the keys

Today, I mailed the keys to my New York apartment back to New York. Back to my roommates who will be moving out this weekend, ending a tale that started a little over a year ago.

I went away for no real reason. It was so frivolous really. But I don't have any regrets. I look back sometimes, when someone mentions a restaurant I once knew in New York, when someone speaks of the vibrant energy in Manhattan. I was there. I took in those skyscrapers almost every day.

I'm poorer now, in bank account. I'm less a lot of clothes and shoes and material. But I'm so much more brave. I'm in a job that I have no experience doing and every day, I face my coworkers with the hope that we'll succeed together. And I let them watch me fall but not fail. What a difference a letter makes. Letters are the keys to telling a story and I'm proud of mine.

no air

There is a song currently emanating from the radios of 14 year-olds everywhere by Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown. It's called "No Air" and it's about being in love to the point where your paramour's affections become as necessary as air. It's growing on me as I listen to it here in Aspen. Or maybe it's because I'm delirious from the altitude and the fact that I literally have NO AIR because at this height, the oxygen content of the air is 53% of what it is at sea level. I'm huffing and puffing all day.

The weather is beautiful and I write to you from the balcony of my room at the Aspen Meadows Resort. Thanks to my job and the good people at Food and Wine magazine who sponsor the event which I'm attending, I'm able to gaze at snow covered mountains riddled with dark green pines and yet wear my pajamas outside in the sun as tourists play guitar on the grass below.

We arrived on Thursday afternoon into the valley of this mountain range and had dinner at Cache Cache with Dan Phillips of The Grateful Palate. The restaurant was bustling with locals and visitors alike. I started with a lovely beet salad with goat cheese, mixed greens and a light lemon-truffle vinaigrette. I veered off the beaten path and ordered house smoked salmon and a seared foie gras appetizer for my duo-app entree. The salmon was soft and fishy with tart creme fraiche and accompaniments like capers, onion and chive. The foie was delicious as foie always is (except at eat. on sunset... what a mistake!) For dessert, a trio of ice creams - vanilla, chocolate and a fresh mint and chocolate chip which sorely disappointed me because the chocolate chips were not meant for ice cream and tasted like bits of brown crayon.

Yesterday, lunch was enjoyed at Boogie's Diner where a truly American tasting was ordered. Chili cheese fries, a cheeseburger and a meatloaf sandwich were split between my boss and me. Both of us becoming lethargic and stoney by late afternoon. I splurged on a strawberry malt which was pink and doughy but in a good way.

Back in LA, I left my car in the care of a friend who noticed my tire to be a little flat so he added a few PSI to it. I could certainly use a bit of that here.

More later!

"112th and Central Park West, please."

It's the last time I'll utter those words for a while.

I'm leaving on a jet plane in a few hours and once again, I'm saying goodbye to the city. But this trip has made it clear to me that one day, I must be back here. Hopefully I'll have found a job and be living in an apartment I like and maybe, if I'm lucky, be in love as well.

My first destination yesterday afternoon after a lazy morning under the hot sun of my apartment window was the Korin store on Warren Street. Surrounded by so many professional chefs, I've learned that a good knife is the start to good cooking so I bought my first "real" knife, a 210mm Togiharu gyutou. It's a carbon steel knife which means it will rust if I don't use it but it also means that it keeps its edge just a little bit longer. Good thing because I tend to lose my edge when I'm back in the confines of Hollywood wonderland Los Angeles. I've been taught how to sharpen the blade and as soon as I get a stone, the smell of my own blood mixed with iron will fill the air of my new apartment. That's how you know you're doing it right.

From Korin I wandered to the Lower East Side to stop into one of my favorite boutiques called Honey in the Rough. Ashley, the curly-haired proprietor of the store is on vacation so I didn't get to thank her in person for the postcard she sent me in LA thanking me for my purchases. The streets emanated the heat of the reflected sun, concrete hoarding the warmth of the day only to release it through the night. I made my way north to the East Village where I met Felipe and friends at Luzzo's for pizza and conversation. It just sort of happened. The Caesar salad Felipe and I shared was delicious with a slick, fishy dressing and hard, crunchy croutons. Two pizzas were ordered, a Tartufata and an Arugola, and both were incredible. Just as I remembered.

I shopped at Filene's Basement in Union Square and had a late night snack with my roommate Karen at Pongsri Thai on 23rd and 7th. She had pad thai with tofu and I pad see-ew with tofu and we chatted about our lives. Returning to the apartment, Karen lasted nary 15 minutes before passing out and I took phone calls from friends who needed to be caught up.

This morning, I left for A Tempo, a boutique on the Upper West Side which had a necklace I needed for a friend. From there I wandered along Amsterdam and Broadway and picked up the necessary items for tonight's event.. mainly I needed baby powder because I was so sweaty all day and a nail clipper. I met Felipe at Niko's on 76th and Broadway for a quick Greek plate of antipasti. I haven't had good Greek food in a month and I was really hurting for some tarama and hummus.

It was then time to pretty-up for the James Beard Awards, the reason I was back. Felipe helped me with my dress and out the door into the 90 degrees we went. We hailed a cab and stopped at a Starbucks before I walked up the red carpet to go know what I needed to know. Outside Starbucks, Felipe and I encountered Bruce Willis, Demi Moore and two of their children. I didn't recognize them as I was focused on my tall iced green tea latte but heard Demi's voice and turned to see Felipe's face in that controlled expressive state of surprise.

He left me at the awards while I waited for my new boss to arrive and watched chef after chef walk the red carpet and stop for paparazzi and interviewers galore. Food is big now, friends. Bigger than most people would have expected. Big to the point where there's actually a red carpet now at Lincoln Center which is traversed by the cooks we've exhalted and the people they've fed or wed or hired to help them.

The ceremony was filled with tributes and acknowledgments. It was kind and respectful and full of admiration. There were famous chefs, products of the Food Network star-making machine (Bobby Flay.) There were badass chefs who ran about the stage as if they'd owned it their whole lives (Masaharu Morimoto and Michel Richard.) There were chefs who spoke calmly to a crowd rapt by their words (Thomas Keller and Grant Achatz.) It was a black tie affair with all the hype of a big splashy awards show except the catering at this event was probably better than anything the Oscars has ever seen.

My chef did not win the award for which he was nominated but he was unfazed. It's still about the cooking afterall and the family he has built in the restaurants he has opened. At the reception after the show, it was all about eating and drinking and hugging old friends. For me, I just tried to be useful by remembering names and polite by not speaking with my mouth full and graceful by not stepping on the train of the red BCBG Max Azria gown I wore while holding clutch purse and programs in one hand, food and drink in the other. In my patent leather blush pink heels. The ones Chef Dong Choi calls "ridiculous."

I left the party around 11pm and walked alone to the line of taxis waiting to ferry revelers to their hotels and homes. I gave the driver my destination and as we drove north along Amsterdam Avenue, I kid you not, the lights turned green one after another as we approached every street. Sixty blocks and we only stopped once.

I leave in 7 hours and I should be asleep now but the lingering warmth of the day has permeated into night and my room is too stuffy for comfort. And part of me, a small bit, doesn't want this to end, this love affair. Until I find my person in life, I will always pine for the city where I loved to be. I will come back to it and for it.

a month and a day

I'm back in the space where I used to lay. I'm sitting in my bed in my apartment in Manhattan. In the apartment I still rent. For a month and three days, I'm bi-coastal.

The smells are familiar. The soap from my roommates' bathroom. The trees across the street. The stillness of humid summer air in the stairwell. I've missed this city.

When I first got back to LA, I immediately felt the absence of skyscrapers and beveled windows. But my time here was so short relative to my life there that moments arose when I had to remind myself that I once lived in this city. That I used to be a New Yorker. I was so happy to see my friends who had celebrated my departure with hope and encouragement. It felt right to be back but now that I'm here again, I'm all goopy inside. And it's not the H and H bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon I just devoured. Nor is it the jet lag. It's the ache of knowing that I will have to leave brokenhearted.

oh, it's what you did to me

I've smelled the urine of your detractors. I've rumbled through the tunnels beneath you. I have molded the snow in your park and jogged its paths. I've gifted you with my personal economic stimulus package. I've admired your bucolic upstate. I've been disappointed by your produce.

I've dodged the squealing smaller versions of you as they ran past knee and under foot. I've stopped in my tracks at museums and parks where they hover in swarms around confounding adult objects that give them pause from school. I have sat pensive next to your Harlem Meer. There, I ate a bagel with cream cheese and lox.

I have navigated you, finger to my Moleskine with its MTA map, eyes to your signs. I have listened, peered down the stairs and made a run for it. I've backtracked and moved forward. I found shelter under your awnings and your umbrellas.

I've given up the practice of my personal journalism in order to be exhausted by the innumerable, careful steps taken to traverse you. To round your corners and ascend your hills. Some grey, some green. I have bantered with your shopkeepers and your brassy commuters. I've heard slang, swear words and Senegalese.

I've pulled jackets off my sweaty arms as the air changed from the cold outside kind to the stuffy inside kind. I've slapped my hands around the brushed metal poles of your trains and caught the bugs of my fellow citizens. I have sat in the beams of your sunlight and warmed myself like a lizard.

