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Hungry Heart

Yesterday, a lot of people were going nuts over of the Yankees and the World Series. And, I'll admit, I got swept up in the madness myself. Yay Yanks!

But I had another reason to celebrate. It was Jason's birthday! Because he has school three nights a week, we went out on Tuesday night to kick off the festivities. First, drinks at Char No. 4 and then dinner at Saul. Each establishment deserves its own post. But here's something to whet your appetite: It's called a Kentucky Royale—a riff on a Kir Royale in which bourbon stands in for Champagne. Mhhhm.

Did your eyes just dilate, boo? Because that's what mine did when I read it on the drink menu at Char No. 4. Expect those posts soon!

In the meantime, let me throw an idea at you that I've been toying with. A while back, I received a bunch of pork and ham products at work. I put the majority of them out for others to take from the office kitchenette. But, GOD KNOWS WHY, I squirreled away a bag of hickory smoked cocktail sausages in the refrigerator. I kept thinking, "When life gives you mini sausages, you don't squander them. No."

And eventually it came to me. How much fun would it be to invite people over for...

Weenies and Martinis

I'm thinking après work. I'm thinking Mad Men. I'm thinking fancy toothpicks, olives, and something else ridiculous like cheese balls. I don't plan on eating the snausages and I don't like martinis. I've never even seen Mad Men, truth be told! But sometimes when I get an idea like this I just have to execute it to appease the entertaining gods and for the right to someday say, "Remember my Weenies and Martinis party? Wasn't that a hoot?"

But then again they could also be the starring snack at a campfire circle...you know how many of those I go to a week! What to do, what to do...

The Way You Look Tonight

Last weekend The Tapeworm and I celebrated dating each other for two years by hopping around Manhattan and Brooklyn to various hotspots and feeding our faces. It was kind of an amazing plan: First we would go to Momofuku Ssäm Bar for lunch (Tapeski would get the raw scallop appetizer and the spicy rice cakes with sausage as an entrée, I would get the seasonal pickle dish and the turnip greens with crispy shallots and XO sauce for mine). Then we would go see Where the Wild Things Are and split a small popcorn. Lastly, we would walk across the Brooklyn Bridge (insert "awwww" here) and have pizza at Grimaldi's for dinner. The following day would include a special brunch. Awesome.

What we didn't plan on was rain. It wasn't a concern while we were in Ssäm Bar or the movie, of course. We were warm and full. A few hours later as we embarked across the bridge, small beads pelted my trenchcoat and I thought, "Ok, no big deal. It's misting." We tried to take in the cityscape, but the Empire State Building was slightly obscured by fog, along with the Chrysler. "No matter," I told myself. "The light rain makes it more romantic..." And it did, until we set foot on Brooklyn soil and light rain turned to epic downpour. Our canvas shoes quickly became saturated, my umbrella developed a leak that strategically dripped in my right eye, half-blinding me, Tapeworm's jeans turned dark up to his knees. "What a stupid idea this was," I thought. "Why do I come up with these things?? Now we will always remember this night as the evening we caught pneumonia together." By the time we reach Grimaldi's, we were beyond soaked and a little defeated. But thankfully there were only six people on line outside the front of the restaurant, which boded well. After a painful, cold, wet, and anxiety-filled 20 minutes, we were told we could have a table.

Part of the charm of Grimaldi's is that they are so packed all the time, the maitre'd has no interest in pleasantries. Instead, he behaves like some Italian drill sergeant commanding you when to come inside, where to sit, how far to pull in your chair, and when you should get going because someone else needs your table. No joke. If he hadn't held our fate in his hands, I might not have liked him so much.

We ordered a large pie, half regular, half with roasted red peppers and some wine—white for me, red for Tapes. When the pie was finally placed in front of us, steaming and hot, I felt a hit of euphoria from the scent alone. The crust was thin and crackly at the edges, the sauce sweet and smooth, and fresh mozzarella and basil were strewn haphazardly across the top, "like a Jackson Pollack painting," the Tapeworm observed. The description was apt. Really, this meal was a piece of performance art.

Each bite burst with juicy, melty, herbaceous richness, lifting your spirits and inspiring you to croon along with the Frank Sinatra pouring out from unseen speakers. I tapped my feet, I sipped the wine and took a bite, in step with the choreography of the room.

