impulses.  Although I’ve realized that I don’t have too many pure vegetarian friends left.  Many of you have given in to the seductive lure of the flesh.  But to those few hold-outs, I offer my apologies.

I like to fancy myself as something of a french fry connoisseur.  I have sampled the crispy goodness far and wide, from the shores of New York, through the corn fields of Indiana, to the canals of Amsterdam (my memories of those last fries are hazy, for some reason.  But I think they had deep insight into the universe).  It’s only in recent years, however, that I have truly come to appreciate the french fry’s soul mate, the quality burger.  A well-proportioned, juicy, grilled burger, medium rare please (and that means pink, not grey, you fools!) with a hefty slice of cheddar.  And please toast that bun.  If we’re going to be all highfalutin about it we could replace the cheddar with swiss (or dare I say gruyere!) and pile on some sautéed mushrooms.  But I don’t want any of that Kraft American cheese product shit on a hockey puck piece of meat thrown between two slices of wonder bread.  So just don’t even try it, buddy. 

In other words, I guess I’ve become a bit of a burger snob.  Luckily there are number of places vying for the chance to take me down a few notches.  I received my first bit of humbling at that most trendy of burger joints, Shake Shack.  At my first trip there, after waiting on line for 16 hours, 43 minutes, and 18 seconds, I was finally given the privilege of ordering.  And I ordered my preferred burger: medium rare, with cheddar.  Except they only cook their burgers one way.  And you can’t choose your cheese.  Well, I’ve just waited on line for 27 hours, 54 minutes, and 46 seconds, so what can I do?  I accept their fascist burger with a strained smile and make my way over to the inadequate seating.   But you know what?  I was wrong, and Shake Shack was right.  The burger was awesome.  True, it wasn’t a gourmet event by any means, but there was something about biting into it that just made me feel like I was coming home.  It’s like they elevated your typical burger to thing of nostalgic beauty.  You feel sunlight dappling your face as your race your childhood friends through a meadow.  Then suddenly you’re riding your bike down a dusty dirt road, with your faithful dog at your side.  Oh look!  There’s Harvey the friendly milk man making his rounds.  And just beyond him is the General Store, where Old Man McIntire sells rock candy and root beer.  Yes, it’s true, Shake Shack will transport you back to an imagined Norman Rockwell childhood.  It’s like Our Town except with props, no death, and no goddamn sermonizing Stage Manager.  All this, Shake Shack will provide.

You’d think that after this experience I would have a bit more leniency towards places that won’t cook a burger to order.  But oh no.  I still hadn’t seen the true ways of the force.  I was therefore horrified when I couldn’t get my burger cooked medium rare in – wait for it – Scotland.  Really people.  What kind of an idiot asks for undercooked meat in the UK?  Why didn’t I just order the lobotomy special and be done with it?  The first time I attempted to order just such a bacteria-infested burger the Scottish waitress looked at me like I had 12 heads (all of which were just desperate for a splash of Mad Cow disease), and then said that under absolutely no circumstances would they serve me a burger cooked less than well done.  In this instance I decided to pass on the burger, because I wanted it MY way, dammit!  And if it came with a side of degenerative brain disease, then so be it! 

Fortunately for me, I was in Scotland for two weeks, so I had time to mend my foolish ways.  Not that I felt I needed to, mind you.  I was secure in my culinary prejudices.  But the next time I found myself faced with this dilemma a burger was, in fact, the only available food source.  We’re pretty spoiled here in New York.  If I said to myself at 2 am, “Gee, I could really go for goat stew, baked Alaska, and a cricket taco” I’m pretty sure I could find a way to have all of these things delivered to me.  And while Edinburgh does not subscribe to the draconian bar hours of London (closing at 11pm?!?!  Que the hell!), its pubs do tend to stop serving food around 9pm.  This becomes a bit of problem when your show ends at 8pm, and it takes a full hour to round people up and decide to which of the abundant public houses we would be giving our custom that night.  So one evening, post show, we all ended up at a lovely beer garden that had no kitchen other than a tiny hut with an open flame, meat, and a cast iron pan filled with sautéed onions.  My hunger won out, and I let the shady Eastern European man behind the grill give me the standard burger, on a roll, with mature cheddar and onions.

Friends, I have finally seen the light.  This was quite possibly the best burger I’ve ever had.  I was a pig-headed fool, a stubborn, unrelenting New Yorker, who couldn’t see past her own biases to the fact that when you’re dealing with something as simple as a burger, the quality of the ingredients is everything.  As I stared rapturously into my roll, my dining companions laughed and informed me that all beef in Scotland is pure Angus – which is kind of the best stuff ever.  So no matter what you do to it, it’s going to be stellar.  The meat was juicy, tender, savory.  The roll was fluffy and fresh, and dear sweet lord, the mature cheddar – I could happily eat mature cheddar on everything, everyday.  Seriously: shredded wheat, escargot, ice cream – bring it on!  The caramelized, glistening onions added just the right touch of sweetness.  It was all I could do not to run to that Eastern European Grill God and beg him for just one more bite of such sweet ambrosia. 

While in Scotland I ate a surprising number of good meals.  I mean, we haven’t even touched on the nation’s dedicated, inspiring relationship to the potato.  And the seafood!  And the scotch! (okay, technically scotch is not food, but it is essential to life, so it counts).  But today I pay homage to the humble Scottish burger – you were there for me in my times of post-performance, hunger-induced hysteria.  You sustained me through not a few rounds of debauchery.  You’ve helped me start to move past my intolerant, prissy ways.  What can I say?  Some people have therapy; I have Scottish burgers.

(Shake Shack, please don’t get jealous.  I’ll still return to you anytime I need to feel the innocence of youth!  Also, you’re right up the street and Scotland is, well, in Scotland.  Although this is New York – and perhaps Scotland delivers….)

The post in which I once again rhapsodize about my culinary heritage

I was an absurdly anxious child. At the age of six I dreamt that I was being held hostage by the "people who live under the quicksand" (they're a lot like the Children of the Corn, except less plausible). Upon waking I swore off sand of all kinds for a week - better to be safe than sorry. Less humorously, I also aquired a fear of the dark, of sleep, and of solitude. My saintly Uncle Carl had to stay by my bedside for years until the memory of the dream faded.

Perhaps as a result of one too many fire safety lectures in the second grade, I also felt the need to be prepared at all times for the inevitable destruction of my house. Before bed I would lay out, by the door, the items that I would take with me in the event of a fire, flood, or general wrath-of-god-kind-of-thing: my "safe" which I'd bought at the penny candy store, and which was entirely filled with change, a.k.a. my life savings; two treasured stuffed animals, Bunny the Rabbit, and Poopsie the Dog; lastly I had a rotating cast of toys occupying the last spot. I struggled with the decision every night. Would Sparkle-Bright the pony understand that, no matter how much I wanted to, I simply couldn't carry all of my toys in my weak, eight-year-old arms when the apocolypse struck? Would my Pound Puppies find a way to make it on their own? Yes, I was the child who never, ever should have read The Velvetine Rabbit. Or seen The Nutcracker. Or watched cartoons. I obsessively anthropomorphised all toys, and then flagellated myself over my inability to love them all equally (because each and every one could feel my indifference, and suffered greatly for it. I was, after all, their world.)

My priorties, while angonizing, were at least clear back then. If you were to tell me now that I had to leave my home, my family and my friends, and could only bring one suitcase with me, I would wring my hands in frustration and sit down on the floor, determined to not make any choices whatsoever. Perhaps this is a sign of "decision fatigue". Perhaps this means that I am not as wedded to material goods as I once was. (Oh who am I kidding - I would gently cradle my glorious iPhone to my breast and rush out the emergency exit.) Actually I think this speaks to the fact that such decisions are not really part of an adult's life. We have back-ups, insurance, couches to surf on should the need arise. Rarely do we have the occassion to contemplate the few items that constitute our identity. My Grandmother, however, had to make just such a decision.

I've heard various versions of the story, but what I've been able to gleen is this: at some point my grandparents determined that it was no longer safe for my Grandfather to stay in Communist Czechoslovakia. Whether this was because he was a "Dutch spy" or a frequenter of the black market is up for debate; all I know is that his arrest was imminent. So my Grandmother had the difficult job of packing her life into a small suitcase. Mind you, the official cover story was a "family vacation". The suitcase could not be too big, or the jig would be up. Of course, none of her relations could be told; this would be dangerous to her before she left, and to her family after her departure.