I have photographed your unsuspecting near and far. Tricolore salad and train car. I've grown fat with your offerings and my hourly decisions to accept them. You are quite literally a part of me.

I have admired and mocked your businessmen. I've envied the rings of your fiancées. I've smiled at your stroller-bound babies. I thought ruefully of home while you stood tall and proud around me. I've cursed slow-moving tourists.

I've been tousled and jostled by your finest. I've fallen asleep on your rails. I've turned myself out of revolving doors in the base of office buildings. Out into your brisk pace. My ankles have faltered on your ridges. Here, I have wondered about my weakness. I left you for spells and returned to call you home.

I have stood breathless in Times Square and squinted, awe-struck, at the lights above. I've been swindled by your resourceful homeless. But I've not had any change to spare. Only enough for my own.

I have freed myself of regret. I left myself behind. I have loved you and for a brief and glorious time, I was yours.

the duck wasn't the only one

As rich people get richer, so do their tastes. You move from polyester to cotton to silk. From a Civic to an Altima to a BMW. And as their preferences grow, so does their ennui. What was once an achievement, like dating a supermodel for example, becomes a bland fact requiring a bit of variation. A lot of cocaine, say, can keep mundane supermodels interesting. As food boredom goes, you evolve from Cheesecake Factory to Spago to Per Se to The Fat Duck where you are challenged in all your senses by Heston Blumenthal's sensitive and thoughtful madcap experiments. Experiments which he has perfected over the years to yield an amusing and tasty dinner.

Much like many fine dining establishments dangling at the end of dirt roads in nondescript towns, we arrived in Bray around 8:30pm to find the only real source of light to be that of a lonely pub. The restaurant was unmarked except for an official city notice painted above the door which read "H. BLUMENTHAL AUTHORISED TO OPERATE BUSINESS FROM THESE PREMISES." Were there not fellow diners leaving when we walked up, we may not have found it at all.

Inside, it's a small dining room which seats 47 and behind it a small kitchen which fits about 6. It's tiny. The prep kitchen is across the street we were told as we were seated immediately and settled in for what would be over 3 hours of complicated food.

We were poured a splash of Krug and then a palate cleanser of egg white foam with lime, vodka and a dusting of green tea arrived. The foam was sprayed into a pot of liquid nitrogen and rolled around with spoons until it formed a small ping pong ball. The exterior was crisp like meringue and when I bit into it I was informed that liquid nitrogen "steam" flew from my nostrils as I exhaled the delicately tart flavor of lime. How bullish of me.

The bread served was moist and stretchy like an airy rubber. The butter, unpasteurized and enveloping, was fabulous. The flavor emanating a completeness which I've never tasted before. We could have eaten only this for our entire meal. Canapes which arrived included Native oysters in a passion fruit jelly with lavender. The oyster was fresh and pleasantly briny. Pommery grain mustard ice cream was served in a small quenelle over diced cucumber as a red cabbage gazpacho was poured at the table. A beautiful dish with its floating island of flecked yellow in a sea of magenta. The flavor was spicy with a bit of tannin from the cabbage. My nose tingled with a hit of mustard. What followed was mind blowing.

A box topped with wet oak moss was set between Gareth and me as we each then received a small oval bowl tilted towards us on a pedestal. Think 60s pod chair. Inside was a parfait of foie gras in a pool of langoustine cream hiding a quail jelly on top of green pea purée. On an accompanying plate was a slice of toast black with truffle and topped with radish and parsley. The oak moss box was filled with dry ice and as the waiter poured hot water into a small opening, the ripples of white steam flowed over the lush greenery. You smelled the moist darkness of the forest and as you ate all the elements together, you could taste the underbrush of wood and earth.

Next came snail porridge which was escargots on top of a green porridge of oats made with parsley, garlic, butter and chicken bouillon. Strands of Jabugo ham and shaved fennel rested on top. The snails were chewy and soft and the porridge was gentle and creamy. The parsley oil held the garlic at bay keeping our palates neutral. Foie gras which I can only imagine was sous vided came next. The foie was perfectly cooked and decorated with shaved almonds and chives. On the plate were brushstrokes of black cherry coulis and a chamomile emulsion. Tiny cubes of almond extract jelly sat in a row to the side. This was one of my favorite dishes as the acidity and brightness of cherries and almond lifted the heavy foie gras and sent it sliding across the tongue. At moments, I tasted the black duck eggs common in Chinese markets with their hint of ammonia. One of my favorite courses.

Earlier in the evening, I had watched a 6-top of grown men listening to conch shells outfitted with iPod shuffles. Some closed their eyes to concentrate on the sounds I could only imagine. When it was my turn, I was completely bowled over by what happened. Emanating from the iPod earphones snaking from the conch shell was sounds of seagulls and the crush of the ocean along the sand. Somewhat subconsciously, I felt the cool of the sea and the salt in the air. We were served a simple but gorgeous vessel that was a box with sand with a glass plate lofted above. On the plate was a section of the shore. To the left, tapioca flour with tiny, crunchy fried baby eels designed to look and feel a bit like sand. To the right, a shellfish foam that replicated the surf. Along the "coast," a mussel, razor clam slices and another Native oyster were served with four different kinds of seaweed, some dark purple, some green, all gorgeous. This is one of Heston's signature dishes and I was in awe. The foam mixed with the sand was salty and crunchy and made a perfect compliment to the sea creatures on the plate. If you listened carefully over the recorded surf, you could hear my synapses chatting excitedly and my taste buds hugging in celebration.

The act that followed this tough one was poached salmon wrapped in a licorice gelée which I didn't care for. The plating was exact with dots of balsamic reduction and individual pieces of grapefruit pulp creating a colorful pattern. Artichokes and vanilla mayonnaise didn't help the bland salmon which, to be fair, was cooked perfectly. The licorice was too subtle and didn't add anything interesting to the taste. This disappointment was quickly erased by a ballotine of Anjou pigeon (squab) which was soft, bloody and flavorful with a hint of Asian influence. It came with a streak of black pudding and was a grand finale for the savory path of our adventure.

Hot and cold tea? Indeed. A soft jelly was made out of black and somewhat Orange Pekoe tea with a bit of sweetness and a hint of lemon. However, two temperatures were introduced in one small glass. When you drank it, your tongue was bathed in cold and warm sensations which were pleasantly puzzling. Then followed a small sugared tuille cornet with a story about a woman named Mrs. Marshall who may have been the originator of ice cream in the mid-1800s. The cornet, decorated along the rim with alternating white and pink dots of sugar, was filled with orange and ginger granita and then topped with apple cinnamon ice cream. The flavors were light and the cornet was crunchy and crumbly.

Then the silliness began anew as vanilla beans arrived with a small paper pouch filled with a subtle sweet powder infused with Douglas fir. It was like uber-strange Fun Dip. The vanilla bean was hard and texture in what I guessed was to imitate tree bark. It prepared us for the mango and Douglas fir puree which was placed on top of a lychee bavarois with black currant sorbet. A pleasantly fruity plate, you didn't taste a lot of Douglas fir but mainly the tart roundness of mango and black currant.

It was now finally time for breakfast which started with individual boxes of parsnip cereal brought to us in small bowls accompanied with parsnip milk in a creamer. The parsnip chips were crunchy but a little difficult to chew at times and the parsnip milk was a touch overwhelming with its intense parsnip flavor. After a bit of a wait, a copper pot arrived tableside with a burner that seemed to be out of gas. Then a waiter appeared with eggs and utensils and said "It appears that I have no more gas so I will have to make breakfast with liquid nitrogen instead." The eggs were stamped with the Fat Duck setting and cracked into the pot as liquid nitrogen was added. What came out of the shells though was not a white and a yolk but rather an egg yolk and heavy cream mixture which was instantly frozen with the liquid nitrogen to yield ice cream. It was flavored with a hint of bacon and ladled on top of a take on french toast and a slice of streaky pancetta dried and candied to look like bacon. It was a breakfast for sugar fiends. More tea jelly arrived as we cracked into the bruléed slice of toast with eggs and bacon. The ideas were ingenious but I didn't particularly enjoy the flavors, salty bacon, sweet ice cream "eggs" which I found to be too intense.

We neared the goodbye. But not before being presented with a picture frame and in it, a map of Scotland and to the side, one of Tennessee where in each region, 5 different whiskey gums had been affixed. When you peeled each gum off, it revealed the name of the area. The gums were soft and chewy with intensely different whiskey flavors. As a non-alcoholic, they were bitter to me but the idea was creative and I had a blast learning about the drunken fixation of the Scottish on their firewater.

And finally...the mignardises. It was after 1am and Gareth and I were ready to roll out the door and make our way back to London. We nibbled on aerated Mandarin orange chocolates which were small domes with Mandarin orange puree under the top and filled with bubbly chocolate at the base. We crunched into orange infused carrot lollipops and bit into violet tartelets which were dark purple gels in sablé crust shells. We chewed on apple pie caramels which were in edible, clear wrappers. At last, we paid our bill and wandered into the dark street.

It was a fascinating meal. Mostly tasty and wholly intriguing, I was mindful of the care that went into each dish and the ideas had during a flash of inspiration which ultimately found their way to the plates and serving vessels in front of us. It is not a meal for comfort or for practicality. It was a dazzling show which incited evaluation and complimented a marriage proposal (she appeared to say yes as she couldn't stop smiling as she passed our table to go to the ladies' room.) A special night indeed which impressed both Gareth and me.

