kimberlybelle

Chef's Parm

I had a big birthday. First my Dad came into town, then my Mamma. Now I'm left with an empty apartment and hunger pains for home. As a Buffalonian the answer is obvious: Spaghetti Parmesan.

As my father had to remind me constantly when my middle school comrades would copy my outfits and try to perfect my pant-pinning ways, “Imitation is the highest form of flattery.” Tonight I’m going to prove that idiom and keep dinner simple by making myself a big dish of baked pasta that I can munch on throughout the entire workweek. It’s heavy, hearty, and absolutely inspired by my favorite restaurant in Buffalo: Chef’s. In downtown Buffalo, Chef’s is THE landmark restaurant and almost everyone who visits orders Spaghetti Parmesan. I don’t know what the other fools are thinking as the rest of menu is a bit lack luster and fairly typically Southern Italian, but there is nothing like Chef’s Spaghetti Parmesan, and though I have tried to duplicate it on countless occasions the chefs have continued to dupe my palate and keep me coming back for more.

Tonight’s attempt at replication is made all the easier since the restaurant now produces its own line of tomato sauces and my Mamma brought one in tow as a belated birthday surprise. Generally, I am anti-jarred sauce since homemade sauce is easy and exceptional; however, for this one dish I do make the concession. This means that all I have to do is boil the pasta (and though the original uses spaghetti my preference always bends toward tubes of rigatoni that miraculously fill with cheese and sausage without prodding), toss it in the sauce with a smidgen of extra virgin olive oil, mix in browned sausage rounds or crumble bits of sausage according to preference, and finish the whole thing off under the broiler with a duet of Italian cheeses: mozzarella and provolone. This dish actually gets better with age, and one of my all-time favorite pastimes is to have another helping for breakfast the following day.

Rigatoni Parmigiano (serves 4 or 1 all week)

• 1 lb Rigatoni
• 2 TB Kosher Salt
• 3 Italian Sausages (sweet or hot)
• 2 TB Olive Oil (plus a drizzle for sausages)
• 2 cups Chef’s meat flavored Pasta Sauce
• ¼ lb sliced Mozzarella
• ¼ lb sliced Provolone

Bring water to a boil with salt and add pasta. Cook till al dente and then drain. Stir in olive oil.

While the pasta is cooking, heat a small sauce pan on medium and then add a drizzle of olive oil. Allow oil to heat until almost smoking and then add crumbled sausages removed from their casings or sausage slices, depending on your preference. Once browned, add Chef’s sauce, or any tomato sauce, and heat through. Combine pasta and sauce and mix thoroughly; I take Batali's view and think of pasta sauce as a condiment, careful to use it sparingly and allow the pasta itself to shine through the taste of tomatoes. Spread pasta in an even layer in a broiler safe dish. Top with a layer of sliced cheese and broil till golden, about 3 minutes. Buon Appetito!

I love the detritus of a great party—remnants of the consumption preceding the buzz, the high, the satiation, the quench, the satisfaction, the orgasm…

At right are traces of the following consumables: espresso, Heineken, Sambuca, sugar, grappa, Lurisia, red wine, marinara. It’s the litter of an enjoyable evening—a post-game party at which I was unlikely cheerleader. I was with the Italiano and his friends and fellow football (soccer) players. The consumables were proper ingredients for curing aching muscles, filling empty tummies, instigating passionate foreign-tongued diatribes, drowning wounded pride. What’s absent from the picture is the smell—of cigarette smoke (sexy, but naughty), perfectly fried calamari, and sweat. The sweat of an amateur-league Italian football team that’s just played rough and cursed rougher still, but has, nonetheless, been beaten by a single, slippery goal in a heartbreaker of a game at Chelsea Piers. The team partied hard after the defeat and I was the only girl to witness the festivities that took place at their favorite hangout (also one of mine), Borgo Antico.

It’s a strange scene for me, really, since I never seem to be the lady hangin’ out with the boys, (like Erin is on her poker night). It’s always girls night in my world. But my connection with an Italian fella who is, true to stereotype, a “pack-mentality” Mediterranean-born male, had brought this whole new kind of social dynamic. Me and the men. I kinda like it. I mean, all that testosterone. And who doesn’t like a little extra attention for her blonde curls?

Good thing I felt so comfortable at the chosen party location. A favorite of mine, a favorite of his, yet we’d never run into one another before we started dating. It’s one of the ironies that he and I, a “fresh” couple, find sweet and bitter at the same time: our mutual, but unrelated connections to this great neighborhood Italian spot on 13^th St. We think it’s strange that we never met there before we met at Employees Only. I used to act as pastry/ baking consultant to the restaurant; he is best friends with the perpetually cheerful, Italian owner, Giovanni. I logged a lot of daytime hours at Borgo up until a few months ago; the Italiano is used to haunting the place in the evenings and after-hours with his fellow bachelor expats. Now, we seem to hang out there a lot together, eating and drinking, watching European football matches and, last night, post-gaming the match that was lost by the guys’ own mighty blue and gold crew. Actually, my gentleman wasn’t even playing, having to sit out the competition because of a bruised ankle that his teammates weren’t ready to gamble on. So, we both watched helplessly—he from the bench, I from the stands—as the game didn’t go the way the Italians desired.

A few things about me and Euro football:

1. I think the Italiano is fucking adorable in his uniform. I can’t help how giddy the polo shirt makes me and I can’t get enough of watching him and his mates go at it!
2. I realize that this makes me sound lame. Or at least a little too much like Erin, her own musician boyfriend’s biggest groupie. But I can’t help it! The running, the head butts, the cursing in Italiano! Makes me hot.
3. I do actually enjoy watching the game, owing to my time spent in London, where I learned the rules.
4. I revel in knowing how cute I look in the Arsenal jersey I insist on wearing to every match, despite the Italian team’s hatred of all English clubs.