What do you bring with you when you leave your homeland, perhaps never to return? How do you encapsulate a life into a carry-on? My grandmother took two things: her cookbook and her cookie cutters. To this day I amazed at her decision. How eloquent, to bring your country's culinary traditions with you when you flee. And how painful to think that, while you may never break bread with your sisters and brothers again, at least you'll savor the same tastes they'll be experiencing.

I've told you all about the roast chicken. I haven't discussed the ritualized cooking of my Grandmother's chicken paprika recipe that I shared with my Father. And just this past weekend I sat with my Aunt and cousins and listened to them reminisce about my Grandmother's pitacki (this is in no way spelled correctly), and her potato pancakes. My grandmother left a culinary legacy to all of us. When we cook as way to nurture, or dine as a way to commune, we honor her immense courage and yet also her whimsy. We relish her quirks - the way she always understood when I was "full for dinner, but not full for dessert", or her reluctance to share her culinary knowledge until she saw me as an independant, self-sufficient woman. If only I had reached that point sooner.

There are so many things I never asked her, so many stories I wanted to hear. But at least we have her cookbook. I saw it at my Aunt's house after the memorial service. It wasn't at all what I expected - I think I envisioned some sort of ancient Czech tome, whereas this was actually more of an Eastern European Betty Crocker. Although I can't read it (I never learned Czech), I feel the meaning of it: go forth, young woman, and cook. Create, envelope, console. This is what food does for us. It pipes in directly to memory, and gives us a way to express love that we can wholy make a part of ourselves. It is a love that sustains. It is an act of gratitude. This, grandma, is what you gave to me. Thank you.

The following is brought to you by Andi's bank account (it's underfed and wears a lot of black, just like any good New Yorker)

Long Island is a tough place to grow up. Everything is so green, and well-manicured. In school you’re constantly told about all the opportunities you have, and how it truly is possible to cure cancer, get elected president, and birth the new Messiah, all at the same time. What’s a slightly rebellious girl who doesn’t abuse drugs supposed to do? How was I to make my mark upon this field of radical success? Clearly the only way I could assert my identity was by forcing my way into singing at my high school graduation. All kidding aside, it is a wonderful memory. I sang a duet with a fellow student, Renee, whom I didn’t know very well at all. The scheme had evolved while we were both waiting to audition to sing The Star Spangled Banner at the ceremony, only to be informed that the auditions were a mere formality. The fix was in! The role had been cast! Well, we decided that we wouldn’t go down without a fight, and informed the administration that we would be singing a duet whether they liked it or not. Apparently the administrators at my high school were easily bullied, because this tactic worked. My friend Ethan suggested Blackbird and offered to arrange it and play guitar (was this residual guilt over being one of the beneficiaries of the pre-casting? I prefer to chalk it up to pure altruism.) So on a hot day in June we all donned our blue polyester robes and created a quiet, beautiful, random moment. It’s one of my only clear memories of the day.

It’s been 15 years. I believe Renee has a family now, and Ethan recently tied the knot. I, on the other hand, am still trying to become a functioning member of society. I do think I’m making some progress – Exhibit A: I went on my first business trip! Of course, it was through one of my many part-time jobs, and really felt more like an unsupervised fieldtrip, but nevertheless, my airfare was covered and I got to stay in a hotel, so it counts. I spent three work-filled days in Chicago, but, never fear dear readers: I also managed to eat vast quantities.

One of my major goals was to figure out this “Chicago Pizza” thing. Up till now, my non-east coast pizza experiences had only solidified my extreme New York Pizza snobbery. What, exactly, was the point of thick, doughy, flavorless crust, low quality globby cheese, and tomato sauce spiked with six gallons of sugar? (Yeah, I’m talking to you, Indiana. It’s been eleven years and I still won’t forgive you.) Well, I have now been schooled. Chicago pizza is fabulous. The cornmeal crust is crisp on the outside, grease-filled and chewy on the inside. The sauce was fresh and fragrant – at times a bit too fresh. The slice by which all other deep dish slices shall be judged had pepperoni, and the spicy processed meat was an essential ingredient. Without it, the pizza tasted a bit as though someone had smashed raw tomato on it. So, vegetarians, abandon your morals when you go to Chicago and join us in the search for superior heart disease. Get meat on your pizza.

The office pizza party at Gino’s was very much in line with my general lifestyle – cheap, seedy, and tasty. The following night I classed things up with my new work friends at the well-heeled Chicago restaurant Blackbird. Let me just say that, all signs to the contrary, I have in fact experienced fine dining. It’s just a very rare occurrence. And I never know what to wear. Luckily in this case, my options were limited to the schlubby items in my suitcase: a skirt with a swiftly unraveling hem, and my finest pair of mary-jane crocs. True, most of the place was filled with women dressed for a club, with stacked heels, but the rest of my party was elegant and gorgeous so I just hid behind them. I snared hardly a single dirty look as I clomped into the cool, minimalist establishment.

How to describe the food? Nouveau awesome? We had eleven outstanding courses, which I won’t even try to re-create here. Let’s look at the highlights: sexual Halibut – it was buttery, it was flaky, it melted in my mouth, it took me to a place that I don’t think I’ve visited before with seafood. The delicate meat was bathed in a red wine jus, and paired with…something crunchy which I couldn’t identify, but still ate enthusiastically. This was followed by an aged pekin duck breast which was served with a tequila braised radish. Oh the duck. The skin was crisped to perfection, and the meat was cooked to a savory mauve. And then there was veal. Miso glazed veal. With lightly fried artichoke hearts. And fresh farmers cheese. This was when things got serious. I believe we paired this with a glass of Blackbird wine? Although at this point a fair amount of wine had already been consumed, so who really knows? It’s hard to explain the gustatory perfection of this dish. Picture it – you take a bite of the rosy-colored veal. The tender meat gives ever so slightly in your mouth. The sweet saltiness of the miso caresses your tongue. And then, oh joy! A succulent bit of fried Artichoke dissolves against your teeth. Finally, you fall into the gentle embrace of the rich, pillowy cheese. You take a sip of spicy red wine, and suddenly all the flavors melt into a perfect symphony of sinful sybaritic splendor.

I did mention that I was with some lovely ladies. We all come from the same “company” at which we “teach” people to play glorified, high-stakes crossword puzzles. This was, by far, the perfect group with which to share this experience. Our raptures gave way to laughter as each of us visited the ladies room and saw the strange, headless, naked male torso picture which covered an entire wall. And, just maybe, such decorations prove that this restaurant actually wants to be visited by a sporadically employed, irresponsible, impractical 33 year old woman. As we age we take on the veneer of respectability, but underneath it all we’re really just a bunch of kids laughing at dirty pictures, and, in general, having way too much fun. In other words, beware: we may look classy enough to gain admittance to your restaurant, but once inside our true nature will not be denied. We will revel in our lust for food, wine, and camaraderie. So either get on board, or take cover! Or at the very least avoid putting creepy pictures of naked guys in the bathroom.

Guilty Pleasures: The return to Hundred Acres

I’ve been thinking a lot about yogurt lately. And not the creamy, fatty Greek version that’s just crying out for a dollop of honey and fresh strawberries – or, to put it bluntly, the kind which I eat and enjoy. No, I’m talking about the chemical-laden runny nastiness which contains “fruit product” (or some such travesty), fake sugar, and no fat. You know, the kind of stuff I’m supposed to like. Because I’m a girl. And I aspire to nothing so much as inclusion in the group of slim, non-threatening, grey-sweatshirt-wearing girls who have found weight-loss bliss through the consumption of this food-like substance.

Another yogurt commercial is making the rounds these days: a thin woman agonizes over whether to have a piece of cheesecake (“cheesecake is bad….and I have to be good!!") She is rescued, however, by her equally thin co-worker who pops up and grabs a container of “cheesecake” flavored yogurt. This takes me back to the early years of college, when it was quite fashionable to assign moral worth to your food choices. Did you eat a calorie-rich lunch? Then you were bad. You could atone for that sin through extensive exercising, but would that really make you good person? No, goodness can probably only be achieved through a few days of monk-like asceticism, involving brown rice and steamed vegetables (of course, this was before the Atkins fad really took hold. I’m not sure rice is acceptable anymore).