Up the road we could see the light of the parking lot but mostly, it was black with the faint outline of trees above us illuminated by faint moonlight. Good thing though because black is slimming and that night, the duck wasn't the only one that was fat.

at approximately 5pm local time

About ten hours ago, I made the delicious mistake of ordering chocolat chaud Laduree at the famed patisserie Laduree which one can only find in Paris and at Harrods department store in London. It was a thick, dark mess of drinking chocolate with which I also ate three macarons, one chocolate, one pistachio and one lemon. I think the unusual introduction of a large dosage of caffeine into my blood is what's keeping me awake right now at 3am London time. The perfect time to write.

As arrogantly promised to my darling friend Gareth, I have brought sunshine and warm weather to this normally dreary city. The day I arrived, it had been gloomy for about a month. I took the tube from Heathrow to Gareth's flat in Covent Garden and literally watched the sun emerge, marveling at my ability to move clouds. I needed to refuel.

I picked up a small sandwich from Paul Patisserie which is across the street from Gareth's. Cured ham with lettuce, tomato and BUTTER on a poppyseed baguette. I'd forgotten that Europeans enjoy butter on their sandwiches instead of the typical mayonnaise. It was tasty and oily.

The sun shone on us, a caravan of Gareth, Claire, mother of two gallivanting youths Mackenzie (10) and Tavish (8) and Anila (10), friend and conspirator of Mackenzie. The kids had just seen a screening of Nim's Island and each carried complicated and fantastic balloon animals, the most impressive of which was a pelican which slowly lost its body parts as beak and intestine popped during our day out. Anila took the injuries quite well.

We mounted the tube to Camden where we strolled amongst the funky clothing stalls and food vendors. Whoever said punk was dead hasn't been to Camden lately as there was spikey hair and boots everywhere. Blacklights and fluorescent strips of fabric galore. We walked into a shop called Cyberdog where a half-naked raver gyrated in the corner. The children were unfazed as they headed straight to the "electric" t-shirts that came with battery packs and animated light designs.

From Camden we walked along the canal past the London Zoo to Primrose hill where a race to the top was won by me, the jetlagged, slowest (but steadiest) member of the party. Gareth had piggybacked Tavish. Anila had run for a bit and then collapsed in giggles on the moist grass. Claire had offered an effort but slowed after a few meters. I simply trudged slowly and tried not to step in poo. I don't know how I won really.

After admiring the view from Primrose Hill, we headed northwest to Claire's where a real Scottish haggis from Scotland awaited us. On the bus, Claire and I discussed the poem "Under Milk Wood" by Dylan Thomas which I had recently heard due to a link the Duke had sent me. It's an incredible poem that jumps and darts from the page. There were references that I hadn't understood after looking it up online and emailing it to myself so I produced my Blackberry and asked Claire, the student of poetry, for answers. It was English Poetics class on a double decker bus. Educated British people are great.

I'm probably the only person who was excited about the haggis. Bits of sheep, ground up and stinky, shoved into a sheep's stomach casing...come on! I took it out of the fridge while Gareth rocked the kids in Wii games. It smelled of the farm, of wet, molding hay. It looked like a large turnip with the ridges of the stomach lining making like the peel. Claire set about cooking dinner while I tackily fell asleep in Tavish's room because of my rudeness and fatigue. I slept like a dream and it rained while I was out. Coincidence? Or my inability to control clouds while unconscious?

Had I not taken in the stench of the haggis prior to eating it, I probably would have enjoyed it a bit more but really, it was palatable and gamey. The stuffing was soft and crumbly like meatloaf and in addition to it, we had cauliflower with cheese, organic chicken (which was skinnier than most but raised in a "happy" way, the type Mackenzie has mandated that Claire must cook from now on) with roasted potatoes. There was another dish of carrots and cauliflower of which I've now forgotten the name. Oh and we had peas. Delicious peas in England which I suppose are already English peas. In Los Angeles, there'd be a notation made.

This city is a wonderland of European cultures. As snotty as the English can be, they exist amongst the immigrants from countries all around in a stiff harmony. As I walked the streets today, I heard languages and saw newspapers that I didn't understand. A rarity which reminds me of how small a life can shrink.

A dear friend Vanessa called me for lunch at the last minute this afternoon and we had Indian tapas which was fantastic. Curry chicken with various sides including a dish with lentils, yogurt, raisins and some crispy bits that was fantastic. We caught up on events over the past year and half since we'd seen each other. She returned to her volunteer work during her vacation week (admirable!) while I went to Harrods. We met for dinner at the Prince of Wales Pub in Covent Garden where we both had fish and chips over which we bitched about boys. The fish was soft and flakey and the batter was crisp and fragrant. More peas arrived along with chips and for both Vanessa and me, swirls of Heinz ketchup.

After dinner, Gareth and I walked across the Millenium Bridge to the Oxo building and had drinks and a cheese plate while we watched couples around us slather themselves in each other. To quote Homer Simpson (as this bar did also) "Alcohol, the source of and answer to all of life's problems." I suppose life cancels itself out. Although the drunken street rat who harassed Gareth for money didn't seem to have an antidote. As he brushed my hip with his hand and said "I'm hung low," I was glad to be alert thanks to Laduree's chocolate which still courses through me although the adrenaline of the encounter is gone.

New York has inadvertently prepared me well for this trip. The city doesn't seem as jarring as it did last time. The weather is familiar and the habits of keeping money and subway pass close to my body are automatic now. It's a city of soot and pedestrians like New York. It's got banking and culture. It's got parks and neighborhoods that elbow each other. It has an appreciation for the rest of the world that New York has. An appreciation which I forget in myself during long periods of domestication.

More to report soon as I have dinner at The Fat Duck on my agenda as well as a trip to the British Museum where the pilfering ways of the English have yielded an incredible, if scandalous, collection of artifacts which always render me in awe of humanity and the evolution of human society.

big fat rain

It's here! It's April and it's spring. The weather has finally warmed and bare skin is out in bloom. The trees in Central Park are shivering with new leaves. The ground is yawning awake with daffodils.

The posts have become sparse over the past month because I've been busy working. The days of wine and roses or in my case fresh squeezed orange juice and idle shopping have faded into a blur of production assistant work and helping out on a photo shoot. The shine of Manhattan became tarnished with 5:30am call times which resulted in the common cold which stayed the course of a 2-day photo shoot. Good thing the models were cookies and cheesecake and not wafer-thin models with weak immune systems.

My days on set were long and I didn't realize I was becoming ill. I thought I was merely a large wimp with no desire to get near a director or a famous actor, unlike many of my colleagues working on WANTED re-shoots. The first day I was outside in 40 degree wind for about 12 hours. By the end of the day, I was half asleep in the holding area where I guarded the personal effects of extras with little to no gumption. The second day on set was much more pleasant both in weather and in company. I was assigned to a lead production assistant from LA and we spoke of the sunny city we missed. It was a great experience for me to see the nuts and bolts of where the money I'd see approved in an office faraway would go. From the signature page of a greenlight package to the hiring of a somnolent assistant to direct pedestrians away from the location of a chase scene, the view was very different.

The photo shoot was for Self magazine. I had been introduced to the food stylist through my eating partner Molly. Ed was a lot of fun to work with and a total genius about faking delicious food. A former chef and restauranteur, he had a depth of knowledge which bridged the gap between creating the illusion of something tasty and the actual creation of something tasty. The studio was the quintessential and cliched "movie version" of what a photo studio would be. Big windows, thin gossamer curtains, a view of the Hudson River, white walls. A stocked kitchen with pots and utensils, bowls and counter space. I wanted to live there. But instead, I'm leaving to go back to LA. By the time I go, I would have been a New Yorker for three glorious months minus one trip west, one trip to Boston and one trip to London (since it's so close.)

Yesterday, I ran the curvy perimeter of Harlem Meer which is a small pond near our corner of Central Park. I saw a man catch a largemouth bass. I stomped on the wet dirt and smiled at the freshness of spring. The air was warm and I strolled through Nolita with Molly after dinner at Eight Mile Creek marveling at the change that occurs during a day here. It was overcast, then mild and warm, then sunny. An unpredictable mix of thaw that the city and its inhabitants enjoy.

Dinner was adventurous, emu carpaccio served with rocket (arugula) and lemon with a slathering of fragrant black truffle oil. The dish was surprisingly meaty with the dark, blood-rich emu slices covering the entire plate. We also tried a crawfish soba with miso butter which was good in flavor but soft and pasty in texture due to overcooked soba noodles.

For our entrees, Molly had rack of lamb with garlic mashed potatoes and a rocket salad. The lamb was tender and cooked more rare than she ordered but it suited the meat well. I had seared Maine scallops in a mild curry sauce with a cellophane noodle salad that had carrot and (what?) more rocket. Everything was good.

Dessert was ordered because of its name really.. LAMINGTONS! LAMINGTONS! are sponge cakes dipped in chocolate and covered in dry coconut flakes. One came with a strawberry jam center and both were served with whipped cream. The sponge cake was a bit dry and the combination made Molly exclaim "This is something someone liked eating as a child." It grew on me though as I sipped a mild chamomile tea.

