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.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)