The affable Gio is consummate ringleader to this motley crew. His restaurant is the place they all love as a second home and consider a perfect expats’ hub. This is because the food is consistently delicious and sufficiently authentic for their picky Italian tastes. He stocks all the requisite “home” staples: the Lurisia, Sambuca, grappa, Moretti, and limoncello, for instance. And in the bar downstairs, he’s installed a projector and screen for viewing all the important professional football matches. The Italiano almost always orders the slick, garlicky, and filling linguini vongole when we dine there. He says it’s the only version he’ll touch on the island of Manhattan. That’s what he ate to refuel from his strenuous bench contributions (adorable!), but I skipped late-night pasta in favor of glasses of Primitiva and bottles of Peroni, both of which made me more confident in my Italian-speaking skills…though looking back with a clear head, I’m not sure if I was arguing that Victoria Beckham has a great wardrobe and Hillary Clinton is a policy wonk, or the other way around.

The next game is a couple of weeks away. I’m certain the boys are resilient enough to pull out a win next time. Regardless, as long as I get to stick around ‘til the table is littered with the miscellany of a great after-party, I’ll be happy. ‘Cause that’s when the rounds of nationalistic songs are sung at the tops of Italian lungs, and everybody’s satisfied, no matter what the score.

Yesterday marked the opening of a new venture from one of the New York food industry’s young, female, powerhouses—my friend, Heather Tierney. The Burger Shoppe, new to the Financial District, is a hip place blending a couple of different old-fashioned eras in one bi-level space and specializing in the classic sandwich that transcends all trends and time periods: the hamburger. Before yesterday’s official opening, Heather invited The Supper Club to host a kind of “Shoppe warming party” Thursday night for members and guests. There were plenty of fashionable, young Gothamites in attendance and Heather’s not one to leave her guests hungry, so there was tons of food (including beef, veggie, and shrimp burgers) and tons of bubbly and cocktails. She passed some of the munchies herself as she mingled with guests, hoisting a tray despite her cocktail dress and bejeweled ears. The classiest move of the night, however, was Heather’s including her mom in the festivities! She ran the coat check and chatted up the Supper Club crowd!

Erin and Celest came to the party together and I met up with them there since I had a date prior, for Champagne and oysters at Blaue Gans with the Italiano. There was a little birthday toasting for him, a little birthday planning for me…two Pisces and we are getting along swimmingly! Then we headed over to Water Street and the event.

The atmosphere of The Burger Shoppe is a real treat. The first level looks like an authentic (not Times Square, Disneyfied)‘50s soda shop, but when you climb the narrow stairs to the second floor, you enter a modern saloon-like space complete with a long wooden bar and exposed-filament light bulbs suspended in Mason jars. It’s clubby, masculine, and comfortingly well-worn, but trendy enough to pull in the Wall Street types with promises that the model-looking bartenders will, indeed, know how to mix a mojito as well as a manhattan.

I saw many familiar faces at the event, including Victoria from Moet Hennessy, who was eager to talk to the Italiano about the wine industry, Josh Beckerman, magician and stalker, Tamsin and her girls from The Supper Club, and even Richard Nouveau himself, who was talking to Celest at the bar when I arrived. Wearing his signature 3-piece suit, he air-kissed me when I approached, and said he was in the middle of telling Celest that The Burger Shoppe is going to serve the city’s most expensive (his obsession) burger, and that he’s to be the namesake.

“Is this true?” I wondered. “For $150?”

What will they do to improve upon Daniel Boulud’s $120 “Royale” icon? I mean, the $4 version I sampled last night was pretty damn tasty (for the record: wonderfully moist patty, a suburban-classic slice of American cheese, fluffy white bun, good trimmings—though tomatoes are so out of season, and I don’t like them on sandwiches anyway, so the Beefsteak slice was removed; the whole thing stayed put together really well, and it was a nice size for the price the place is charging). But I can see the Wall Street secretary now, calling in the lunch order for the board of Exxon Mobile,

“Can I get a dozen 'Richard Nouveau Burgers' please? And twelve chocolate milkshakes with bendy straws?”

I have to admit, I am rarely in the Financial District, as I find it a bewildering part of the city if you aren’t an uber-capitalist, but rather a FOOD maven with a penchant for dining after 6pm. But, I will certainly be checking in on Heather’s new joint. Celest and Erin already said they are going back to try the $5 ice cream sundae. I’ll tag along for the French fries.

After an introduction to the sport, I don’t think I’m en route to becoming a champion skier, but I may well take the prize for top après ski enthusiast! During a dream weekend in Vermont, spent skiing Stratton and Okemo Mountains, the Italiano and I cuddled up in front of a roaring fire, built for four in the winter chalet Erin and her man rent every season. The place looks like the cabin of my fantasy, filled with hand-carved, wooden everything—a favorite aesthetic in the kitchen and elsewhere. It sits atop a hill in the middle of nowhere. In fact, “Nowhere” felt like heaven last weekend on my first official getaway with the Italian. Alas, no Vespa ride to New England; I had too much baggage…

In addition to a suitcase full of Vermont-chic après ski wear (fluffy sweaters and cute tweed vests!) I took a bag stuffed with begged-for, borrowed and loaned ski gear. I intended to impress the Italiano with my I-know-you-grew-up-next-door-to-the-Alps-but-I-too-grew-up
-in-a-‘powder town’-where-babes-are-born-“shredding nar” (just picked up the phrase, not convinced I’m using it right; who am I kidding?!).

I also lugged the better part of my kitchen up north. To me, ski weekend conjures “hot toddies in the lodge” more than “grueling afternoon tackling the slopes.” So in Vermont, what I was really looking forward to was après ski fondue at the chalet after a bottle of red and a toke of green. I came prepared for both.