Ladies, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve all been there, or roomed with somebody who has. But we grow out of it, right? We learn to happily indulge in our favorites, be they cheesecake, chocolate, or French fries. And then we go on to write visually bland blogs about our indulgences (one of these days I really will learn how put pictures up on here! But for now can’t you be satisfied with my witty links? I was so proud when I figured out how to do that). Actually, I am aware of the fact that I live in a dream world in which the women are relatively confident about their food choices. Somehow I just don’t think it works like that everywhere else. Take my second trip to Hundred Acres, for example.

My first visit was at an off hour, so the establishment was sparsely filled with an eclectic mix of regulars. This second trip was for the purpose of Sunday brunch, which is of course a bit of an event in NYC, though not nearly on the scale of brunch in Berlin. Maria, Erin and I were absurdly excited for this brunch. The menu contains things like ricotta fritters and Jesus meatballs – how can you refuse? The place was just as rustically urban as I remembered it. Perhaps in a nod to its “farm to table” sensibility, there were artful piles of fresh produce displayed throughout the dining room. The music sounded like it had been ripped from my favorite Pandora stations. Our suitably hip and hirsute waiter looked like he might start playing sensitive indie rock with whispered vocals at any moment. We immediately ordered a plate of ricotta fritters and got to work on some mimosas with freshly-squeezed orange juice.

Let me pause for a moment and talk about the fritters, because I could launch into a female body image rant at any moment, and it would really be a shame not to have this experience saved for all time in the electronic universe. You know you’re in for a treat when a menu item involves deep fried cheese. These fritters went beyond the basic thrill, however. First of all, they were remarkably light. Look, I’m not saying these were anything other than crispy balls of indulgent goodness. But sometimes a fritter takes a wrong turn in life, and ends up hooked on smack and squatting in Tompkins Square Park. And those fritters are not enjoyable. They are heavy with the weight of an uncaring world. These fritters had a creamy yet springy interior. The shell was golden and crisp. The dipping sauce was an apple cider syrup, which had just enough tang to balance the sugar. Naturally, raptures ensued. I hummed as I’ve rarely hummed before.

My entrée was equally spectacular. I took our rustic waiter’s advice and ordered the goat cheese thyme bread pudding with poached eggs and a warm spinach salad. Our waiter did not lead me astray. It was an impeccable dish. The savory bread pudding was a gorgeous mix of herbs, cream, and salt. The poached eggs and butter sauce could have pushed this dish right over the edge, but luckily the wilted spinach was there for me in my time of trial. The greens admirably matched the surrounding decadence. The humming increased.

As Maria, Erin and I attempted to find words to describe our sensory overload, I began to notice the tables around me. Perched at almost every one was a tall, thin, blond, soho-robot eating scrambled eggs and salad. I’m sure the scrambled eggs at Hundred Acres are great, although perhaps a bit pedestrian. But what really appalled me - abandoned on each plate was a golden piece of fresh cornbread. Look, I understand that New York is a hard city, and that society holds unrealistic expectations for female beauty and all of that, but really – how can you pass up fresh cornbread!?!?!? Isn’t there some kind of law against the willful indifference to excellent food? I suppose I shouldn’t jump to conclusions – maybe there was a corn-allergy conference meeting at the restaurant. Maybe the cornbread that day looked deceptively appetizing, but in fact truly sucked. These are possibilities. But that morning I just barely suppressed the desire to stand up on my chair with a sign that read “Carbs” while burning my bra and gorging on cornbread. I’m starting a movement here, people. And yes, that movement will involve lots of incredible food. Who’s with me? (FYI, the bra-burning is optional.)

Eat your way to cultural nirvana

It has been brought to my attention that I do not take full advantage of the myriad splendors that New York City has to offer. I’ve never been to the Frick, Prospect Park, or the Highline. Hell, I’ve never even been to Staten Island. And yet I perceive myself as a well-travelled woman of the city. Then it hit me – to me, travelling is really about food. I like to think that I have fully sampled the delights of NYC because I’ve eaten Brazilian food in Queens, Russian food in Brooklyn, stellar cheese in Manhattan, and fresh seafood in the Bronx. When someone mentions walking the Brooklyn Bridge, I assume that person did so mainly in order to get to Grimaldi’s (a moment of silence, please, for our dear departed pizza shop. Your crisp crust, fresh mozzarella, and hearty pepperoni will live on in our hearts. Topped with a slight drizzle of olive oil). In other words, I am an accomplished NYC food tourist constantly looking to expand my culinary horizons.

My latest gustatory postcard is from Pho Bang, located in Elmhurst, Queens. Oh Elmhurst. What joys you keep tucked away between the 7 and the R train. Laura and I have vacationed there before for Thai food (where we dined on almost pornographic mango and sticky rice). Our most recent trip was for Vietnamese. Pho Bang has that dingy diner vibe which usually guarantees excellent food at affordable prices. This meal was no exception. And since the food is so reasonably priced, Laura and I felt morally obligated to order tons of it. We started out with crispy spring rolls filled with pork, chicken, and crabmeat, which were actually a bit greasy and underwhelming. However, things soon got much better: a huge bowl of piping hot Pho. Fresh herbs mingled with raw beef and suffused the liquid while the meat cooked. The broth was truly complex: the cloudy liquid captured the richness and earthiness of the beef without the heaviness. In the midst of this swam silken noodles coated in deliciousness.

And then there was pork. The Vietnamese do amazing things with pork. So amazing, in fact that we had to order two separate pork dishes. The first, Bun Thit Nuong, featured paper thin slices of grilled pork with beautiful caramelized stripes. These rested upon a layer of refreshingly cool vermicelli noodles, with assorted vegetable garnishes. I love Bun. It’s such an inspired idea – it hits all the necessary culinary notes in one dish. Each bite is thrilling combination of savory and sweet, balanced once again by bracing herbal strokes. So you would think that would be enough for us. However, there was more pork to be discovered. Our final dish (which shall remain nameless mainly because I cannot remember the name of it) was the most interactive. We were presented with grilled pork hash meatballs, rice papers, lettuce, mint leaves, cucumbers, carrots, lemongrass and an assortment of dipping sauces. From this cornucopia we made our own rolls and proceeded to gorge, awash in the delight of intentionally playing with our food.

A note on the service: The food is ready basically the moment you order it, which is excellent when you’re as ravenous as Laura and I frequently are. Our waiter delighted us with his dry wit. When we ordered our vast spread he looked at us quite seriously and said, “Not enough”. After a moment’s confusion we tossed off a good-natured laugh; yes, we were two crazy white girls about to eat our weight in meat products. Without cracking a smile, our waiter gestured to us and said, “Two people, four dishes. Not enough”. Then he shook his head and walked away. Our laughter became sheepish. Was it really so wrong that we had just ordered the whole menu? Or that we were about to get more food than could conceivably fit on our table? No matter; Laura and I rallied and proceeded to enjoy both the food and some lively dinner conversation. Naturally we couldn’t finish all of the dishes, and pretty soon our waiter was back asking if he could clear the table. We waved him away, and continued our banter. Soon enough another waiter stopped by, and another after that, all of them desperately anxious to box up our food and get us the hell out of there. After our fourth refusal we were basically told to get out because they needed the table. This was totally understandable, especially since there were a number of empty tables in the establishment, and absolutely no one waiting.

So yes, Laura and I were essentially kicked out of the restaurant. Had it been our ribald laughter? Our purple conversation? The fear that we would, in fact, eat our way through the entire restaurant? Who knows. We had to content ourselves with post-dinner conversation in the nearby park, and the entertaining sight of an extraordinarily drunk man trying to figure out how to turn on his ipod. On the way home from our evening’s vacation we got one more splash of local color as a woman screamed at us, “Get away from my bags! They’re not yours! THEY’RE NOT YOURS!!!!!” Ah queens. Dinner and a show, and only for $30. I highly recommend that you visit.

If it’s a bread product, the Smela women are eating it

Damn it’s been a long time since I’ve posted on this blog. I hope none of you were worried. I hope none of you felt a crushing anxiety as you pondered just how well I was in fact being fed. I haven’t been in hiding; I’ve just been baking a whole lot of bread. It’s my new obsession. And yes, I do channel Nicholas Cage’s tortured and brooding Italian baker from Moonstruck as I prepare it (my neighbors are starting to wonder why I keep yelling, “I lost my hand! I lost my bride!”) For the past month or so many of my meals have consisted of bread, goat cheese, and wine. And while that can make a truly exceptional meal, it doesn’t make a very interesting blog post. So I’m going to reach back into April and present you with a fabulous, homemade culinary experience.