And then, as with all performance art, it was gone. We had inhaled it. Once the pie plate was bare, we both stared at it frowning. "Coming to Grimaldi's is an emotional rollercoaster," Tapes said in disbelief. "First your anxious waiting on line, then you're excited once you finally get in, then you're so happy while you're eating it and now that it's over I feel depressed. I could easily have another pie. Next time, we're ordering two."  I say, make it three. And to-go. We earned it.

Cat on the Wall

Growing up, the most glamorous person I knew was my Aunt Carole. She was my father's fraternal twin and seemed to have inherited all of the cool genes: She lived in New York City, drove around in slick sports cars, hair perfectly coiffed, dripping with jewels, fur coat draped royally over her shoulders. It was always a treat when I got to spend a weekend with her. Everything seemed to sparkle more in the city, from the movie theaters where buttoned-up ushers would escort us to our seats to watch Muppets Take Manhattan, to the restaurants: There, I would sit on a bar stool among the adults waiting for a table and sip a Shirley Temple, occasionally blowing out a match for someone when they lit a cigarette. I was seven going on 21 and I loved every second of it.

One of my most vivid memories from that time is of my Aunt Carole taking me around town on a shopping spree. It was in Bloomingdales that she introduced me to Hello Kitty, and initiated a life-long affection that has yet to sour. So when I read this morning in The New York Times Magazine online blog The Moment about Kitty's 35th anniversary celebration coming up, it tugged at my heart strings. In Culver City, California, an exhibition is being held by Three Apples where vistors can experience a Hello Kitty High Tea and shop for special Sanrio items previously unavailable in the U.S. It may sound childish, but i wish I could go! Those cupcakes look adorable. But since I cannot, I am considering purchasing this:

The Tapeworm won't mind having this in the kitchen, right?

Please Don't Stop the Music

All week at work I've been neck-deep in Thanksgiving recipes, Pilgrim tales, and food recommendations that represent the best of American regional tastes. In some ways, I feel cheated. It's not even Halloween yet. But in other ways I feel I've gotten a jump start on being excited about the big Turkey Day. And there's much to be excited about: Thanksgiving for me offers the opportunity to not only enjoy old favorites but to try new comfort foods with everyone I love.

Two years ago I wowed my family with the introduction of a pleasingly charred yet creamy Brussels Sprouts with Cannelini Beans and Parmesan recipe I'd found in Bon Appetit. Next thing you know, my Mom was asking for it at Christmas and then her birthday and I'm all, "Mom, your birthday is in June." I'm no Dan Barber, but let's try to keep things seasonal, shall we?

This year, in addition to bringing a new (as yet undecided) dish to the family table, I also want to bring some fun tunes for rockin' around the organic, free-range, vegetarian, extra-loved bird... and this number is definitely on the playlist. I mean, is it perfect or what?

Mashed Potato Time (1962)

If I Were a Boy

So, as anyone who is on my gmail buddy list already knows, I had the all-time craziest restaurant invitation this week. And I know what you're thinking...

But no, it wasn't El Bulli. Nope, not Masa either. Nor Blue Hill at Stone Barnes. It wasn't a private tasting at Rao's and it wasn't a seat Ko. But despite being none of those things I know many men in this town would kill for this very special invitation.

In fact, a few have already offered to be my plus one, should I require one.

Because yesterday I was invited to sample a new menu by executive Chef Will Savarese (of Le Cirque, Aureole, Le Cote Basque and Cremaillere), "featuring an array of New American dishes such as Moroccan spiced lamb chops, Asian style tuna tartar with quail egg, Kobe style beef carpaccio, and of course, a variety of delectable cuts of steak" at none other than recently reopened...

Scores.

Yes, that Scores. It's the wildest invitation I've ever gotten, no doubt. And I am pretty sure I wouldn't be able to take pictures of the dishes. But if I decide to go, you'll all be the first to know.

Different Names For the Same Thing

When I'm exhausted, I read gossip blogs because they're mindless. It's deplorable, I know. I lose brain cells with each sentence about Hollywood baby-mama-drama and he-said-she-said rumors. But every once in a while I read something that raises an eyebrow.

Just now, I see that Shannen Doherty has begun shooting on a Hallmark movie called Growing the Big One (!) about a woman who inherits a pumpkin farm and enters a pumpkin-growing competition, falling in love with her competitor along the way. Of course, why wouldn't she? This patch is on a piece of la-la land after all.

The whole thing reminds me of Diane Keaton in Baby Boom. Mhmm, stay with me. Instead of a pumpkin farm, Diane's character inherits a baby. And instead of a county-fair competition, she ends up creating a wildly delicious brand of apple sauce that all mothers everywhere decide they want for their young'uns. And instead of her competitor, she falls in love with the small-town veterinarian.

