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.