I was reminded over Easter that I come from an incredible cooking pedigree. My Czech grandma would cook amazing slavic specialties, as well as standard American fare. And once you told her you liked something, you had to be prepared to eat vast quantities of it. Take, for example, my grandma’s roast chicken. You might be thinking to yourself, roast chicken is nice, but how transcendent can it truly be? If you’re thinking this, you’ve clearly never had my grandmother’s roast chicken. It’s succulent. And moist. It should go without saying that the skin is crisped to a crackling perfection. But it’s really the flavor of the meat that amazes me. Chicken has a reputation for being dry and tasteless, but when my Grandmother makes it the meat is rich and satisfying. It’s so good, that for awhile I was convinced that the only way to achieve these results was by using four sticks of butter. But apparently there’s some sort of alchemy involving garlic going on (I’m still not exactly sure of the specifics. I think it requires grandma-magic, in addition to the garlic).

My best memory of this chicken dates from my college years. I was taking Amtrak up to visit her on one of my breaks. This was back in the Stone Age when I didn’t have a cell phone (and, for that matter, was in college). Of course, Amtrak being Amtrak, my 3 hour trip was lengthened to 6 hours all because the conductor forgot to make the ritual sacrifice to his pagan god. So here I am, arriving at Schenectady at 11pm, when my grandma had been expecting me at 8pm. I have not called her, because of the aforementioned lack of cell phone. I get to her apartment, and while she’s mainly relieved that I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere, she’s also upset because she made me dinner and it got cold. What did she make, you may ask? A whole roast chicken. Because I love her roast chicken, and my grandma loves me. But who can eat whole roast chicken at 11pm after fighting the battle that is Amtrak? I most likely had two gluttonous servings, but there was still an embarrassment of chicken left. And my poor grandma. She gave a pained expression and said, “Is that all? Aren’t you going to finish it?” It’s not easy to break your grandmother’s heart, but a girl can only eat so much chicken. Luckily she forgot this episode when I returned for my next trip: I had rhapsodized about her Mazanec (a Czech Easter bread) at one point, and so naturally my subsequent trip ended with her thrusting a freshly made, sugared loaf into my willing little hands.

While I certainly have inherited my grandmother’s love of food, I think the actual cooking skills transferred directly down to her daughter Jane. A visit to my aunt’s house starts with dessert, and only gets better from there. This Easter she started us out with her signature brownies (I believe the secret ingredient is fudge? Whatever it is, it produces the most decadent brownie known to man). Also on hand were apricot strudel squares, a brilliant combination of tart fruit and buttery, crumbly topping. As an added treat for breakfast she had also made apple-bran muffins. Mind you, these were just the treats on hand for the weekend. The actual Easter feast was … well … it was a thing of beauty. Jane made so much food we couldn’t fit it into the dining room, and had to split it up into three separate events – the Easter Brunch, followed by the Easter Lunch, finally followed by the Easter Dessert.

Easter Brunch: naturally my aunt provided some finger food for the table. And by finger food I mean trays of lox, cream cheese, bagels, tomatoes, and onions. You know, as a light starter. Next we moved onto the casseroles – one comprised of layers of potatoes, eggs, cheddar cheese and bacon, the other a Challah French toast with a praline topping. I mean really, we were probably all exploding after that. It was just a world of butter and bacon and goodness. But we bravely moved on to Easter Lunch: Baked spiral ham. Roasted carrots and red potatoes. Asparagus with just the right hint of parmesan. This classic holiday fare was the perfect contrast to lush comfort foods that preceded it. And oh that ham. The external sugary glaze was in precise balance with the saltiness of the meat.

So, yeah, we ate all of that. At this point everyone was in need a short nap (which shall henceforth be referred to by its Czech name, which sounds like shlufficheck. I’m fairly certain that’s not how you spell it. But try saying it out loud – doesn’t it just completely capture the essence of a post-gorge catnap?) Blankets were gathered, couches were claimed. I think I neglected to mention that all this food was accompanied by mimosas and wine, so you can imagine the stupor we were all in. As we sprawled and contemplated the upcoming desserts, my Uncle wisely said, “You know what we need right now? The final episode of Twin Peaks”. And so our shlufficheck dreams were filled with creepy, backwards-talking dwarves and Laura Palmer’s screams of rage.

We awoke from our slumbers to a smorgasbord of sugar: chocolate cake with whipped cream filling. Pound cake, fresh strawberries, and more whipped cream. And finally some of the cutest carrot-cake cupcakes known to man, courtesy of my cousin Lauren – she actually designed each one to look like an individual Easter basket.

After this, the food was officially done. As were we. You see, this is what happens when my family gets together to eat. We can’t do things halfway. We need to eat EVERYTHING. But we can be surprisingly satisfied by simple pleasures as well. For example: after the foodapolooza ended my aunt Jane, my grandma, my cousin Lauren and I sat around the kitchen table and discussed the joys of good bread and butter. My Grandma reminisced about her own mother slipping her pieces of this treat when she obstinately refused to finish her dinner. And I contemplated a culinary coup - perhaps it was time that I donned the mantle of family carb-pusher. Crusty loaves of freshly made bread danced through my head. I could use my Nicholas Cage impression for good, not evil. I would be the one staring at relatives in bewilderment, wondering why they had only eaten half a loaf of bread in one sitting, when I had provided them with 3 loaves a piece. I’m sure my grandma will glow with pride. And then she’ll probably whip out a roast duck just to show that she remains the master.

NYC - Where "quaint" comes to die

A friend of mine in college had a theory about why everybody in NYC was so skinny – they couldn’t afford to eat. This also explained why everybody wore black – cuts down on cleaning costs. Anyway, while I’ve only had brief periods during which my lack of money led to weight loss, I certainly do agree that this city is too goddamn expensive. (And our rent is too damn high!) But sometimes you can stumble upon a surprisingly affordable evening of food and entertainment. My friend Kelly and I did just that last week – and in Soho no less.

Dinner in Soho is a dangerous thing. In Soho, you need to be prepared to spend some serious cash, or do a thorough search of your options. Let’s say you want a burger and fries. Well, in Soho, that burger will have come from a cow raised on a poetry-reading commune, and will have eaten only the finest, pesticide-free grass. And those potatoes? They will have been grown by Tibetan monks who serenade the spuds with throat chant every morning at sunrise. Needless to say, this kind of attention to nutritional detail comes at a very high price. We had been given a couple of suggestions for Italian places, but as it was yet another cold, dreary, rainy Spring day in New York, we really just wanted to run inside the first place that looked sufficiently hip, yet unpretentious (working on a level of 1 to Soho, of course). And so, we were seduced by the low key siren song of Hundred Acres.

It was just so hard to resist! From the rich, red velvet drape at the entrance, to the elegant marble slab of the bar, we were captivated by Hundred Acres’ upscale urban farm atmosphere! And no, we were in no way bothered by the inherent contradiction in that idea. We prepared ourselves to lay down the cash for an $18 burger or $20 plate of fried chicken (and that, of course, is before the wine. In Soho a single glass could easily cost more than your entire meal. Because restaurants in Soho are just that cool). But lo! As we sat down at the bar we were presented with a happy hour menu. Could it be! Could happy hour co-exist with cottage-chic? Yes! It could! We were now free to order small bites, pay normal dinner prices, and leave secure in the knowledge that our dark colored clothing would absorb any stains that may emerge as the result of eating at the bar. (Cause you know, we’re New Yorkers. We were wearing black.)

I have to say though, the food was good. We got steak skewers, papas bravas, and brussels sprouts with anchovies. The steak was meltingly tender, and very well spiced. The “papas bravas” were actually smashed, fried red potatoes, served with a chipotle aioli, and they ruled. Funny thing about aioli - I pretty much detest mayo, but I really enjoy aioli, its fancy ancestor. And yes, I’m aware that when most places say “chipotle aioli”, they really mean “mayo with some chipotle sauce mixed in”. But I can’t help it. I love it. I completely buy into the advertising. I, like the rest of my generation, am a slave to marketing. Anyway, the potatoes were lovely, and the Brussels sprouts added a really necessary bitter contrast to all this richness. True, my first bite did include a full anchovy, and that wasn’t exactly delightful, but that was a one time occurrence. Most of the anchovies had melted into the olive oil, and simply added a nice, astringent brine. All this, plus $6 wine! It was Soho slumming at its best.