Coming out of the subway on my way home, I was met with a sudden downpour of big, fat raindrops. I laughed as I pulled out my umbrella, the water coming down in waves as if every apartment dweller on Frederick Douglass Boulevard came to their street-facing window with a kitchen sink hose and pulled the trigger. My pant legs were soaked. I looked at the splashes in the puddles at my feet, crowns the size of half dollars popping open and splashing into the sooty mess that drained slowly into the street. It was wonderful. I'm sad to leave it.

seating chart

In October of 2006, while suffering the worst of broken hearts I'd ever had the pain of enduring, I took a trip to London. I needed a respite from the places where we'd been. The physical reminders often led to the recollection of the metaphorical ones. Where were we? Oh, in the courtyard of the Getty Center. But really where we were was in love. When you're sad the good memories, the pockets of time when love was pristinely inspiring and wholly encompassing, become the worst memories. The ones that make you run. I ran away from the city that reeked of that boy.

On the plane, I sat next to a man with a lovely voice. A listening voice, I called it. He wore a dress shirt and a red tie. I noticed his Esquire magazine tucked into his seat pocket and when I innocently asked him about an article in it, what began was an eight-hour conversation that carried us over the fruited planes and the Atlantic ocean. The broken heart tumbled from my lips. He consoled me with his own tale of great woe. About his incredible chance meeting, courtship of, marriage to and ultimately divorce from a woman he met while in search of an art museum in Budapest. I listened for hours. We spoke of his family and of mine. We spoke of the future. We spoke of sustaining the hope of love. We spoke of New York where he had once lived. After London and Paris, I'm headed to New York, I told him. A place where I've always wanted to live, I said. He encouraged me to follow my dream. I nodded in agreement but deep down inside, in the same place where the truest reasons for my break-up hid, I admitted to myself that I was chickenshit. I looked at this man who seemed to believe that I would actually move to New York and felt like I was merely appeasing him. Little did I know.

We parted ways at Heathrow. He wished me luck. I wrote down his story in my travel journal and a year later when I decided to move, I thought of him. I thought about the timbre of his voice, of his calm, dare I say suave demeanor, of his inability to stop believing that love would find him again. I wished that I could tell him that I was moving to New York afterall. An act that seemed so obvious to him yet that eluded me for so long.

I've been away for almost two months but I'm back in L.A. for a week. I'm celebrating Easter which last year, ended a period of grave depression for me. It was a Lent I will never forget. As I planned my week of sunshine and long hugs with the people I've missed, I set aside tonight for a particular person who ended up not being available. In lieu of that dinner, I went out with my friend Kristen. We had originally planned on going to Hugo's on Riverside but then thought a drive was in order so we headed to West Hollywood where I thought Lucques would be a better option. Suzanne Goin can really cook.

As we were seated, we both became sympathetically aware of the couple next to us on a first date. Kristen had a view of the woman and I faced the man. He spoke to her about something inane and awkward like any real first date requires. Their questions to each other were innocuous and forcibly innocent. He seemed sweet. He seemed like he was trying to drag a large stone to the surface of a deep, uncertain ocean. It was painful. It was him. By the grace of an unforeseen seating chart, the man from the plane was again sitting next to me. I whispered to Kristen that I knew this man. I would tell her the details later. My heart raced for a spell. I ate my black grouper with pea shoots, creme fraiche and cara cara oranges (fantastic) with mild distraction. I waited until it was time to leave and as he continued a story about something inevitably designed to seem interesting, I interrupted.

He remembered me. He said "You're the poet." I briefly told his date our story and then reminded him of our discussion about moving to New York. I'd actually done it despite my fears. He was congratulatory and thought that he had convinced me somehow. I let him have that. I told him I recognized his voice. He laughed. He asked me if we had exchanged business cards on our flight. We hadn't. Last night, he didn't have one on him and I'm not one of those types. I told him that I was sure we'd run into each other again and wished them both a good night. With some people, it's ok to play a game of musical chairs.

I told Kristen the man's story in the car on the way home. She agreed that I had had no choice but to say hello. I think his date may have been so impressed by this random coincidence that I might have helped him score some pleasantly unexpected ass. Unexpected because this time around, I realized that while he is truly hopeful for love, he's sort of a boring man. But fortunately, my life isn't boring. My life is amazing.

the process - a post for february 22, 2008

They say no two snowflakes are the same. We can't ever prove that this is true. The melted snowflakes of yore and the incalculable googolplexes of snowflakes of the future make the statement a mere theory despite the scientific probability. What never errs is the process by which snowflakes, beautiful branched bits of ice, are made. The physical reaction of water to cold, the crystalline structure of molecules and their atoms. It's microscopic and its product is ephemeral. This I know. Today, I went to play amongst the 6-pointed stars before their inevitable disappearance. Carpe snowflake.

I had watched the snow from my room all morning. I lollygagged in my bed, my only movement to turn over now and again. By the time I'd put on my only boots of the leather cowboy variety, the city had warmed up and the snow had a touch of slush. The trees were white with ice, the underside of branches dark with moisture. I walked to our little corner of Central Park armed with two cameras and a bit of ribbon. Mr. Kansas had given me an idea. After a 20 year hiatus, I picked a spot and gathered snow in my mittens and made a snowman.

I'm no sculptor. I couldn't visualize the snowman in my mind's eye before I got the media in my hands. For me, the process was more important than the the product. I got out of bed to play in the snow. How awesome is my life? I watched my breath escape in white steam from my lips. I packed snow into a round and set it up for my photo shoot. As the snowman evolved, so did my love for creating art. I had forgotten what it felt like to make something unique out of something so simple.

During this process, a group of children passed the "set" on their way home from school. A little girl, forward and probably 8 years old, called out to me from the path and asked if I had made this snowman. I replied yes. She said it was a good snowman. They were accompanied by a woman who produced a camera and asked if she could also take a photo of it. Some of the kids took great interest in it. Some hung back and left their footprints in the unmarred blanket of white. A boy asked me if I still wanted the snowman. I told him I wasn't done photographing it. I couldn't tell if he wanted to take it home and freeze it or exterminate it with his boot. You know how boys are.

I stood back for a moment and watched the interested children lay on the ground next to the snowman to admire it. I asked the kids if they wanted to have their picture taken which they did. I asked the woman for permission which she granted. Two photos later, they continued on their way and the boy with the boots asked again if I still wanted the snowman. I told him I did. This creation of mine had made friends on a grey day in the park. It was worth photographing further.

For art, I will suffer many indignities. Wearing brown cowboy boots with grey fleece track pants, for example. Clomping around looking for suitable twig arms and digging through the detritus of fallen leaves blown up on the steps of a public park with my bare hands are not things I normally engage in. At one point, as I crouched to get a good shot while concurrently trying to keep my digital SLR dry, I slipped and fell, belly-first into the snow. I laughed out loud and then realized that I was actually at the perfect height for a great shot. By the end of the photo shoot, I had dirt and bark under my fingernails, a wet camera lens and soaking, soggy fleece pants which grew increasingly wet as I walked home and the hems dragged in the slush. But I have this to share with you, my friends who read my blog and whoever else has stumbled across it. Forget the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, these will make you smile:

From my bedroom window. I watched the man plow the sidewalk for a good long time.

Walking east on 110th Street also known as Cathedral Parkway.

Ah yes, there it is.

A close-up of the nascent snowman.

Speechless.

A pleasant man of snow in a scarf made of ribbon from La Maison du Chocolat where, were he ever to visit, he would cease to exist. Now the ribbon seems less like a scarf and more like a noose. Twisted.

The Friends of Small Snowmen Coalition. Look at that rascal on the right. He's the one who kept asking me if I was done with the snowman.

A candid with Frawley Circle in the background.

My favorite shot.

My pant leg after I fell the first time.

The snowman looks away.

Both of my pant legs after I fell the second time.

While I was down, I took advantage of the angle. But it was time to go home.

The door to our apartment building with layers of imagery--the foyer, the buildings across the street, me--provided by glass and light, not Photoshop and a mouse.

And now, for the food report. I was late for dinner due to a change in service on the subway of which I was unaware until I'd already wasted time waiting for a canceled train. I arrived at Joe Shanghai in Chinatown to meet my friends for soup dumplings. They'd already finished and I was starving and ate the leftovers with a speed that should have been embarrassing. The food was delicious. Sauteed ong choy, sticky rice flour discs with pork and onion, pork soup dumplings in a thin, stretchy wrapper. Nearby, we stopped for steamed pork buns from the Mei Lai Wah Coffeeshop where I introduced myself to Mr. Lam, one of the servers who reminds me of a pancake. My friend bought me a ton of buns and we headed back to their apartment on the LES where we chatted and played with Martin (short for Martini), the sweet labradoodle who was visiting.

Today was a day I appreciated because I knew that I couldn't predict when it would snow again this winter. It was a chance to take advantage of circumstances. To seize a completely unique moment that would never happen again. Like the same snowflake twice. And though it may not be a fact, it is a theory that inspires me to make the most of time and snow.

day on

The irony of living with 3 employed persons is that I'm often the only one who knows what the date is. It must be my internal clock. I know the day of the week, the date and the time. I'm atomically accurate.