Having prepped everything for easy, delicious fondue back in New York and then having stashed it all in Tupperware for the weekend, putting dinner on the table in Vermont took Erin and I a matter of minutes. I brought a sensational bottle of French Hard Apple Cider, Cidre Bouche Brut de Normandie, bought at Gourmet Garage of all places (who knew you could score a French Brut at a grocery store in NYC?), to help melt the cheese—a combo of gruyère and emmentaler with and a dash of Vermont cheddar I had leftover in my fridge (too apropos not to!). I also used the cider to steam my asparagus, fingerlings and maple kielbasa from the farmer’s market…divine. Having already chopped up my remaining dippers and shredded the cheese, which was tossed with corn starch and a bit of seasoning, we picked up a loaf of good, chewy sourdough on our way home from the mountain and were ready to let the après take over by the time our skies were stacked beside the door, our wind-burned faces had paled to pink, and our fires were blazing.

Fondue for Four

You don’t need fancy fondue equipment to make this work, though it certainly fits the bill should you find yourself up the mountains. Forks, a saucepot, and a tea light will do in a pinch.

• I LB Gruyère Cheese (shredded)
• ½ LB Emmentaler Cheese (shredded)
• ¼ LB Vermont Cheddar Cheese (shredded)
• 2 TB Cornstarch
• 1 Garlic Clove (smashed)
• 1 ¼ cups Hard Apple Cider
• 1 pinch Cumin
• Salt & Pepper
• Fondue Dippers of your choosing

Have fun choosing what to dip into your fondue. I went all out this past weekend and grabbed a little bit of everything from across the map and each food group: cubes of sourdough bread, asparagus stems, fingerling potatoes, maple kielbasa, spicy cured soppersatta, cornichon pickles, red olives, romanesco (or green cauliflower), roasted butternut squash, baby carrots, Bartlett pears, and Pink Lady apples. Most can be eaten raw and the few items you prefer cooked should be steamed or roasted in the very same cider you choose for the fondue. The apples were a surprise hit (I can’t recommend these Union Square greenmarket gems highly enough) and the leftover veggies and cheese made gorgeous omelets in the morning.

In a bowl with a lid, combine all cheeses, cornstarch, and cumin. Season with salt and pepper to taste; seal the lid and shake vigorously until evenly coated. Take the smashed clove of garlic and smear it across the bottom and sides of the saucepot you plan to melt your fondue in; if little bits of the garlic fall off that’s a-okay; it’ll add a punch to the fondue for lucky dippers. Add the cider, or if unavailable, beer or wine works
well, and a pinch more salt. Bring to a boil and stir in all your cheese. Turn heat to low and stir continuously until well blended and thick, about 5 minutes. Check seasoning before transferring to a fondue or serving bowl and keep warm under a tea light candle, or fancy fondue thing-a-ma-jig.

I’ve been working on my Italian a lot lately. I’ve also been practicing my language skills...

The other night I wasn’t out with the Italian, but I was still craving some, so after a meeting with potential Dinner Belle clients in the East Village, Erin and I decided to hit up the new spot on 7^th St., Giano. Honestly, we chose the spot more because it was fucking freezing outside and we had just left our meeting at The Bourgeois Pig (right across the street), then from intrigue with the sleek-looking, modernist bar up front. In fact, I hesitated at first.

“It doesn’t look ‘warm’ in there.” We peered through the glass front. “And we’re only a few blocks away from Li’l Frankie's and the pizza with arugula…”

But we had stared inside a moment too long and by then a quirky looking blonde was opening the door for us, beckoning us inside. Honestly, her smile was more welcoming than a fireplace, so we happily entered and I looked forward to trying a new place.

Giano was full of Italians, at least in terms of the staff; the patrons included some punk musician types at the bar and an extremely awkward, ‘second date,’ middle-aged couple angled into the corner. Schizophrenic crowd, schizophrenic décor (exposed brick/MoMa Store light fixtures; black and white graphic wallpaper/photographic sunflower mural), schizophrenic menu…oh, wait…I get it; it’s a “concept menu.” And the name reflects it..."Giano" = the two-headed Roman god, Janus. Now, I haven’t yet eaten at Insieme, but my friend Hannah, to whom I described the meal at Giano, says that popular restaurant has a similar concept going: traditional dishes on the left-hand side, innovative/experimental features on the right.

The waiter had already complimented my accent on my first “Buona serra;” I was game for the new concept place.

Of course, Erin wanted to order lasagna. The “traditional” side of the menu had her name written all over it: caprese salad, eggplant parm…But, I prodded and pleaded with her to share some of the more inventive dishes with me instead, promising we could have cheesecake for dessert. She gave in, and I haltingly told the waiter in Italian that we were starving and he could bring things as they were ready. We ordered risotto with pear, radicchio and taleggio, (the wonderfully stinky white cheese), house-made maltagliati pasta with a “white” boar ragu (it’s called white only because there is no tomato, not because it’s creamy—rather the meat is stewed with spices and minced vegetables), and the almond and pistachio-crusted lamb chops.

The wine flowed; the service was SO friendly, even the eccentric décor stopped being a distraction once the food arrived. The combination of flavors in the risotto was, indeed, innovative. The rice was well textured, the pear subtly sweet, the wilted radicchio extra bitter and the cheese, creamy and pungent. I added a bit of salt and was very enamored of the dish. Erin loves pear and cheese combos in almost any form, so this went down well with her too. She said she could’ve used a little less radicchio in the mix. I agreed.

Then. The maltagliati really was Killer. And not least because it was so SALTY! It reminded me of Mario’s pasta dishes, which I always love because the al dente is dead-on and the amount of salt does the quality of his ingredients justice. This ragu was incredibly flavorful, with a melting texture, but not super-greasy. The pasta was cooked perfectly and the noodles were adequately dressed with sauce, not overwhelmed. It was topped with a snowy mass of grated ricotta salata. Er and I fought with our forks over this one.

Then, unfortunately, came the letdown of the meal—the lamb chops. The dish reconfirmed my belief that most Italian restaurants’ Secondi selections are after-thoughts, always to be avoided in favor of more pasta. Or even extra antipasti! It is so rare that I really LOVE a non-pasta entrée at an Italian restaurant, Giano’s lamb chops included. The flavors were fine, but the cut of the chops was embarrassingly thin. I chuckled, when the dish arrived at our table, remembering that the waiter had asked how we wanted them cooked.

