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!