Karen has one weekday off that changes every 7 days. As a pastry cook the rest of the week, on this wholly decompartmentalized day, she just wants to be a normal human being who sees the sun and walks into stores during normal business hours. She doesn't want to plan or navigate or think. Her day off becomes my day on because it is her day of leisure. It's my day to schedule crucial meetings with clothing we don't need and bakeries with cakes of laughable but delicious simplicity.

A few weeks ago, Karen slept while I went for a long run on 110th Street, along the north edge of Central Park. I needed stamps so I headed to the post office in Spanish Harlem. Along this route, I passed carnecerias and panaderias filled with the hungry people who prefer their rice orange with cumin. The day was bright and sharp. When I got home, I was sunburnt which reminded me of the sun's power even at this latitude. My skin didn't register its heat but its rays made me look cheerful. As if I needed the help! Today was someone's day off and I would appreciate the morning promise as if it were my own.

Our first stop was the Korin shop downtown where a knife would be purchased. Dramatically lit with steel blades of noblesse displayed in glass cases along the walls and on islands in the middle, the store is serene. And deadly. They don't have silk screen printed art for decoration. They use swords.

Conveniently, Korin is downtown near the bargain fashion mecca Century 21 which is one of my favorite stores here. I purchased a pair of boots and we met up with April, meeting-taker/ laptop dragger. The poor girl was weighed down like a mule but in office clothing. We took a train to her hotel The London where we dined on small plates at the London Bar. Gordon Ramsay's kitchen may be hellish but the pale aqua green upholstery of the space was chic and cool. Mirrors reflected the afterwork crowd of women in cowl neck sweaters and pencil skirts. Seemingly oversized men huddled around tiny tables with tiny dishes and large drinks. The three of us had a slew of snacks... hamachi tartare rolled in cucumber which was mediocre and fishy tasting, wonderful cubes formed of braised short rib topped with fat, sliders with an extra side of fries (the frozen kind but still acceptable), Caesar salad with real anchovies and a pleasant charcuterie plate.

We saw April off as she prepared for the next leg of her trip which meant Vancouver to be on set with one of the corporate partners on a film. Before she left us, her enthusiasm and focus was inspiring. I've known her for a long time and was never more proud to call her my friend.

Before going home, Karen and I walked two blocks to Kate's Paperie where we stood agape at the intricate and expensive wedding invitations that so many exuberant brides must decide on. The books of samples were heavy with proofs for envelopes and card stocks so carefully designed that you'd never want to throw the announcement away. Oh but wait, YOU WILL. Quite possibly the greatest waste of money and time because the hours spent choosing the right one and then the cost associated with printing up the specifics will both go into the wire mesh garbage can in the guest bedroom eventually. Our smug disbelief evaporated when we stumbled across what may be the greatest piece of correspondence stationery we'd ever seen - a box of fine paper notecards in a classy shade of off-white but not with a monogram or a graceful flower, no, that'd be pedestrian. Instead, in raised lavender ink, two sumo wrestlers locked in battle. If the box of 6 cards wasn't $30, we would have still laughed at whatever price it was. Even though the cards are awesome.

At home, we sat complacently on Ed's leather couches and watched a bit of bad reality on the ALT. Despite the variegated ways that Rock of Love (I think that's what it's called) offends me, the way it gets me the most is that it reminds me of how skinny women inaccurately represent the general population and how no matter the intelligence or willingness to sleep with him, the dipshit with the long hair and bandana wouldn't ever give a "backstage pass" to the girl in the turtleneck and khaki pants. I have successfully avoided a lot of trashy TV in my day. In New York, this is the first time I've ever felt so appalled at the lows of human transparency. And I'm from LA!

On another of Karen's days off, I ran, and I use the term loosely, 30 blocks to Zabar's with a canvas tote rolled up in the pouch of my hoodie. I bought lox and bagels and orange juice again and took the train home what with a heavy bag of groceries on my arm. Canvas shopping bag, public transportation...I was feeling very green.

We spent most of the day shopping at the many discount clothing stores here that put the ones in California to shame. Karen exclaimed that she never realized I was such a bargain hunter. For a period of about 6 months during the ghastly I'm-about-to-turn/ I've-just-turned 30 phase, I bought every and any retail item I wanted. Now, in the cluttered aisles of Daffy's I give many hours of my time to make up for the shoes and dresses I've so capriciously purchased at full price. Oh, my father would be proud. Sort of. He still wouldn't understand the coup of finding a $650 blazer for $200. Even though it's made in Italy. And it fits me perfectly. And I'm spoiled.

That particular afternoon included a stop at NYC Cake and Baking where I found Callebaut chocolate chips for cookies that I wanted to make for a dinner party. I've truly fallen in love with the smooth, Belgian/French confection that has a hint of coffee mingled with the cocoa. I don't know that I will ever bake with another chocolate again. Other people swear by Valrhona or Scharffen Berger... but me, my heart belongs to Callebaut.

The store is a smaller, cramped, baking version of Surfas in Culver City, another one of my favorite stores. Shelves were crammed with cake molds and styrofoam rounds for displays. But Karen and I hit the jackpot when we discovered scads and scads of silver and gold dragees which are illegal in California. Small round sugar centers coated in real silver which leave them looking like ball bearings that make cakes look darling. So what if you eat 10 pounds of them they'll give you silver poisoning. Who's going to eat 10 pounds, you big bad FDA? We will be back for supplies as both of our sisters are getting married in the next year and have bestowed Karen with the honor (or horror) of creating their wedding cakes. I look forward to being her first mate in the sea of bridal decision making hell.

That evening, we had dinner at the new Blue Ribbon Sushi Bar and Grill which is near Columbus Circle. We asked to sit at the sushi bar where we admired the graceful movements of hands and knives over smooth wood.

We started with a tofu salad followed by a few bites of sushi and sashimi which made me want to run back under the stern gaze of Mr. Nozawa on Ventura Blvd. I miss that man more than some of my friends. My friends can't cut fish for beans. After sushi, we had a few chunks of grilled hamachi collar which was salty but fine. Then, a new friend Chef David who oversees the grill in the kitchen sent out a scallop dish which really came together nicely. A scallop shell (think of the eponymous gas station) filled with sauteed mushrooms, tender scallops topped with smelt roe mixed with a touch of mayonnaise. It was a supple spoonful of delicious subtlety. Before we got our "fried chicken" which we ended up canceling, David also sent us a beef and bone marrow skewer, sort of like takoyaki but without the octopus. This was by far the most incredible dish of the night. The charm of beef flavor sprang out with the first bite with bone marrow oozing out all around. The ratio of beef with other ingredients yielded a fantastic spring and soft chew. It erased the mediocre sushi and the service which was friendly but somewhat uninformed as evidenced by the waiters suggestion of having a light dessert like creme brulee. We ordered it because we wanted a heavy dessert and it was good, flavored with roasted green tea powder which made it a touch gritty a times but, we did manage to eat most of it. Light, my ass.

Karen says that she just lets me lead her around on her days off because I know where I'm going whether by train or bus or foot. She tells me that it's great that she doesn't have to think. I've since passed on to her a small pocket map of the city I don't use very much. Which is ironic because I am still jobless and I don't know where I'm going but I certainly have a lot of fun finding my way. I never feel lost.

calling a spade a spade

Maybe it's not a bad idea for every restaurant to name itself according to its menu. Though it would drastically redefine the Zagat guide, it would steer us clear of the not-so-delicious. No more witty puns like "eat. on sunset". No more names like "Joe's". Just call a spade a spade. A place that sells really awesome spaghetti should be named as such.

I was lucky enough to be invited to dinner this evening at the aptly named Quality Meats. The bar area was crowded with business types meeting for drinks after work. I rushed through because I was late meeting Mr. Z and his friends from SNL - a few members of the technical team who were funny and incredibly smart. What you don't see when you watch the show is the faces of the people responsible for the fact that you are indeed ACTUALLY watching the show. The HD cameras take Tina Fey and produce the pixels that are compressed in a room (which I stood in and which was totally Mission Impossibly) that are sent to your local affiliate which are sent through a tunnel with little Alsatian gnomes who put them on your television. That's how they explained it to me.

In a dark booth under the stairs, next to a room with creepy meat hook chandeliers we were fed charcuterie plates and bottles of Robert Mondavi and Clean Slate wine. I ordered the crabcake to start followed by an aged sirloin cooked rare. I had originally ordered a rib steak but the waitress told me that it was too fatty to be cooked to a pleasant rare which meant with "a cool red center." Too fatty? I grit my teeth but allowed her to bring me the sirloin. The crabcake was essentially a mountain of crab with tangy bits of dill and mayonnaise topped with a crunchy bruleed breading. The sirloin was a bit tough but had good flavor and a singed bone which I gnawed on the next day.

For dessert, they brought us a selection on the house but I audaciously ordered two scoops - an orange creamsicle sorbet and a cookies and cream. Both of them were amazing. I don't say this often nor am I a huge ice cream fan especially as for dessert. The orange creamsicle was citrusy and creamy placed atop wedges of orange. The cookies were not just the standard bits of crumbled Oreo but also a homemade chocolate chip cookie resulting in a milky sweet chewy delight. I'd go back just for the desserts.