“Medium rare,” I’d replied. Erin raised an eyebrow. Okay, she’d already given up lasagna for me. “Medium,” I conceded.

But these chops were about as thick as the New Yorker I was carrying in my bag! Not a particularly dense issue, I might add. The pureed pumpkin and crisp green beans accompanying the offending chops were acceptable, not astonishing.

We were still discussing the merits of the catering event space we’d seen earlier in the evening, and I had promised, so we ordered the cheesecake for dessert. Our affable waiter took it upon himself to bring us a second dessert as well—the special for the evening: a molten chocolate cake sitting atop a pool of Zabaione. The cake was rich and I like Zabaione sauce because it tastes a lot like melted vanilla ice cream. I could only eat a couple of bites though, before bursting. Erin said she liked the cookie crust on her cheesecake, but she muttered on about Junior’s anyway. If I’d had less wine I might have started a discussion about why strawberry “dessert topping” deserves no place in her life, but I didn’t have the strength.

The quirky blonde offered us after-dinner drinks: Limoncello (barf), Sambuca (yum), or Amaro (soothing), but we knew we’d had enough already; we declined and thanked her for her generosity.

We headed back into the cold and waived down cabs immediately. As I rode west, back to Christopher St., I wondered whether I might take the Italian to Giano? Let him chat up his compatriots and get his reaction to that ragu, or maybe the tagliatelle in a bisque sauce served with blueberries and shrimp?! It’s very hard, though, to pull him away from his favorite watering hole, where his friends gather and eat, when he wants pasta.

I wonder how he feels about traditional/experimental in a menu. He seems to embrace the combo in his lingerie preferences…

Bon Appétit’s recent makeover is worth mentioning and the mag’s upcoming television special on Food Network is worth DVRing.

I’ve subscribed to Bon Appétit for at least six years, and this past October I faced a question of conscience when my renewal slip came in the mail. Truth be told, Bon Appétit had fallen off my radar. It had become one of the mags collecting dust on my coffee table that offered me little more than guilt for all the fallen trees that had been wasted so I could decorate my apartment with foodie porn. Let’s face facts; Bon Appétit had become boring. The recipes were typical, the writing uninspired, and the layout dated. Flash forward three months and I’m thankful I gave Bon Appétit one more year to impress me. They have, despite others’ cynicism about their new approach. The 2008 issues have been spectacular! The new look is sleek, the typeface is daring, the photographs are brilliant: extreme close-ups and well-styled tabletops. But the face-lift is much more than skin-deep. New writers, such as Nina Planck of Real Food fame, Molly Wizenberg from the popular food blog, Orangette, and Dan Barber from restaurant Blue Hill at Stone Barns, are just three gems who’ve joined the Bon Appétit ranks to help make February’s “Green Issue” the on-the-pulse success that it is. Saveur and Food & Wine best move over; there’s a new show in town and its Editor-in-Chief, Barbara Fairchild, gets it absolutely right when she says, “Food is culture, food is big business, but most of all, food is the topic of conversation almost everywhere.” And I’m talking about Bon Appétit…

this week: Food Network airs repeat episodes of Bon Appétit’s televised special Top American Restaurants: Bon Appétit Picks the Best.

Some restaurants highlights include Di Fara (the famous Brooklyn pizza joint), Mozza (LA’s famous Batali-owned pizza joint), Taylor’s Refresher (home of the single best burger I’ve ever had), and Peter Lugar (need I say more?!). Menus range from BBQ to burgers, fried chicken to tacos, and chart American comfort foods from coast to coast. You can catch this special February 23^rd at 7:00 PM ET/PT and February 24^th at 6:00 PM ET/PT.

this season: Start a subscription or pick up a copy of Bon Appétit at the newsstand; it won’t disappoint. Don’t believe me? Check it for yourself at their swanky, up-to-the-minute website. My favorite new section is the “Shopping the Seasons” ingredient guide to winter foods. This season they suggest: leeks, Meyer lemons, blood oranges, parsnips, cauliflower, kale, fennel, grapefruit, escarole, and Brussels sprouts. Bon Appétit indeed!

to build your library: The Bon Appetit Cookbook edited by Barbara Fairchild, is the sort of all-purpose collection readers will appreciate for its breadth (there are over 1200 recipes) as well as its brevity (you can finally throw away all those mags taking up space on your cookbook shelf).

Alright, I don’t love Chinatown. In fact, let me just say it, I borderline hate Chinatown. And I won’t even qualify this statement with any political correctness. I certainly don’t hate Chinese people. And I particularly love Dim Sum, but…

Here are my reasons for Chinatown angst: too crowded and the fish smell. From whichever direction you approach, forget it. Canal Street stinky. Side street, stinky. It’s practically impossible and always a headache.

Today, on my walk of shame back from an amorous encounter that started at GoldBar and resulted in a sleepover on Centre Street, I walked through the neighborhood of odd delicacies and my cocktail dress and heels caused no great pause from anyone. Making my way north on Mott, I noticed bins and bins of every kind of nut imaginable for only $4/ lb! A little hung-over and having snuck out of my paramour’s pad without so much as a coffee for breakfast, I was tempted, so…I scooped up some walnuts, filling the bag to the brim, and paid my pittance. Two blocks later, I was spitting out the rancid nuts onto Elizabeth Street, which was, to be fair, already quite filthy. I spun around, went back to the stand, and spent the next ten minutes trying to explain to the shopkeeper why I didn’t want the nuts: they were bad! and no, I did not want to exchange for anything else from his shop. Then the manager came over, and at some point during the frustrated conversation, I glanced down at the writing on some of the packaged candies and noticed that, actually, I wasn’t even in a Chinese store, but a Korean one. Ultimately, I left the shop without getting my money back.

I clandestinely emptied the uneaten nuts back into the bin out front, a little amused with my vigilante nut attack, and a few bucks short.