Perhaps you’re wondering why we were braving the overpriced morass which is Soho in the first place. Kelly had found us a great deal for a chamber music concert – WQXR was broadcasting a festival of music entitled “Trout Week”. Each performance was about an hour long, there was commentary, free wine, and Kelly had a discount. What more could you ask for? Well, I could ask for no “Trout”s. I actually hate the “Trout”. And not in the way that I once hated Bach, as a kind of rebellious music-school thing (“I’m young and creative! I reject the standard musical cannon!”). I really do not like Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet. I also dislike the art song from which it derives. I guess you could say that I hate all things “Trout” (except for the smoked trout dip served at an Elsas holiday party. I loooooooove that stuff!) Luckily, the ensemble of the evening, Ethel, is not known for its “Trout” enthusiasm. There are many, many things to like about Ethel: their commitment to new works; their fierce passion when playing; their eclectic musical choices. And the fact that they provide some eye candy is not too bad either (I mean, we’re not talking about the Johnny Depp of chamber music, but there’s definitely some music-school level hotness on display here.*)

A few brief notes on some of the selections, because this post is already too long: Julia Wolfe's Early That Summer – apparently that summer was intensely emotional and minimalistic. Those are the kinds of things I look for in a season. Dohee Lee's HonBiBaekSan – So much gorgeousness. This meditative excerpt was a preview of the premiere the following Monday at Le Poisson Rouge (why oh why did I miss that!). Other pieces featured some very unique recorded tracks, and the high pitched, sustained squeaky notes that are almost a requisite for New Music. Those particular notes aside, it was truly a wonderful concert.

So that was our night in Soho! We somehow found a way to sensibly enjoy dinner and live music in one of the most expensive parts of one of the most expensive cities in the world. And what did we do with our unexpected plenty? Blew it all at the bar after the show. Priorities, people. Priorities.

*Music-school level hotness explained: When you’re in music school your social circle becomes surprisingly small. The schedule is so overwhelming, and you tend to find prospective dates only in theory class, in the Music Library, or at the pub across the street on Dollar Burger Night. This is not to say that your standards slip. They just become....different. When everyone is pasty and white from spending too much time in a practice room, the hottest pasty white man wins. That, my friends, is music school level hotness.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that all New York Food Bloggers must eventually write about Sripraphai.

In the wisdom of age I have come to appreciate the BYOB restaurant. Gone are the days when I would complain about the inconvenience of places without liquor licenses. Now, I embrace the freedom they bring. The option of buying my own cheap, rotgut wine by the bottle is infinitely better than paying $7 for a class of Concha y Toro. Of course, this is usually only available on East 6th street or in the outer boroughs. But oh, how I love the outer boroughs. I spent seven delicious years in Queens, and I miss it still. By and large the food is fresh, authentic, and fairly-priced. And since I am fully prepared to sacrifice ambience for these aforementioned qualities, the outer boroughs really are my culinary shangri la. Let's take a walk down memory lane, shall we?

After I graduated from college I lived in a ramshackle apartment in Queens with wall-to-wall pink carpeting, gleaming white walls, windows that didn't fully shut, and a boiler that ran industrial strength even in August. This apartment was also located in the Bermuda Triangle of Queens : within shouting distance of the elevated 7 train, the LIRR, Queens Boulevard, and the flight path of LaGuardia airport. Every day at 6am it sounded like a plane was landing in my bedroom. It was difficult to watch TV or talk on the phone because the boiler kept the apartment at a steady 110 degrees, and this made it necessary to keep a window open at all times. This, of course, allowed us to hear the 7 train in all its clanky, non-oiled glory every five minutes. And this is to say nothing of the overbearing landlord with his religious icons, and the crazy drunk irishman that lived downstairs. It was a unique time, and while I mainly gritted my teeth and focused on the cheap rent, my eccentric boss continually insisted that I would look back on these as the best years of my life. She was certainly right in one respect – I had some damn good meals.

It has been commonly accepted for some time that Sripraphai serves perhaps the best Thai food in all of New York City. I'm not sure that my friends and I knew that when we started frequenting this small restaurant in Woodside. Back in the day it looked like a down and out diner. The food was dirt cheap, and you pretty much ordered by picture. I'm fairly certain it was BYOB, but we were obsessed with the Thai Iced Tea, so that hardly mattered. I do remember that the green curry was almost lethal, and that the joint wasn't open on Wednesdays. I now live very, very far away from Queens. Yes, I'm technically still in the same city, but if you calculate the time it takes me get to Sripraphai I might as well live in Jersey (not that there's anything wrong with that). A trip to Sripraphai is now a major event. I was lucky enough to experience such a momentous occasion recently with my friend Laura.

Although we became friends through work, I think that Laura and I truly bonded over our mutual respect and appreciation for food. We've gone into raptures over sticky rice and mango. We have unabashedly scandalized fellow patrons with our moans at a Malaysian restaurant (the chicken curry roti made us do it). Sripraphai might as well be our culinary temple. It had been a long time since I'd eaten here, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that it had expanded threefold. Gone are the florescent glares and formica countertops. Now its all bamboo and mood-lighting. The food, however, is still painfully good. Emphasis on the painful. We started with fried watercress salad. Moved on to fried pickled pork. Followed all of that with fried pork belly and “southern style curry” - with fried tofu. I'm not sure we completely knew what we were getting ourselves into. We were, however warned about the curry. “Too spicy,” the waiter said. “Not for Americans.” Clearly I took this as a sign that we absolutely must, no matter what, have this curry. I probably even asked for it extra hot. And it was spicy. It was the kind of spicy that makes you want to strip down naked and run down the street screaming “sweet baby jesus!” while dousing your flaming head with water. And yet it was soooooooo right. Especially with the pork belly. The fat of the pork was such a nice compliment to the heat. Next time I might go for meat in the curry (I don't know that tofu was really up to the challenge), but I would definitely order it again.

We accompanied this spread with mounds of coconut rice. And yet, we still managed to rally for a dessert of sticky rice and mango. In the interest of full disclosure – this sticky rice and mango was not as good as the dish we had in Elmhurst this past summer. I mean, it was good, but none of the staff looked ready to throw us out of the restaurant on the grounds of indecency. The overall meal, however, was superlative. And by the time we left, the crowd waiting to be seated overflowed onto the sidewalk (note to self, always arrive at Sripraphai by 6pm on a Saturday).

All in all it was a highly successful night. We had a great meal, and I was able to pick up some curry sauce at the specialty Thai Food shop across the street. And the bonus? An adorable shop cat that offered up kissed to the customers. You see, this is why I miss Queens. Oh Inwood, why?! Why can't you fulfill my culinary dreams? Why must I go to the outer boroughs for true satisfaction? (Inwood just leaned in and whispered, “What about my multiple subway lines, extensive parkland, and discount wine shop?” Well played, Inwood. Well played.)

Leave Your Labels at the Door

Apparently, the word “foodie” has become a bit controversial. I've heard people complain that it glorifies rank amateurs. But controversial? I truly had no idea. I assumed it simply implied a whimsical love of food. Yes, it has a saccharine ring to it, and is a bit unimaginative, but so what? Humans love to categorize, and they love to eat, so something along these lines was bound to emerge eventually. This week, however, I have been schooled. According to urbandictionary.com (an unimpeachable source), “Foodie” is “a dumbed-down term used by corporate marketing forces to infantilize and increase consumerism in an increasingly simple-minded American magazine reading audience.” The definition goes on to state: “The addition of the long "e" sound on the end of a common word is used to create the sensation of being part of a group in isolationist urban society, while also feminizing the term to subconsciously foster submission to ever-present market sources.” So, um, “foodie” is a tool of the patriarchy?

In other corners, “foodies” are declared to be harbingers of doom. Their obsession with odd meats, their idolatry of chefs, and their willingness to travel great distances for unusual fare are deemed equivalent to late Roman excess. That’s right folks – while Rome is burning, these heathens will be eating. And speaking of religion (or lack thereof), need I even mention the infamous list of transgressions which places Gluttony almost at the top?

Now that my eyes have been opened to the depravity that is “foodie-ism”, I will certainly never insult a dear friend by applying such a slur to his good name. So let’s just say that I have recently enjoyed some good meals with friends who, while not professional members of the food industry, embrace its offerings with an appropriate level of enthusiasm, and in a manner which pisses nobody off. Let’s start with the intercontinental brunch.