We stopped by Gilt at the Palace Hotel for a drink before heading home. More alcohol for the adults, water for me. The room was painted in gold and has been landmarked so the interior contains the original ornate carvings. To modernize the room, a god-awful wall was constructed which looks a little like a segmented igloo with violet lighting shining up from the floor. I turned away from it because it made me angry. As an artist. As a person. As a person with eyeballs.

I saw the boys again live on Saturday night when I tagged along with Mr. Z to the first post-strike taping. I was met in the lobby of 30 Rock and hung out in the hallway behind the set before the show started. I've always watched the show through its many iterations of cast. An institution with a rich history headed by a brilliant Canadian and I was honored to be on the very floor where the magic has and continues to happen. It's not hilarious all the time but, that night sitting in the risers above the set, I'd have to say, during one particular skit, I laughed harder than I had in a year. Later that night at the afterparty, I told Bill Hader how much I enjoyed it. What a sweet, gentle person he was. Gracious and humble. Like THIS brilliant Canadian. I'm just calling myself a spade.

quality not quantity

The comfort I get from this apartment is unparalleled by any other place I've lived. Never have I felt more peaceful in a home than here, in the late morning after the roommates have all trudged to their jobs. Walk into the living room and you will find me sitting in the corner between two windows with just the sunlight, the sound of children playing outside and my laptop. It's not a big room nor a big apartment. But, it's quality not quantity.

I leave it occasionally. Yesterday I left to finally retrieve my Time magazine from Isaac at Pennyfeathers Cafe. He is a pleasant man with a childlike innocence that sparkles when he greets the guests. I arrived at the end of his shift and after he handed me the magazine, he informed me he was going to go home with a grilled cheese sandwich and head straight to bed. He would, however, love to have dinner with me on one of his days off. I agreed to it immediately. This would be my first dinner proposition of the day. Red letter!

I sat in "my" corner table after Isaac left and sipped a cranberry juice he comped me. I tried to focus on Heart of Darkness but had difficulty with the thick, archaic language and colloquialisms. The soft sponge of a brain required to bend to literary classics is no longer contained within me. I like my books short and modern. But Heart of Darkness is only a hundred or so pages you say, you erudite knaves. 'Tis. 'Tis approximately one hundred dense pages of what I endeavor to understand is a story told almost like a stream of consciousness by an old man on a boat. I'm supposed to watch Apocalypse Now too for the book club. My avoidance is completely collegiate.

Molly rang at 6ish and I met her in Brooklyn for a freezing night's adventure. We first stopped at Mullanes Bar and Grill where we snacked on sweet potato fries. It's a big space with dark wood and the promise of loud, raucous Saturday nights. This was a quiet Tuesday of few patrons and newspapers strewn about the bar. Our caravan included Molly's boyfriend, the food stylist and his wife. We were met by a sixth at Di Fara.

Oft-reviewed and completely hyped, the small green room was thick with hungry people and smoke. Domenico De Marco is a small man with a spine curved to his countertop. I don't think that he will ever straighten himself or that he would ever want to. I mean, he makes pizza all day, may the process do to one's body what it do! We ordered our pizza a little after 8:45pm and stood about for the next hour waiting for it. Mr. De Marco makes each pizza by hand. This means throwing the dough, ladling the sauce, shaving the fresh mozzarella, adding the toppings, firing the pizza in the oven which only holds about 4 at a time, removing the pizza when it's done and cutting fresh basil, which he grows himself, onto it with a pair of scissors before rolling the pizza cutter through the finished artisanal product. What you taste is a soft crust with a gentle sauce and fresh cheese that makes you wonder why Italians ever leave Italy. You taste the time each ingredient spends in Mr. De Marco's floury, rough hands. He pours olive oil from a teapot onto each pie in slow, caring swirls before he sends it away like a parent dropping off his child at school. Half or even a quarter of Mr. De Marco's dedication would yield a very different world were we each to adopt a bit of his work ethic. Take the trouble, spend the time, find the best parts to render your sum a result of which to be proud. Imagine the toys from China!

I encountered more attempts at perfection when I arrived at Pegu Club and was treated to an Earl Grey MarTEAni. Gin infused with bergamot, a little bit of egg and lemon zest in a small glass became one of the most amazing drinks I've ever had in my limited experience in the adult world of alcohol appreciation. It was a friendly, mildly sweet mixture made smooth by the egg which does something to bind the alcohol to the rest of the elements. A silver martini, it's called. I call it a drink so delicious that for the first time I understood how people become shitfaced without realizing it. I used to think it was impossible to find an alcoholic libation completely disguised in flavor but I was 2 sheets to the wind off of one martini.

Despite the aid of firewater, the conversation was animated and educational. Mr. Z was in town from L.A. and I met his friends J.J. and Henry, both insanely smart individuals and each with a gentility not found often anymore. When I reached to shake Henry's hand, he remained distant and said apologetically, "I don't shake hands. Germs." He gets enough microbes from his children. I told him I understood and suggested we shake our bodies in unison. He was seated so I shook for the both of us. J.J. complimented my sweater, a Rebecca Taylor cashmere shrug purchased at a thrift store in San Diego for $30. The compliment was not simply a "looks nice" type of pedestrian aside, it was a full discussion of the yarn, the buttons, the craftsmanship and the purl instead of knit stitching. A straight man who understands these subtle differences is rare. I may build J.J. a shrine. In the meantime, he invited me to dinner with his wife and daughter at a restaurant called Buddha Bodai which he claims has the best vegetarian Chinese food in the city. The anticipation consumes me.

Mr. Z, his colleague and I hopped a cab and headed uptown. After dropping them at their hotels, the cabbie and I continued to Harlem. Along the way up Central Park West, we chatted pleasantly about Senegal and L.A., our respective origins and the unfamiliar winter cold. The cabbie gave me career advice and as he delivered me to my destination, asked me if I wanted to go to a club or to dinner. I declined as any man who asks me to go to a club is not the man for me. I told him I was a quiet person and preferred places of a lesser volume.

Gastronomically, today was a day of quality and a lesson in the attempt at and success of creating a bite or sip of perfection. All told, I was asked to dinner three times. Each time by a man I didn't want to smooch. As dates go, today was a day of quantity.

April in february

It's one of those strange phenomena. The first day when a friend visits from a different climate, the weather changes. Usually, and magically I might add, the weather matches the guest. My friend April arrived from L.A. on Sunday night and today New York warmed up to nearly 60 degrees. It was incredible! One sunny blonde gets off a plane and the natives are practically nude in celebration.

En route to her midtown hotel, my eyes met with a stranger's on the train. A relatively handsome but petite man with a beard and earphones sitting across from me. I looked away but realized that I was not going to be the demure young lady who averts her eyes. I literally stared at him until he looked at me again and then I smiled. He smiled back in embarrassment as we continued our ride in silence.

The car door opened while we were motion and a man dressed in black with a large plastic bag scanned the passengers. He approached me and of all the things he could pull out, genitalia excluded, nothing could have been more fateful than a pirated DVD of Welcome Home Roscoe Jenkins, a script which I had read over a year ago, a project which we had greenlit last year and a film currently in theaters released by my people, my company! The DVD was the one-sheet art, clear, crisp, perfect. I asked this peddler of stolen intellectual property if it was the real DVD. He assured me it was. WRONG MOVE. I considered buying the DVD from him for analysis by our anti-piracy team which includes my friend the Vice Chairman of the studio. I considered kicking him in the shins and stealing from him as he had stolen from us. Instead, when he tried one last time to convince me on purchasing the movie, I told him that I worked for Universal Pictures and that he really shouldn't be selling it to me or anyone else. He seemed unfazed and I felt helpless. There is a great world out there of unscrupulous individuals and this saddens me. I'm currently not being paid to defend the company but I defend it nonetheless because it's just not fair. I defend it even if no one is listening. The Glancer was though and when I got up to disembark, he smiled and nodded at me. I waved. Don't buy the DVD, dude.

April was bundled in a black coat and a green scarf which I told her she might not need but I remembered that she's a California girl through and through. We took a cab to Soho with the intention of having a late lunch at Fiamma but instead we stopped at Pennyfeathers to retrieve my Time magazine from my friend Isaac. When he kissed me and told me he didn't have it, April and I decided to walk around the Village and had pizza at John's on Bleecker which was fantastic. Pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms and peppers on a chewy, crunchy crust. We split a salad of simple iceberg lettuce with fresh tomatoes, onions and mushrooms. We dabbed our pizza with napkins. We couldn't shake our Cali habits.

Outside the restaurant, I spotted a woman with a beagle who looked much like our beloved Steinbeck the dog who is in L.A. with my family. I approached her and asked her permission to pet him. This beagle was only 2 but had a smooth coat and was more than friendly. I missed Steinbeck more than I have the entire time I've been gone. I asked my sister if she surmised that he felt my absence. She advised me that she didn't want to find out because if she were to ask him to search for me in the house and he was unsuccessful, he would begin to whimper and suffer great distress. Ah, thus is the standard reaction of many in L.A.