We finally had our first snow! Our first official taste of deep winter dropped, though I’ve been tasting winter citrus for several weeks now. Blood oranges, Meyer lemons, and pink grapefruits are the three gems in winter fruit’s crown. They make for gorgeous breakfast bowls, zippy marinades and dressings, add a juicy sucker punch to any salad and are, of course, class acts in muddled cocktails.

Holed up inside when it’s coming down outside is the perfect time to break out the shaker. The three drinks below are inspired by winter’s fruits and recent visits with bartender extraordinaire, Naren Young, at Bobo. The first is a pink grapefruit Caipirinha that muddles together grapefruit and Meyer lemon with Brazil’s famous and distinct rum, Cachaça. Next is a blood orange Margarita which hits familiar notes of sour and salty, with a little bitter thrown into the mix via the addition of Campari. Finally, the Meyer lemon Vespa is a take on the more traditional Vesper cocktail. Hailing from London and named after Vesper Lynd, James Bond’s love interest and heart’s combatant in Casino Royale, it’s a classic. I’ve added Meyer lemon to the drink’s standard mix, dropped the “–er” in Vesper, and have taken my cues from the movie’s Venetian film set, adding a spirit of Italia to the refreshment. The Vespa is a sexy alternative that goes down easy, threatening to turn cocktails into “cock tales” if you’ve got a hot Italiano on hand…

Winter Fruit Cocktails (serves as many as you pour)

Pink Grapefruit Caipirinha

• 2 ounces Cachaça Rum
• Quarter Pink Grapefruit (cubed with rind)
• Half Meyer Lemon (cubed with rind)
• Sugar to taste

Wash the fruit and roll it on a hard surface to loosen its juices. Cut the citrus into pieces and place them in an old-fashioned glass. Sprinkle with the sugar and crush the pieces (pulp side up) with a pestle. (Wooden pestles are ideal here, but you can use almost anything to crush the rind and release the juice.) Find a happy medium between gentle and tough when muddling. You don’t want to bruise the rind or it will release bitter oils. Add the Cachaça and stir to mix. Add the ice and stir again.

Blood Orange Margarita

• 2 parts Tequila
• 1 part Cointreau
• ½ part Campari
• Juice of half a Lime
• Juice of half a Blood Orange
• Simple Syrup or Sugar to taste
• Twist of Blood Orange
• Salt to Rim Glass (optional)
  

Wet the rim of the martini glass with lime. Dip into a plate of salt. Shake off excess salt, and prepare the drink. Shake all the liquid ingredients together with ice and strain into a martini glass. Garnish with a twist of blood orange.

Meyer Lemon Vespa

• 2 parts Gin
• 1 part Vodka
• ½ part Lillet Blanc
• Juice of a Meyer Lemon Wedge
• Meyer Lemon Slice
  

Shake all the liquid ingredients together with ice and strain into a martini glass. Garnish with a slice of Meyer Lemon. I used a coupe-shaped martini glass as I thought the sloped sides a better compliment to the angles on a Vespa, and the man who sits behind its wheel.

I pledge this to be the last of the cheap, chicken, winter recipes I'll dish out for awhile. Winter grays and bank account blues made January seem like the month to make the most of the ubiquitous bird occasionally served a la King or as Cordon Bleu, but more often enjoyed by the masses out of a red and white striped bucket. Over the past month I stuck to the basics and delivered dishes that aimed to make comfort classy and affordable achievable. I started by roasting two whole chickens, make a pot pie from the leftovers, saved some wings from the Super Bowl, and ended up with a pile of bones, backs, wings, necks, and indeterminables. Though some might discard these remnants as a pile of rubbish, the savvy waste-not-want-not chef types among us know that this "rubbish" is actually the key to unlocking the secret behind the most delicious and crave-worthy soups, pastas, and sauces.

If stock is to a cook what opera is to a singer, then homemade stock is Puccini. The single biggest difference between home and professional cooking may well lie in how you take stock, chicken that is. My stock and its parts live in my freezer, always on call at a moments notice for tons of different dishes. Believe me, those boxes of pre-made stock, no matter how convenient or attractive, that line supermarket shelves (but hopefully not your cupboard), cannot possibly begin to deliver the bang that homemade stock promises. Even the word "stock" suggest something raw, something from which other things are made. Actors portray stock characters, economists ride stock markets, retailers keep products in stock; chefs make magic out of great stock. The flavors achieved in the preparation of stock act as the supporting structure to what dinner dream may come, whether they be of Pumpkin Risotto or Tomato-Lemon Soup. Using homemade stock makes the difference in every recipe, every time. And it couldn't be easier ... or cheaper.

The key to the stock is stocking up (puns-love them!). You don't want to have to make a fresh batch every time stock's called for in a recipe, and you don't want to go out and buy stock ingredients each time you decide to attempt said recipe. Instead, conserve all the parts needed to make stock from your leftovers and store them in your freezer. These ingredients won't be consumed, so they needn't be whole, fresh, or evenly chopped. Every time you cook a dish that calls for stock ingredients, like onions, peppers, celery, herbs, cheese rinds, carrots, parsnips, you name it, instead of throwing away the stems, rinds, skins and seeds, save them to make stock. I save all my bits and bops in freezer bags, and I don't bother to label any of it. When it's time to throw together a stock, I just dig through my bags and decide what'll work best. If, for instance, I'm thinking Asian, I'll dig around for beef bones, butt ends of ginger, stems of chilies, a few spicy seeds, red onion skins, broken cinnamon sticks, and some bundles of frozen cilantro and basil. If I'm feeling under the weather, I'll pull together chicken bones, carrots, parsley, parsnips, peppers, and be halfway to Chicken Noddle Soup, not to mention recovery. After I've made a few quarts of stock, I ladle leftovers into recipe sized Tupperware containers, being sure to label and date them at this point, so as to have portioned batches at the ready the next time I wana make soup, sauce, or past really sing.