Some of you may be familiar with my good friend Daniel. He played a starring role in my Berlin dispatches this past fall. This kind soul is both an amazing cook and an amazing diner. While Ryan and I were in Berlin we were privileged to attend a dinner party he held featuring pumpkin potage, lamb, and lemon arugula risotto (this is serious stuff here, people. Dinner-party risotto is not for the faint of heart). Daniel also introduced us to some wonderful restaurants (Themroc, Kimchee Princess, Terrorist Döner Kebab....Oh the deliciousness!) Basically, Daniel facilitated some of our best culinary experiences in Germany. So when he wrote to tell us that he was coming to NYC, and particularly wanted to share a meal with us so that he could make an appearance on this blog, I was both excited and a little intimidated (did I mention that he’s a professional, published writer as well? Yeah, there’s no pressure here).

The parameters were as follows: a midday Sunday meal on the Upper East Side, as he would be coming from the Guggenheim. This naturally suggests brunch, right? But herein lies the dilemma – Brunch in Berlin is epic. There would be absolutely no way to compare to it, let alone top it. And to make matters worse, our chosen location, while definitely not a culinary wasteland, is not exactly known for its adventurous dining. I decided the only answer was to stick to a well-worn playbook: Sarabeth’s East.

Sarabeth’s not only has a reputation for outstanding brunch, it also has just enough variety to satisfy any particular culinary quirk. Yes, there would be a wait, but a wait for Sunday brunch is ubiquitous in NYC. And I'd like to think it was worth it. First of all, how can you argue with a place that serves homemade jam? And your choice of muffin, croissant, biscuit or bread with every egg dish? Of course, what really sold me was their Sweet Breakfast. Surprised? Don't be. Its a total misnomer. The Sweet Breakfast menu delivered the one of the best savory brunches I've ever had. I submit for your approval: The Crisp Potato Waffle with Chicken Apple Breakfast Sausage, Chunky Apple Sauce and Sour Cream. This also comes with warm organic maple syrup from Doefler's Farm. I don't know who Doefler is, and I only had a bit of his syrup, but it was damn good. But oh, the waffles. They mix the potato in with the batter, and it comes out light, fluffy, and – what can I say? - crisp. The sausage was just hearty enough for a sophisticated Sunday meal, as opposed to the greasy excess of a hangover brunch. The whole place had the vibe of a New England cafe. Oh, and lest I forget – the home fries! Daniel ordered a round for the table, and I heartily embraced his decision. You know how some home fries are just nasty, caky globs of useless carbs? These were the kind of home fries that all potatoes hope to grow up to be. Each morsel was perfectly browned, with a creamy interior. Add to that the sauteed onions and red and green peppers, and you've come pretty close to ultimate brunch satisfaction.

Ryan, Daniel and I followed up our multiple potato portions with a lovely jaunt through Central Park. There was just a bit of a chill in the air, making it perfect for a brisk walk. The park was austere, yet beautiful, and the company was superior. I can't deny it – I fell in love with Berlin. But a wonderful Sunday like this makes me realize that settling for New York City wouldn't be too bad.

The Fayetteville Holiday Meal Delivery Service

Like most couples, Ryan and I try to split our holidays – if we spend Thanksgiving with his people, we then spend Christmas with my people. But this year things were a little bit different. We had spent much of the fall on our grand European adventure, and Thanksgiving had been spent with other homeless American Opera singers who understood the crucial need for mass quantities of turkey the fourth Thursday of November. When we came back to NYC in early December it seemed a bit impractical to turn around and travel again for Christmas. So the result is, we had not seen Ryan's parents for quite a while. Over the winter we tried to plan a trip upstate, but, as usual, my chaotic work schedule prohibited it. However, Ryan's parents are intrepid travelers, so they decided that if we couldn't come to them, they would come to us; plans were made for an overnight visit on President's Day weekend.

Cue Andi's culinary delusions of grandeur: of course I would make a spectacular dinner on Saturday, filled with food that is both wholesome and just adventurous enough. Sunday would feature freshly made biscuits and assorted breakfast meats. Perhaps homemade jam and a decorative fruit tray? I was in complete denial of the fact that with my extreme work schedule (which included a full day of teaching on Saturday) all of this cooking would have to take place from 3pm to 4pm Wednesday afternoon in between jobs. So I was slightly relieved when Ryan told me that his parents were planning to bring food to us – namely a roast turkey with all the trimmings.

At first I was also confused- why would they bring a roast turkey on a 5 hour drive? Did they think our apartment was an episode of Man vs. Wild, and that they would have to forage for food and shelter for 48 hours? True, we use toilet paper as tissues and rarely have non-alcoholic beverages beyond water and milk, but hey – we could be a lot worse. But as the plan continued to take shape I realized their true intention - they wanted to have a holiday meal with us. And if President's Day was to be our holiday, then so be it. They wanted to spoil us – and Ryan and I were ready to be spoiled.

The discussion of dinner must begin with the Fayetteville turkey. It is beyond good. They wrap the bird in butter-coated tin foil at the start of the day, and then hours later this yields up incredibly tender, juicy, flavorful meat. And the skin! Oh the skin. Decadent. Perfectly crisp. The Fayetteville turkey was accompanied by homemade, toothsome bread stuffing, roasted carrots, and green beans. Ryan made his signature sinful mashed potatoes (secret ingredient? Crack). Cranberry sauce was in effect. And, of course, gravy.

A note on gravy - I fear making it. As a child, my family's holiday meals never included gravy because no one felt confident enough to attempt it. There was a conviction in the household that good gravy was a result of careful alchemy – and we had not been made privy to this ancient knowledge. I worry that I inherited this genetic predisposition for inadequate gravy-making. I am in awe of anyone who has mastered the skill. Ryan's mother makes an amazingly velvety, perfect gravy. Of course, the succulent turkey easily stands on its own. But that gravy – it just takes the whole meal to a new dimension.

The gorging commenced. Perhaps my fourth serving was a bit excessive, but, after all, President's Day only comes around once a year. And there is a magic to the holiday meal. So much heart and spirit is put into the preparation, its as if you can taste the love expressed with each bite. The meal was rounded out with two types of homemade cookies (including my favorite, chocolate chip walnut). And that wasn't the end – there were two loaves of freshly made banana bread for the next morning. This may just be my new favorite holiday tradition.

I was a witness to strange food rituals

I suppose all cultures have their own peculiar culinary rituals. In some locales, jungle tribes pass homemade liquor to every guest at a fire-side gathering, with each member drinking from the same hollowed-out coconut. It is forbidden to skip your turn – you simply have to drink until you pass out. In other places, groups gather at yuletide to eat celebratory cake, not knowing which slice contains the sacred bean which will elevate the eater to royalty before casting him down as a human sacrifice. And speaking of sacrifice, I've certainly been the recipient of some wafers and wine which were intended to represent something a bit more....lifelike. But seeing as how I'm not a regular church goer, I would have to say that my food rituals are usually confined to the requisite Old-Fashioned cocktail served when dining with the Tuckers. Not to make light of this ritual. Nothing makes a dinner of pernil, polenta and beer-sauteed kale better than a perfectly mixed drink imbibed after the gorging. However, in my recent travels around our ever-surprising city I have had the privilege of witnessing not one, but two unusual food rituals. Let's just say I've been busy.

As my “bio” here explains, my hunger for food and drink is really only matched by my hunger for art. And my preference has always been to enjoy these items with friends. So when a particularly talented couple I know invited me to a night of dinner, poetry and scotch, of course I said yes. The evening had an official title – A Burns Supper, celebrating the life of Scottish poet Robert Burns. A college-aged friend of mine immediately knew the reference but I, alas, have lived in ignorance of The Burns Supper all these years. Luckily, the internet exists, so I was able to fill this gap in my education with (hopefully) accurate information. Robert Burns lived, loved and drank in Scotland during the late 1700's. He wrote a huge body of work, containing poems both sentimental and satirical. I believe along the way he also fathered about 17 children (and never married). After his untimely death at 37 his friends began a yearly gathering to celebrate his life and works. The dinner features what might as well be Scottish national dish, Haggis, and an almost absurd amount of whiskey. Poetry is read. Songs are sung. All rejoice in the memory of a debauched eighteenth century poet who, as I learned, had a crappy day job just like the rest of us.