As we walked through the Village to Soho, we caught up on our lives. April is a gentle and sweet girl. She giggles often and although we don't see each other often, we have stayed friends for almost 7 years. We had gelato - stracciatelli and blueberry for me, caramel for her. We spoke of love. We wandered into the Alessi store on Spring St. where April got a cappuccino. We spoke of the genius of their design aesthetic. We spoke of Italy where April wanted to return. They know how to stop there. They know how to live without living to work. We continued on to the Taschen store and then to Eres where I tried on a $400 bathing suit. I'm heading to Florida in a couple of weeks so I needed to make sure I was appropriately jiggly. No better dipstick for that than a bikini. I needed more fat so at the recommendation of the barista at Alessi who was formerly of Jacques Torres, we found Vosges and got a Parisenne hot chocolate. April and I also know how to live.

A few more stops along Broadway where I introduced April to the beauty of Muji and we were escaping the rain and the resultant dearth of available taxis by taking the train. We hugged goodbye and I switched to the train that would take me closest to home. On the C, I stood next to a petite, sandy-haired woman holding a red rose with a handful of rain on its confluence of velvet petals. She wore a red coat and had friendly eyes. I asked her who gave her the flower. She smiled sheepishly and told me that she found it on the ground and that she just wanted to salvage it. She liked how the droplets glistened. I asked her if she was going to keep it or give it someone special.

"I'm going to give it to my roommate. She's had a bad week. She'll like it."

I liked the idea immensely. A lost object with a found importance. We stood peacefully for a moment until I reached my destination when she offered me the flower at the same time as I told her that the world was a lovelier place with her in it. We were stumbling over each others words of kindness. I declined the rose because I told her that her roommate needed it more than I and that I had had a good week. April showers brought me flowers. For me, the city is a blossom with each avenue and neighborhood a petal which opens itself to me slowly every day.

at home

Some people have salad. Maybe a light soup. Then they have something forgiving...like a chicken breast. Followed by a coffee. Black. Boring.

I can't do that. I forced myself to run this morning because I refuse to stop eating the things that make me stop in my tracks when passing a bakery. The foods that make me loquacious when extolling their flavors. I ran through the park even though it was bitter cold because unlike my body, I like my meals fatty. And so does Molly.

On the train to Brooklyn, I came over the bridge and saw the orange sparkle of industry in the velvet backdrop of night. I almost didn't notice because I'm so accustomed to the soot covered darkness of the tunnels. It felt like I was going somewhere unfamiliar yet I have never really felt out of place here. There are moments when I lose my way for a block or two but despite the vast difference in terrain between cities, I feel strangely at home.

We met, my favorite eating partner and I, and walked in the rain to The Farm on Adderly at which Molly had only gone for brunch. The restaurant was warm and homey with dark wood tables and chairs. Towards the back of the space, there was a wall of exposed reddish brown brick. It's not a unique feature especially in restaurants but the contrast of the brick against the cream colored walls was pleasant.

At a tiny table next to the swinging kitchen door, we fit ourselves to eating. Our dynamic is fairly fluid when we dine. One of us offers a suggestion in terms of an appetizer which is quickly met with a swift, happily resigned "Done." The question that begins with "Wanna share a..." is cut off with a "Yes." In palates we trust. Tonight was no different. "Cheese plate?" "Good." "Hanger steak?" "Do it." "Pork chop?" "Mmm." "Share a vegetable pave even though we both have accompanying sides already?" "Do I really need to answer that?"

The cheese plate ranged from triple creamy to mature and complex. The bread was toasted but still soft and fresh. Chestnut honey was curiously excellent as well as the gooseberries which Molly had to identify for me. I only know my Blackberry. My hanger steak was fantastic. Cooked rare. Tender. Animal. The wine braised red cabbage was sweet and acidic, the perfect compliment. Molly's pork chop was a good cut of meat however was overdone. Thank goodness for the layer of fat around the edge. Kale and sweet potato gnocchi also helped. Our vegetable pave was uninteresting at first. The dark tower of blackened unidentifiables on top of a bed of sauteed Swiss chard was a little unappetizing. But once we cut it up and ate its components, it grew on me. Eggplant layered with Yukon gold potato, roasted tomato and maetake mushroom. The Swiss chard was slick and bitter with chlorophyll. Molly excused herself mid-chop and when she came back, I was done.

For dessert Molly had a coffee with Bailey's (she's Irish, it's basically milk to her) and helped me with an odd chocolate and banana upside down cake which had a fantastic coconut sorbet buddy but also an extraneous and runny caramel sauce. When eaten together, the elements yielded a delicious finish but separately, the banana had a mushroom texture and was unripe. But still, it didn't stand a chance.

We walked off the meal and went to visit friends who lived in the neighborhood in a real home with a real porch and real space. We arrived to find 4 toasty friends sitting around a wooden dining table, laughing, sipping and eating banana cake with Scharffen Berger ganache frosting. "Do you girls want some of..." "I don't, but Katie does." Molly is so brave. I finished the rest of their cake with a bit of Malbec. Sigh.

The conversation was fun. It was a group of friends who had come together through triathlons. Cheerful and diverse, I enjoyed meeting them, the advertiser, the educator, the food stylist and the graphic designer who convinced me to apply for a job at Jet Blue. Free standby air travel was all she had to say. When Molly's boyfriend arrived, we moved from the dining room to the living room where a fire kept us warm. Conversation, wine, a house with wooden floors with inlaid designs. Cozy. I almost fell asleep on the train back to Harlem. Bad. A girl on the subway at midnight is not a girl who should be dozing off in the presence of strangers. But you know, I just felt so at home.

movie busyness

Prior to There Will Be Blood, I had only watched one movie by myself in a theater. It was The Last Kiss starring Zach Braff and that awful girl from The OC who drains the screen of charisma when she appears on it. It was a summer Sunday matinee and the theater had been relatively empty. Last night, I sat in a crowded New York City theatre on Broadway and 70th, wedged between two couples whose men draped their arms around their women. In my bag I had fruity contraband: a Granny Smith apple and an oro blanco grapefruit purchased from The Food Emporium across the street. I'm ghetto like that. But ghetto in a fresh produce way.

The trailers were mostly engaging especially for Stop Loss. Hot Southern boys fighting for the country they love and the women who wait for their return? Perhaps engaging is not le mot juste. Perhaps I meant to say that cowboy hats and honor make me accidentally bite myself while eating an illicit apple in a dark theater. Before I left the apartment, I had watched Memphis Belle on television. These noble boys with their accents, they were everywhere.

There Will Be Blood was haunting. Daniel Day-Lewis always amazes me in his utter disappearance into his character. Though the movie ended oddly, I was left reflecting on the many meanings of blood that were presented. Blood as murder, blood as salvation, blood as family. I moved with the throng of post-movie zombies. I thought about the credits I'd seen and how the names of certain producers and actors have special meaning to me since I worked in the business. It made me feel connected to Hollywood, a land mysterious to many and despicable to the reasonable. I missed it.

Today, a craving for a bagel with cream cheese and lox nearly blinded me and I went for a stroll on the Upper West Side to procure the ingredients from Zabar's and H&H. On my stroll there, I passed a restaurant called Dovetail on W. 77th which looked incredibly interesting. I had spotted people in a subterranean room with soft lighting and linens. I searched for the menu posted on the outside of the restaurant and after reading it made a mental note to return. No Zagat rating, no insider blog info, just a bit of luck. Further along, I saw Cafe Frida at which I would like to write some time.

Zabar's was crowded at 7:30pm on a Saturday night. I got my lox and some orange juice and could not find Callebaut chocolate chips with which to make cookies. I walked next door to H&H and purchased two bagels and cream cheese. I thought I'd head home but the night was mild and I kept walking and came across Westsider Books where I got a 1964 copy of The Heart of Darkness by Conrad and a centennial edition of East of Eden by Steinbeck which I had started reading right before I left L.A. Fortunately, they had the same edition I'd been using. And I bought the Conrad for my book club assignment. A book club! Me! With people who have been to graduate school. I will divert their attention away from my elementary understanding of literature with delicious baked goods. Tasty and distracting.

I bought the 2008 NYC Zagat guide. The task of tallying this city's restaurants is monumental. There were plenty of places that I'd been which weren't listed in the maroon tome. The eateries here are nearly innumerable but sadly, the pounds I'm gaining are. There isn't always a good reason to eat, but there's always something fantastic to eat here (around every corner according to Nina and Tim's minions) and I can feel the memories of these meals becoming part of me. Literally. I stopped at a grocer for blueberries and grapes before returning to my pen.

I smeared the poppy seed bagel with cream cheese and carefully applied the beautifully thin lox. I sat in front of the ALT and happened to catch Garden State which I had always wanted to see. How perfect of an evening, I thought. The bagel was soft and perfectly chewy. The lox was smooth and salted. I sipped orange juice and watched Natalie Portman light up the ALS (Absurdly Large Screen.) I longed for imagination. I was reminded how affecting a movie can be. I've been too preoccupied to sit long enough to absorb a film. All I do is absorb snacks. I'm busy.

public service

Riding the trains on a day like this one, I caught a glimpse into the intimate exchanges between lovers. Not lovers who sniff and devour each other but lovers who simply love and bear gifts. Public transportation offers no nooks in which to caress. Mofos be grabbin' each other e'rywhere and in plain view. Practical men in wool coats with single roses wrapped in cellophane. Mothers with heart-shaped mylar balloons and plush teddybears. Older, solemn women with shiny, pink Victoria's Secret shopping bags quite possibly containing slinky delights. It's always the Hungarian ones.