Chicken Stock (5 quarts)

• 4-5 lbs Chicken Parts (backs, wings, necks, gristle, whatever you got)

• 1 cup worth of Red Onion Skins and Parts

• 1 cup worth of Parsnips stabbed with half a dozen Whole Cloves

• 1 bunch of Carrots

• 1 bunch of Celery Sticks

• Handfuls of Herbs (chives, parsley, carrot tops, etc.)

• 2 Bay Leaves

• 2 TB Kosher Salt
  

• 1 TB Peppercorns

Play with this recipe. Think of it less like a formula and more like a guide. Take from your own collection of whatever you have on hand that seems to suit the flavor profile of the dish you're attempting. Put everything into a large stockpot and add water up to about 2 inches below the rim. Bring to a boil and then reduce the heat to a simmer and cook, covered, for 2 hours. Uncover and simmer for at least another hour; the longer you simmer the stock uncovered, the further it will reduce, thicken, darken, and intensify in flavor. Be sure to check the seasoning throughout this process and add more salt or spices if necessary. Strain stock and pour it into portioned containers or use it in a follow-up recipe. If planning to freeze, let sit until cool before freezing, leaving the chicken fat on top to act as a seal. When you're ready to use the frozen stock it's easy enough to peel the fat off the top and put it to use (like in Matzo balls, but that's for another day).

Celest adores the industrial chic/minimalist/white-on-white glamour aesthetic at restaurants such as Falai (which does, in fact, look just like her own apartment), Public, and Stanton Social. I am less enthusiastic, generally, about this “look” for a restaurant, since I really long for the food and feel of a place to trend toward rustic allure—wood instead of metal, candlelight in place of exposed-filament light bulbs, plush banquettes instead of high-backed barstools. Fireplaces are a bonus; open kitchens are a dream. Think Peasant, Gemma, Bobo. These places make me pant for their décor as much as I pant for their signature dishes.

So, back when The E.U. opened up in The East Village, Celest began to rave about how the place looked, even when their rocky start was producing some inconsistent fare. She stuck with the place, and I started hanging out there on occasion too. Now, a couple of years in, they have a brand new chef, Justin Smiliie, the menu has evolved and is continuing to be improved upon, they have become one of my favorite brunches in the city for price and quality, and the service is exceeding even my own, high expectations. And then, there’s that giant wall of jagged, glossy white subway tiles that runs along the wall opposite the bar. It is more Celest’s style than my own, but we both agree it’s a standout design element to rival any of the best-looking restaurants in the city, much less the East Village. It almost makes me want to change my Manhattan dream home from a brownstone on West 10^th to a loft on North Moore. Almost.

“Change” describes a lot of what’s been going on at The E.U. recently. I first met the GM, Victoria, at Saxleby Cheese at Essex Market a few weeks ago, when we were both surveying the selection of formaggio. She, of the huge smile and warm manner that reads more “Midwestern Elementary School Principal” than “Manhattan Restaurateur,” apparently enjoys L.E.S. chevre as much as I do. We hit it off right away. Since I hadn’t been in for dinner in awhile (though, again, I go regularly for the weekend brunch, which, unfortunately, no longer features a complimentary glass of Prosecco—Sara is devestated—but at which I love to order the yolky, fried duck egg, served atop buttery buckwheat farina in an individual clay pot, studded with stewed tomatoes and speared by a couple pieces of ultra-crisp bacon: mix it all together and dip the ends of your brioche toast into the whole savory mess; yum!!), when the decision on where to meet a couple of old guy friends from college fell to me recently, I suggested we try out the new chef at The E.U.

Truth be told, they weren’t thrilled with the suggestion, initially. Neither had eaten there before, and both complained that they are surrounded everyday by hoards of annoying Europeans at their jobs in SoHo (one in retail, the other waiting tables), which is inundated these days with Euro and pound sterling-rich folks aghast at how cheap the shopping in New York is for them.

“If I have to hear one more obnoxious-accented, bad-breathed, colored jeans wearing European exclaim, ‘Ze shopping iz so cheeep! Eeet is worth ze plane ride and ze hotel room just for a the Prada!’” Adam complained.

I persuaded them with the promise of artisinal beers and the assurance that we wouldn’t have to wait for a table in the middle of the week, and I was right. Not that the place was empty, but I was able to get a reservation the day of. After Belgium beers at the bar, we took our places at the end of one of the communal tables that had been reserved for us (note: there are both communal and individual tables at The E.U., so if you are not fond of the communal arrangement, be sure to request accordingly) and went for a bottle of earthy French wine, suggested by our Betty Boop-look-alike waitress. Then she brought a plate of grilled octopus, “compliments of the kitchen,” she told us. It was a great surprise, with an excellent texture; the flavors of charcoal and the sweet citrus from the drizzled vinaigrette paired perfectly. In fact, it kicked ass and will be the first thing I order when I return. Then, we all opted for the curried squash soup. It was a knockout selection, especially on a cold February night. The texture was lusciously pureed, and, as if it wasn’t rich enough on its own, the soup was topped with a drippy , cheesy crouton.

We started our second bottle of wine while trying to decide on entrees. Ricky admitted he’s had roast chicken on the brain because of reading my blog!, so he chose that dish, and I was feeling like something light after the creamy soup, so I went with olive oil-poached hake over a chorizo broth. Adam wanted the cassoulet, but they were out of the dish for the evening, so he settled for beef short ribs. All the plates were excellent and we passed them around to one another as we chatted and reminisced about our NYU days and working together at the now defunct bar, Schramann’s. Company and food were both terrific. Finally, Victoria spotted me (maybe because my compatriots were getting loud) and she smiled broadly as she came over to greet us. We raved to her about the food, and she said the chef has been tweaking and refining the menu and that she’s excited about the new ideas they have for the place. I asked her to swear that the fried duck egg from the brunch menu wouldn’t go anywhere, and let her know that the service had been outstanding and the food, fantastic, top to bottom. She said she was pleased to hear all that; a few minutes later, she sent over after-dinner drinks. We dipped biscotti into our Moscatel and finished off a plate of sticky toffee bread pudding and one of Meyer lemon and almond crostata, both served with vanilla gelato.