But other than the minor differences, they're pretty much identical plots.

Which means I am going to LOVE this movie. Take that, Kelly and Dylan!
 

Men in Love

Friday night I attended a conversation/event between darling NYC chef David Chang and The Travel Channel's resident man in black Anthony Bourdain called "I Call Bullshit!" in which both men called the food world out on everything that is overhyped, underwhelming, ridiculous, underappreciated and misunderstood. Or at least, everything they could cover in an hour and 15 minutes.

As the guys drank beer and cracked each other up with jabs at Guy Fieri, Paula Deen and cupcake trucks, many members of the rowdy, sold-out audience felt comfortable enough to yell questions out at the stage, clapping and cheering at the answers so often I sat with baited breath assuming someone, anyone, would eventually start "the wave." Because there's one in every crowd and you know it.

Fraternity atmosphere notwithstanding, the wave never happened. But by the end, my cheeks were sore from laughing so much. For some choice quotes from the discussion, check out this link. And for some choice food, get thee to Chang's Momofuku Ssam, where I ate dinner the following night: Kimchi oysters? Check. Sea urchin, beet tapioca and whipped tofu sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds? Check. Crispy Montauk skate with crunchy-sweet delicata squash, fresh baby swiss chard, and positively addictive chamomile? Check, among other checks. He may be self-described bullshit, but I for one am in love. And NYC chef Anne Burrell must be too, because she was sitting nearby.

A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes

Remember how I was hoping More cupcakes from Chicago would send me some samples...hello, lunch:

This box was just flown in and hand-delivered by a representative.

I gave a salted caramel and a "More" (Hostess-style) cupcake to the two security guards in the main lobby and then shared the rest of the flavors with my coworkers. From left to right, top to bottom, you are looking at:

Chocolate Caramel, Coconut, Chocolate Chocolate; S'more, Black & White; Vanilla Milk Chocolate, Chocolate Hazelnut, Lemon Raspberry; Red Velvet, Chocolate Vanilla Cream

I had the Black & White. And I expect an e-mail any second now from the Tapeworm asking how I could give these away and not to him. But he's not going to starve, don't worry.

Obsessed

Ever since this summer, I've been hell-bent on presenting desserts inside of mason jars. It's always a treat going to places like Fette Sau and drinking beer or lemonade out of one. Then when I read that a handful of catering companies and cafes around the country were serving up side dishes and sweets inside of them I thought, "how perfectly homey...and practical!" Since I had a bunch of mason jars on hand at home (waiting for me to execute another obsession—canning—someday) I decided to finally do something about it. Below is my attempt at Sanguinaccio, Mario Batali's recipe for a rich, dark Chocolate and Cinnamon pudding, topped with fresh whipped cream and roasted pine nuts...except for this one, which The Tapeworm insisted on trying with blueberries.

For a first attempt, it's ok, I think. Though I would have ideally preferred more layers or ingredients being visible through the glass...something like a banana pudding or a tiramisu or apple cobbler would probably work really well. So, consider this a test shot. With fall baking season coming, there will undoubtedly be many more mason-centric experiments to come.

48 Crash

I've been listening to a lot of The Runaways on Pandora lately. Something about them has always been very romantic to me—a group of young, kick-ass girls blasting into rock 'n' roll, then burning out before their third record. In clicking through the many links within links on their Wikipedia, I read that guitarist Joan Jett fashioned her look in The Runaways after an artist called Suzi Quatro. Before I had even heard her music, I liked Suzi. Her father, Art, was a part-time jazz musician, of Italian descent, while her mother, Helen Sanislay, was Hungarian. Just like me! (Minus the jazz part.) Suzi may not have carved a legacy as storied as that of The Runaways, but her voice and sound has a rawness to it that was clearly an influence on the girls...one I was completely unaware of.

Now, I can't help thinking that maybe it was her Italian-Hungarian background that made her so innately cool. I mean, it certainly wouldn't be the first time that two cultures colliding could produce something spicy and sexy.

Take, for instance, the banh mi sandwich.

I got this sardine-stuffed beauty at Hanco's in Park Slope. It seems so unlikely in theory that a French baguette would sop up sriracha sauce so well...and yet the Vietnamese combination of oil-packed fish layered on top of shredded lettuce, pickled carrots, and handfuls of fragrant cilantro, slathered with more French components such as mayonnaise, butter and paté has proved as addictive as bagels in this city.

Personally, I'm all for it!