Mr. Kansas and I plotted. We wanted to be around couples drowning in the perfunctory pleasantries of the obligatory Valentine dinner or perhaps couples so tightly "wound" that they might well begin fornication on the table top. Role play was discussed but not the sexy kind. More he as the boyfriend who proposes, I as the girlfriend who declines and then he as the infuriated reject who throws a glass of wine against the wall. I had my diamond ring and a spare ring box ready to go.

I stood outside the Focus Features office picking lint off my yellow mittens when Mr. Kansas appeared and immediately pulled out his Marlboro lights. "It's been that kind of day," he explained. We walked up towards Union Square and exchanged our last minute Valentine gifts - mix CD from me to him and from him to me a handmade card printed off the internet and decorated with Hershey's chocolates wrapped in seasonally colored foil. I'd say it was fair.

We reached Yama Sushi on Irving Place and 17th Street which was highly recommended by Mr. K's friend the sushi snob. I assured him that there was no sushi snob greater than I but when I saw "yellowtail jalapeno roll" on the specials board, I relented. Rolls and rolls were ordered, lobster tempura, spicy salmon and avocado with flying fish roe to name a few. The fish was acceptable and the rolls were hearty and satisfying though not life altering. Those only exist in L.A. Of this I am certain. The dinner was great. The couple watching was mundane. Mr. Kansas and I had to resort to speaking to each other. I'm sure he wasn't paying attention. Like a real date!

Sushi and two gingerales later, we walked to Union Square proper in search of a movie or a dessert - like a real date! The movies were sold out and the wait at Max Brenner's was laughable. Spontaneous me decided to drag him into a Whole Foods where we got blueberries on sale and slices of almond creme and black and white cake. We made our way to a Starbucks where we got coffee and tea as well as prime seats for observing a very odd couple sitting along the window. We literally turned our seats to face them as the girl coddled not cuddled the boy as if she were consoling him because of some tragedy. She seemed motherly. He seemed despondent. We certainly weren't. We were stuffed and delighted when we said goodbye and boarded our respective trains.

Attention ill-at-ease ladies and gentleman riding the Uptown A on this cool Valentine's night at midnight: Although you may believe it does, staring at the coffee cup rolling back and forth on the floor does not make you invisible. Remain calm. The vociferous young men sitting in this subway car will not harm you. They care little about your fur coats and your Coach bags. Do not become alarmed. Their conversation may be loud and insistent against your thin eardrums but do not mistake it for a discussion on how to assault you. The reason I am able to stand literally in the middle of their group is because I have my earphones in but am not listening to music. I understand who they are and what they are saying and am unafraid. Mainly because I'm taller than they. But for you, below are a few facts to help you cope with your discomfort:

1) They are Puerto Rican gangbangers.

2) These particular gentlemen are "Bloods." They wear the color red to distinguish themselves as members of the faction. You know, like all of your friends at political rallies.

3) Their presumably antagonistic tone towards one another may mislead you in thinking that they will become violent with each other but note their references to the same "shawties they hit" (sexual partners.) Clearly, they are friends. In fact, if you pay attention, they are actually commiserating on the unsurprising turn of events when a particular shawty lamented to the boy in the red bandana the fact that one of his friends "stopped fucking with her because she wouldn't let him hit it." I think everyone agrees that she should have let him hit it.

4) Even though they are not black, they are allowed to use that word that you're not allowed to use. THAT word.

5) "Narc" is slang for what your self-righteous nephew does for the police department.

When you arrive at your station, please rush hurriedly off the train without making eye contact with them as they won't be looking at you to begin with. Save yourself the trouble of feeling sorry for their street-weary existence as they quite enjoy living their lives like hip hop cliches. And remember, like you, they are simply human beings who ride the train. The only difference being that they aren't afraid of you.

Any boy who prevents me from weeping in public due to my loneliness on this Hallmarky holiday is doing a public service. So, thank you to Mr. Kansas for keeping the streets dry and for keeping me company on the day of wine and roses. I've selectively forgotten that his plans for drinks fell through due to a friend's illness and I've also relegated his lack of other options to the far corners of my mind. Happy, happy, deluded Valentine's Day. I truly enjoyed my day in that spoony way. Unlike this girl:



Eeek.

in the fiber optic valley

It was my second snowfall here. I woke to see the soft, white flakes of symmetrically organized water crystals sailing down from the sky. The early ones disappeared into puddles on the ground but slowly, they amassed and the grey world became bright. It's a noiseless transformation. If you don't notice the snow with your eyes, you can be pleasantly surprised. But I watched it fall. I monitored the gradual disappearance of blades of grass, staring out the window like a grandmother waiting for her family.

Last night, I met My Molly at Pearl Oyster Bar for an early dinner. My boots don't have any traction so I walked steadily through the Village to get to her, my redheaded friend who knows her way around and had both sturdy boots on and a glass of wine by the time I arrived.

We sat along a wall in the cream colored side dining room decorated with various marine accouterments. By order of Paul Getto and Eric Lane, we were to have oysters to start, six friend and six raw; the lobster roll and the blueberry crumble (if served - Eric insisted and would reimburse us.) Happily, we obliged.

Molly cooed after her first fried oyster and I slurped the raw. We compliment each other's eating styles because somehow, we always end up loving the same restaurants but the opposite things within them. The lobster roll was fantastic. Perfectly poached lobster chunks tossed with a gentle mayonnaise from Maine and served on a Sara Lee roll (I believe) with shoestring fries. I veered slightly from the plan of attack by having skate which was soft but with a crisp exterior having been dredged in flour and fried. It arrived with Brussels sprouts sauteed with carrots and bacon which were exquisite, the hint of bitterness of the sprouts countered with the sweetness of the carrots and salty smoke of the bacon. I also had an extra side of grilled vegetables - eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes, red peppers, asparagus and fennel. The vegetables were charred a little too dark but were seasoned well and fresh. They didn't offer the reimbursable blueberry crumble so Molly accommodated my devotion to Callebaut and let me order the mousse with which it is made. The dessert disappointed us as it didn't taste of enough chocolate nor did it melt properly. I suspected that they used a stabilizer so that it stood up and could be presented in a large quenelle without any logistical difficulty but the flavor, texture and melt-resistant behavior left us wanting more.

Molly resorted happily to a cigarette. I just stewed. I described to her the luck of living with a pastry chef who brings home leftover desserts which would be otherwise discarded from one of the best restaurants in New York. Some people have an Oreo for a midnight snack. I get to have what the roommates and I call "the chocolate tube." A cylinder made of thin, expertly tempered Valrhona chocolate and then filled with layers of milk chocolate mousse, praline crumble, chocolate cake, chocolate cremeux and more milk chocolate mousse. The seams of my jeans cower at the sight of it in the fridge.

We said goodnight and when Karen returned home after work, I tattled on the Callebaut abomination I had encountered. She had just the remedy: a fresh chocolate tube in a shiny black take-out box. I knew just the person who needed this more than I.

The next day, I used Molly's inexperience with the chocolate tube as a reason to leave my cozy, sunshine-filled apartment where I read and relax most of the day away, I marched into the MTV office with its exposed piping and unfinished ceiling. I handed Molly the triathlete the mystical Daniel dessert. She ate it standing next to her desk and stared at me in disbelief. Could something be that delicious? Yes, my friend, yes.

It was the end of the day so Molly left with me to take the train downtown. I was headed to Yeah Shanghai to have soup dumplings. MTV (the 'M' is for Molly) is located in the heart of Times Square. No matter how crowded it gets with slack jawed Midwesterners wearing sweatshirts with collegiate lettering, I still love it. Every time. It's impossible to navigate but I secretly like getting stuck behind the family with the turtlenecks and the plastic bags from the ESPN Zone store. It is a fiber optic valley with stock updates and music videos marching along the walls. Millions of tiny lights wink. And every time for a fleeting, glorious moment I feel famous.

I had two orders of soup dumplings one pork and and one pea shoots with shiitake mushrooms. Both were delicious although the dough in L.A. is made with more dexterity and is thinner and with better elasticity. However, these dumplings hit the spot. I also ordered a very Shanghainese dish of salted pork belly slices served with knots made of what is known as yuba skin which is translated from the Japanese. I'm not sure of the Chinese translation. Thin soy bean curd is pressed through a screen to produce a pale yellow sheet that sort of has the texture of rubbery eggs. The sheets are then bunched into ropes which are tied into knots and each knot cut off individually. There is a bit of a fermented stink to the dish due to the soy but it was fantastic and who can deny a slice of salted pork belly on a rainy night?

After dinner, I walked across the street to Mei Wah Coffeehouse for pork buns, steamed and baked. The old men behind the counter spoke "country" Cantonese and admonished me when I only ordered one bun. I ended up getting one of each kind and two egg tarts. The buns were fantastic. I had the steamed, Karen the baked. Soft dough with a fatty and not too sugary BBQ pork filling. The tarts had a crisp, flaky shell with a lightly sweetened egg custard. I'll eat anything. Out of respect for my elders obviously.