I thought of Celest when I stood in front of the big, tiled wall, waiting for one of the chic, minimalist restrooms to become available—she always says she wishes that the restrooms actually in Europe were as nice as the ones in this restaurant. Instead she’s reminded me, there, they’re rarely heated or cooled, and in Naples anyway, they mostly have no toilet seats!

The E.U. was much more accommodating, and I left with the boys sated and excited to see how the place will continue to evolve under its new management. When the weather is warm again, they will open the huge glass panels at the front of the restaurant to invite in the fresh air, and the sidewalk espresso bar will once again serve shots out the window, Roman style. But I won’t wait ‘til spring to return; I’m going for brunch next weekend. 

I like guts on a page. When I’m reading a novel I always have to fight the naughty temptation to skip ahead through paragraphs of detailed description and just cut to the chase. The end, final page, finale, tidy conclusion—bring it on already! I only remember the dialogue, the human exchanges, the drama, the stuff of experience anyway. Poetry is exhasuting; I’m impatient! Sometimes I force myself to push through those paragraphs anyway, utlimately finding satisfaction in the discipline it takes to persevere. Often, I cheat.

For me, food is a gutsy, take-no-prisoners kind of experience too. And I don’t just mean gutsy as in ‘buying carp off a Chinatown street vendor,' or gutsy like the decision to embrace the leftover roast beef lyonnaise sandwich that's been in your fridge for awhile now (“it’s probably okay...”). I mean gutsy like fortifying. If, like me, you love to cook and bake, hopefully the product of your labor is so good it goes a long way to boosting your ego. Or mending your bruised heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were butterflies in my stomach along with two slices of banana walnut bread topped with honey butter, as I sat watching continuous reruns of Law & Order, pretending not to care about how late he was or the fact that I had just mindlessly eaten a considerable chunk of calories. He was bringing over tax papers that were mistakenly sent to his apartment, our former home. That was the excuse, anyway.

"What does he really want?" I wondered. "Why did I agree to this?"

Regular, posted mail could have sufficed, but clearly, both of us were curious. It had been months of distance following five years of dedication to a deep but difficult love that never quite worked. And we tried. And tried! But there’s only so much kneading and pleading that can go into a batter before the dough gets stiff and over-worked. Ultimately, bread has to be left to rise on its own. We never rose. (Forgive me this easy pun, but there’s something to be said for metaphors born in the kitchen—they’re always true!)

When faced with dilemmas of almost any proportion, I usually find myself in a kitchen with a bag of flour, and one of sugar, out on the counter. It’s the delicacy of it all. To be a good baker, you have to concentrate. Forget about the rent, the deadline, the boy. Let your mind stray for even a second and you’ve put in a pinch too much baking soda and, well, forget about that batch of cookies. Baking is gutsy. No skipping ahead; the formula must be followed precisely. And I like that. I’ve always been drawn to challenge (but then, I guess that explains the ex).

He was late. Very. With the loaf of now pleasantly cooled banana bread staring me in the face, I was on to chocolate. I grabbed a knife, found a tub of Nutella, spread it on thick, and ate my heart out, alone, in front of the TV. With the passing of yet another episode of Detective Briscoe’s wisecracks and Jack McCoy’s rogue good looks, it was finally time to break down and call Him.

His excuse: “I would rather disappoint you by not showing up tonight, than by showing up in the state I’m in.”

What? Why? What state? What was he talking about? He was the one who begged to come over! I was the one who was hesitant, who'd had to give in to the idea! What the hell was he thinking? I hung up on him mid-sentence. Childish, true, but then he could always do that to me. What had I been thinking anyway? I’d woo him with my banana bread and vanilla-scented kitchen? I’d play the role of domestic goddess to his tall, dark and hungry? Ridiculous. But then he could always do that to me too.

There was only one thing to do with the rest of my seemingly wasted night: go out.
I took off my apron, rinsed from my hair the strategically-placed flour that said, “I’m so comfortable seeing you again, I didn’t even bother washing,” and hit the town solo. Luckily, my local is the ever-appealing Employees Only, and my favorite bartenders there always make me feel like the femme fatal I want to be when I part those velvet drapes and sashay up to Duchon with a “give me your best poison” stare. That night, my distraction from having been stood up by Him took the form of a well-clad, well-mannered Italiano. His conversation and affections reminded me that persevering is gutsy.

And I served him tasty, homemade banana bread, grilled and spread with Nutella, for breakfast.

Banana Walnut Bread (makes one loaf)

· 2 cups All-Purpose Flour

· 1 ¼ cups Walnuts (chopped)

· ½ cup White Sugar

· ¼ cup Brown Sugar

· ¾ T Baking Soda

· 1 T ground Cinnamon

· ½ T grated Nutmeg

· 2 TB Orange Zest

· ½ T Kosher Salt

· 6 TB Unsalted Butter (melted and cooled)

· 3 ripe, browned Bananas

· ¼ cup Plain Yogurt

· 2 large Eggs

· 1 T Vanilla Extract

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Place rack on lower-middle position. Whisk together flour, walnuts, sugars, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, orange zest, and salt, and set aside.

Melt butter over the stovetop or in the microwave and allow to cool. Mash bananas with your bare hands or in a mixer, depending upon your mood, and stir in all remaining ingredients. Add the dry mixture to the bowl one cup at a time until fully incorporated. Grease a 9x5x3 inch loaf pan with butter or a nonstick cooking spray and coat with a light layer of flour. Pour batter into the pan and bake until golden, about 55 minutes. Cool on a wire rack and serve warm with honey butter, Nutella, or a strong shot of either espresso or whiskey, depending upon whether you’d rather dunk or get drunk.

I had a bad date last night.