Fast forward to New York City, 2011. As might be expected, a group of 30-something artists had eagerly assembled for this august event. The traditional aspects of the dinner were there – the presentation of the haggis. The poem to the haggis. The cutting of the haggis. Haggis played a really big part here (luckily, my friends made a delicious vegetarian haggis. I have eaten real haggis in Scotland. I am a very adventurous eater. I could not finish it. There were sheeps' stomachs involved. Vegetarian haggis is definitely the way to go.) Of course, some of the evening was a bit foggy, but I believe that the memory of Robert Burns was toasted, as were a great many other things. We toasted the lads. We toasted the lassies. And at the end of the night, we each presented a work written by or inspired by Robert Burns. As I said, the man was quite (artistically) prolific so we experienced everything from love poems to humorous ballads to dancing babies. Two people even decided to pictorially riff on the “colorful” titles of Burns' poems. Needless to say, this was the NC-17 part of the evening. All in all I left the party feeling very full, a bit tipsy, extremely well-cultured, and quite curious about food traditions.

And as luck would have it, only a week later I was fortunate enough to be exposed to another culinary cultural event. This time, the locale of origin was Canada, Newfoundland to be exact. At a multi-birthday party (I believe that there was a total of 7 people celebrating their respective birthdays? Apparently February is a really popular time to have babies). One of the attendees decided that he could give the birthday boys and girls no better present than an initiation to the Newfoundland club. Yes, that's right, he made all of them official Newfoundlanders. In order to do this the group had to be “screeched in”. The ritual involved the drinking of darkly terrifying rum (known as Screech), the kissing of a dead fish, and the reciting of a dirty limerick. While it may not have involved haggis, I can't help but think that Robert Burns would have approved. Alas, I was not able to be “screeched in” that evening, so I continue my urban roamings, hoping to find even more truly icky culinary traditions to adopt as my own. I open this discussion to you, readers – what bizarre food rituals have you partaken in? And how do you suggest we organize parties around them?

Brunches I have Bested

Before we explore that magical realm between breakfast and lunch, I think a shout-out is in order. And that shout-out goes to Singapore. Not only does this country have a fascinating cuisine and culture, but they also have one resident who, at the very least, viewed this blog (perhaps even read some of it!) So thank you, Singapore. I hope to someday explore your culinary delights. And thanks also to the lone Singapore resident who decided to find out just how hungry I am. Please do stop by again sometime. And now, on to the food.

Submitted for your approval: The Berlin Brunch. A buffet extravaganza ranging from sausage and eggs to spicy middle eastern vegetables to deep fried....stuff. And the requisite bucket of chicken wings. Since real Berliners don't sleep on Saturday nights, I guess the only activity they're fit for on Sundays is an all day eating orgy. This is why Berlin is my kind of town.

In my arrogance I thought that after Berlin I had seen all that brunch has to offer. That, however, was before brunch at the Petersons', which I experienced earlier this month. First sign that I was entering a whole new Brunch realm? Brunch was served at 6pm. Brilliant! Do you realize I could have comfortably slept until 5pm and still made it over there in time for the candy-coated goodness? Had the promise of a Petersons' Brunch been on the horizon I certainly would have made it through the all-night David Bowie tribute last weekend.

The crux of the Peterson Brunch is surely their perfect balance of sugar and salt. You have your basics like bacon and scrambled eggs (and- oh yes!- the bacon was cooked to order. Was that a bit of drool that fell on my keyboard? No matter. On with the story.) This protein staple was contrasted with silver dollar pancake sandwiches. Deep fried silver dollar pancake sandwiches. Deep fried silver dollar Pancake sandwiches filled with nutella. Do you see how much trouble I'm in here?

And that's not even the extent of it. There was deep fried challah french toast with powdered sugar. And carmelized bananas. But really, the pinnacle of the brunch for me was the brown-sugar glazed spicy italian sausage. I'm not sure I have the words to describe it. Its as if some divine being came down and elevated ground meat to a level never before known to man, and perhaps never to be experienced again. And as if all this weren't enough, there were homemade chipwiches for dessert.

True, this was quite a bit of food. I did, in fact, suffer from a carb coma for most of the night (and had to get my arteries cleaned out immediately upon waking up the next day). But ultimately that was a good, even necessary thing, because it made me insensible to the pain of the Petersons' youngest child bashing me in the face with a Thomas the Tank Engine Train. Instead, I rode a blissful sugar-fat wave, all while watching the elder Peterson child give an impromptu dance recital. Life is good. Brunch with the Petersons makes it even better.

Cupcakes, Thai food, and Friends – a love letter, if you will

Some have called me an over-booker. They say that it's unreasonable to fill one weekend with an out of town sleep-over, kiddie playtime, girls night, eleven-dy hours of work, and a late night David Bowie birthday concert tribute. I say, how am I to choose from all the amazing options offered by my talented and hilarious friends? Of course, as I sit here incubating a killer cold on my day off, I wonder about the wisdom of my choices. Not that I would choose differently, mind you. I'm just wondering whether I should admit my foolishness or not. I think you should be the judge.

Let's start with the Long Island sleep-over. I remember back in high school one of my teachers staunchly maintaining that, regardless of the bonds we had formed during our school years, none of us would be friends later in life. Well I have a wealth of childhood connections to prove him wrong. Take my friend Tovah. Our friendship has lasted so long that she now has a child the same age that we were when we met. There is something so special about spending time with these Tovah-hybrids, watching their ever-evolving personalities, and their riotous games that involve dressing up like pumpkins and running into things. True, you don't sleep so much around these adorable little munchkins, but that's a small price to pay for non-stop high-jinks and butternut squash soup. And incidentally, that soup is to die for. Velvety, creamy, with just the right amount of sweetness. The perfect antidote to a child-hangover.

The next day we seamlessly transitioned into girls night in Queens. My friends and I have often talked about the “friendship renaissance” that took place right around the time we all hit 30. I have no doubt that it will go down as the highlight of our respective decades. With ties spanning elementary school, middle school, high school, college, and post-collegiate sublet situations, we have formed a group that guarantees entertainment and new perspective at every gathering. The theme on Saturday was game night and take out. We were a bit foolish to believe that the game part would happen. With all eight of us there (the only one missing lives in LA, so we gave her a pass) we had far more important things to focus on: brilliant tales of bribery; family planning strategies (for example, who will volunteer to adopt me so that I can get EU citizenship?); helping each other cope with both the exhilarating and mournful changes that just seem to keep piling up as we age. Okay, there may have been a few moments when the conversation turned to sex and giggling, but we really spent most of our time solving the world's problems.

Of course, not even the problems of the world could keep us from food. While we weren't able to figure out a workable plan to obtain food from Sripraphai (arguably the best Thai food in NYC), we did find an acceptable replacement in Yum Yum, the new Thai place up the street from Girls Night Central. Oh the curry that was had. I personally prefer green curry that burns my face off, and while this failed to even singe my cheek, it did provide spicy, coconut-y satisfaction. And the tofu/mixed veggie option was top notch too. There was a variety of vegetables, instead of merely a lone piece of broccoli amid a sea of bamboo shoots. Add to this the crispy duck that I surreptitiously poached from Cory's plate, and I was golden. A true culinary highlight, however, were the homemade red velvet cupcakes. Oh Erin. You have found the cupcake corner of my heart. In contrast to my obsession with all things savory, I am strangely reluctant to indulge in the sweeter things in life. Give me a plate of cheese fries for dessert and I will be happy. I can easily pass up the ice cream course. But every now and then I am presented with a dessert that makes me rethink my strongly held allegiance to the savory offerings of this world. This was one of those occasions. The fluffiness of the cake! The perfectly proportioned frosting! I had planned on taking one bite before passing it on to a more sugary-inclined friend. Instead, I came out of a dessert swoon moments later with the cupcake wrapper pressed to my mouth and guilty look on my face.

Somewhere around the whiskey course we did in fact manage to play a few hands of Apples to Apples. And perhaps I should have regretted that a tiny bit as I made my way through the following work day that started at 10am and lasted until 10:30pm. But really, how could I be expected to leave? There are many things I most likely will never have in my life (wealth, fame, health insurance – if the Republicans have their way). But I have people in my life so continuously fascinating, who possess such tremendous hearts and wild spirits. The list extends far beyond the people I saw this weekend. I feel that I have somehow been lucky enough to be surrounded by an embarrassment of friendship riches. And if I'm to truly live up to what has been bestowed upon me by fate, or the cosmos, or whatever, I'm going to have to overbook. Or quit my job. But the former seems a bit more realistic. In fact, my only regret is that I couldn't extend the weekend even farther – I finally hit the wall at 1:30am, at the David Bowie Birthday Bash. True, I had seen a hilarious cover band, and some astonishingly semi-dressed drunk people, but I missed a performance by Maria – the hardest working woman in the David Bowie Tribute Band Universe. And also my favorite rock star. Since quitting my job is not an option, I'm clearly going to have to learn how to function on less sleep. It's really the only way.

My Dream Kitchen, or, The Saga of the Dutch Oven

Clearly I love to eat. But, unlike many New Yorkers, I also love to cook. Some may even say that I get carried away with my cooking. Now admittedly, for Christmas Eve I did open the meal with garlic roasted shrimp and a red onion-jalapeño cocktail sauce, and followed that up with classic fondue with roasted potatoes, mushrooms, and asparagus. And I guess my New Year's Eve spread could be described as a bit excessive - greek lamb meatballs, zucchini fritters, tzatziki, gougères, bacon-wrapped scallops, endives with spiced nuts, gorgonzola and honey, and of course the ubiquitous artichoke dip (I'm not really sure why this has become a favorite, but there seems to be no escaping it now). And that's just the stuff that was homemade. I know how to make judicious use of frozen hors d'oeuvres and a few blocks of good cheese.

So, um, what I'm saying is, I love to cook. Love it. And therefore I need a workhorse of a kitchen. This is no small feat in NYC. All of my apartment searches have included “functional kitchen” as a deal-breaker. And the current kitchen I have is nothing to sneeze at (again, by Manhattan standards). I have a full-sized oven and fridge, reasonable cupboard space, and enough counter space to get the job done. But still, a girl can dream, right? And I dream of shelving. A lot of shelving. A substantial cutting board. A sharp knife. Maybe just a teensy bit more counter space, for when I'm really feeling extravagant. But most of all, I dream of a dutch oven.

I've had my eye on a good dutch oven for years now. In fact, every time the temperature drops, and I get the urge to stew, roast, and braise, I find myself once again salivating over ads for Le Creuset. But here's the thing – over the years Le Creuset has continued to be seriously expensive, and I have continued not to really make serious money. So I've set my sights lower – I'll take Lodge. Hell, I'll even take some annoying Mario Batali vanity cookware shit (but not Paula Deen. NEVER Paula Deen). And yet these still all manage to be out of my price range. So, dear readers, I put this question to you: Where can I get a good, enameled dutch oven with a tight-fitting lid? It has to be enameled, for the magical ragu sauce that I will someday make in it. And the tight-fitting lid is also essential so that we don't have a repeat of the great Berlin Pot Roast Debacle of 2010.

Join me in my quest. As added incentive, anyone who comments will receive an invitation to my virgin dutch oven endeavor – week long cassoulet. Yeah, you're going to need to leave those dieting resolutions at the door. And if cassoulet's not your thing, then just take satisfaction in the knowledge of making a young-ish New York Girl's dream come true. While I'm sure I'll never to be able to figure out a solution to the urban grilling conundrum, at least I'll be able to to cook meat for a really long time at a low temperature. And really, what more can a girl ask for?

Well, I guess I wouldn't really mind a decorative chalk board either. Just saying.

Holiday Gluttony

As a child, holidays for me were totally about the presents. (doubly so, what with having a birthday on New Year's day) I realize that this is fairly common, but I was the kind of ungrateful child who took her gifts way too seriously. I was the type of child who would hurl a pair of socks back at the poor relative who dared to give me a non-toy item. Had youtube existed back in the stone age of my youth, there would most definitely be widely available evidence of me throwing the book my Uncle gave me for my 4^th birthday to the floor in disgust. (Mind you, this book ended up becoming one of my favorites, and said Uncle was subsequently forced to read it to me ad nauseam. Truly, no good deed goes unpunished).

In the wisdom of my years I have realized that such material goods, such child's play-things are not what the holidays are really about. No, I see clearly now that the holidays about one thing, and one thing only – food. It should come as no surprise then that I've become a connoisseur of the holiday party. This was a banner year for holiday party food. From office lunch, to sit down dinner, to cocktail party extravaganza, I have braved multiple transit systems to sample the tastiest dishes that my friends and acquaintances had to offer. And as I write this from the comfort of my draw-string, stretchy pants, I have no regrets.

One of the most delightful discovers this year came at the company lunch at Rosa Mexicano. I've been to Rosa Mexicano twice previously – once for an awkward work function, and once on what turned out to be a hideous date. So while I know that the food is technically good, I have some bitter associations with this fine establishment. That, however, was before the fish tacos. Let's start off by discussing the presentation – each order came with its own mini cast-iron skillet, so I immediately felt like a superstar (isn't that part of being a superstar? Individual cast iron skillets?) The fish itself was covered in a citrus-chili rub and then seared in the aforementioned pan. Various accoutrements were provided on the side – chorizo and red bean chili, fresh corn aioli, and a pile of absurdly delicious habanero-lime marinated onions. At the first bite of tender, flakey fish the chaos of the room melted away and I found myself transported to an island paradise of flavor. Rosa Mexicano, all is forgiven. And while I know that I'll never be able to afford to frequent you without an office-supplied subsidy, you will always hold a special place in my heart.

Before discussing my next culinary adventure, I must make an apology. In my previous post I unfairly maligned the quality of cheese available in New York. I was momentarily swayed by the exoticism of foreign cheese, and in my enthusiasm I overlooked the crucial contributions of my childhood cheese supplier - the Grande Dame of Asharoken, the Purple Empress of Long Island. It was in her beach house that my cheese palate first became refined. The saga blue! The fresh mozzarella! Oh the cheeses she bestowed upon me. In her benevolence she forgave my slight, and extended an invitation to Christmas dinner. Of course, a fine cheese selection was present, notably including perhaps the most buttery and beguiling brie of all time. She merely smiled contentedly as I fell into a dairy-induced delirium. But so much more awaited us. Let's discuss the homemade spanakopita, shall we? Yes, we've all had the frozen pastry triangles and the ubiquitous Greek diner spinach pie. This was an entirely different matter. Like any good marriage, the flavors in this spanakopita united in harmony, yet also confidently asserted their own identities. For example, the dill. Yes, its technically a supportive player, but in this dish it sang its own aria.

I haven't even touched upon the glories of the trout dip, or the sinful, velvety bœuf bourguignon that awaited us for dinner. But lest you think that my only obsession is food, I'd like to share another highlight of my holiday season – La Fanciulla del West at the Metropolitan Opera. These days my musical tastes run more towards the angst-y and the German, but my initial love of opera was sparked by that master of schmaltz, Giacomo Puccini. I can still listen rapturously to La bohème with (almost) no skepticism about the love-at-first-sight story line, or the curious fact that, despite shacking up together for a few months, Rudolfo somehow never gets so much as a cold from the tuberculosis-ridden Mimi. Seriously – was he wearing a surgical mask the whole time? Did they have Purell in those days? No matter. There's beautiful music and a heart-rending story. That's usually all I need. Not so with La Fanciulla del West. The name translates to “The Girl of the Golden West”, and it's about a strong, independent woman living by herself amongst a group of hardened miners in gold-rush California. The opera opens with bar fights, whiskey, gambling – and a touching aria sung by a tearful miner about how much he misses his mother. This being the wild west, you assume that at the very least he's going to get the crap kicked out of him. You certainly don't expect the drunken rabble to put together a collection on the spot to send him back to his sweet old mama. But this is the Italian version of the old west, and that's exactly what happens. In fact, [spoiler alert!] no one dies at all in this opera! At least no one crucial. Instead we get inspiration and redemption. Whatever. I go to the opera for the sex and violence. However, there were some glorious melodies (so glorious, in fact, that a certain modern-day composer ripped one of them off blatantly for his wildly successful musical). There was also Marcello Giordani. That man was throwing down the high notes with an authority and ease thrilling to hear. Sure, he talked about his mother a lot too, but when it's that high above the staff you can't really figure out what he's saying anyway.

All in all, a satisfying holiday season, in both musical and culinary terms. Resolutions for the New Year? More cheap-ass food in Queens. I would resolve to find more realistic opera plots, but why set myself up for failure? Happy New Year, dear readers!