I know, it’s a shocker. But this one took place at one of my absolute favorite neighborhood spots—a recommendation of the suitor—so it was extra disappointing. This was a first date, one I agreed to after a quick flirtation and number exchange when I was out with Celest at a favorite winter's night watering hole, Park Bar, the other night. He was tall and handsome, had discreetly transferred our drinks to his tab, and lives in the West Village, like me. When we talked on the phone a couple of days later, he suggested a drink and snacks at Blue Ribbon Bar. Score! Good taste in the meet-up suggestion. This was promising…

Then it wasn’t. First, it was clear he’d already had a couple of cocktails when he showed up for our 9pm date. He wasn’t sloppy drunk yet, but I don’t like to feel like my date has been killing time with his work friends over successive rounds of beer before meeting up with me. I’d been at home, writing my blog, cooking chicken stock for soups this week and playing with different makeup looks for my selected date outfit. I don’t show up tipsy; neither should he!

Once at BRB, for some reason, he thought it extremely clever and chuckle-worthy to continually ask me,

“So, do you live at 10 Downing? Huh? Do you live at 10 Downing Street?!” Then he’d laugh, “No, I know you don’t, because I do! I do live at 10 Downing. Makes me pretty powerful, huh? Got it?"

"But, really, exactly where do you live?”

(Note: Blue Ribbon Bar is on Downing St, at Bedford, so I guess that’s what started him off with this bizarre “joke.”) Now, I get the “10 Downing/ pretty powerful” reference (I did live in London, after all, and I read newspapers); it’s just not funny. And his arrogance was building. (Also, I would never tell someone exactly where I live, on the first date. I’ve had way too many unfortunate attempted drop-bys by unsuccessful suitors to go for that.) This was all annoying, but it was nothing compared to where his arrogance was leading him—to the wine list. One of my favorite lists in the city, understand.

I really am not a snob about my wine knowledge. I’d say it’s middling, compared with a lot of folks, but I am interested, well-traveled, devoted to learning and exploring, and I know what I like and what I don’t. Anglianico—like. Pushy date with an agenda to prove his superiority and thereby woo me into his bed—don’t like. He started with,

“Let me make a recommendation. You have to have a glass of the merlot.”

His tone was condescending; I’d only just picked up the list. When I told this story to Amanda the next day, she quickly pointed out that the smart move for a man who is trying to impress a woman is to ask her for a suggestion, especially if they are at one of her favorite places. I agree; that would have been the savvy move. The fact of the matter is, I wasn’t even planning on looking for a glass of wine this evening, since sherry is usually what I start with at BRB. I was planning to peruse the finos and olorosos and muse on whether I wanted sharp and citrusy, or deep oak and caramel flavors before dinner. I especially wanted sherry since I had already ordered the cumin-spiced almonds (oh, how I love them!) to munch on, when I first sat down…But no, he insisted I didn’t know what I was doing skipping the Merlot, so he railroaded me and ordered a bottle of his fave. At this point, I wasn’t ready to commit to an entire bottle’s worth of conversation with him, so I feared he’d be going home really wasted after having had to drink the better part of the bottle by himself while I ordered, and paid for, my own Amontillado.

That is, in fact, pretty much how it went down. He began insistently pestering me with mundane/offensive questions such as:

“Where are you from? Is your hair dyed? How old are you? (!) What do you do to pay your rent? And how much is it, anyway?”

—all of which was simply pretext for him telling me his story on each of those points:

“San Francisco, originally. Where my family owns the blah blah blah building…my dad is over sixty and still has a full head of dark hair, so I’m certain to have the good genes…I’m 32, but most of my friends are, like, 10 years younger than me…I’m one of those ‘Trust Fund Kids,’ (age 32, remember?!) with a sick apartment. You’d love it…”

Thankfully, Thomas, the manager at Mas across the street, walked in the door and waved hello to me. This was my signal to dump Downing St. and get to enjoying my evening. So, I smiled broadly, told him I appreciated his invitation, but felt like we weren’t really connecting, and that I didn’t, in fact, care for the Merlot, though he was gracious to have suggested it. Then I said I thought I’d go over and sit with my friend at the other side of the bar and I hoped he would have a great night.

Thomas drank beer and I sipped my sherry as we laughed and talked about how much I miss the late-night hours at Mas. We chatted with the bartender, who let us taste a couple of special wines they were offering by the glass. We munched on a sampling of imported olives: cerignolas, black belbis, and a kalamata-like variety. And we mused about the texture of the raw Mexican honey that they serve with the cheeses, all of which are from Murray’s. The night was turning out well: good company, delicious spirits and fantastic small plates. Downing St. seemed to have found someone to lecture on the superiority of his wine selection, but I saw her walk away and assumed he must have told his clever “do you live…” signature joke. A couple minutes later, I felt something hit my arm. I looked down, then up and across the bar, and realized Downing St. had actually thrown a piece of bread at me and was now scowling in my direction! Like in kindergarten. I was shocked, but I looked down and at the bread in my lap and realized it was focaccia—my favorite Blue Ribbon selection! So I picked it up and spread it with some triple crème…

I was out very late at a sensible business dinner in midtown that turned into a bit of a Scotch-driven drunkfest in SoHo. My clients/hosts for the evening (designers who are working up the jackets for a couple new cookbook proposals) are the types to know from experience their way around a wine list. They chose lush California Zinfandels, spicy, electric Riojas from Spain, and delicately rose-perfumed Italian Barberas. The good shit. More, then more, then more. We sniffed, swirled, sipped away the freezing cold night, work and pleasure blending, well, pleasurably.

We climbed in a cab to head downtown, questioning why we had endured mediocre, over-priced food in the Theatre District, when we all knew better than to settle for that domestic burrata. But, we’d plowed through six bottles of wine, which kept the complaints about the food to a minimum. There were four of us. Me the only woman.

It must be one of my tragic flaws that I always think I can compete on any playing field.

So, when wine no longer seemed to hold any interest, and the call for 18-year-old Glenrothes Scotch was made, I was brave/stupid enough to declare myself game and forge ahead into the danger zone of a promised Mix-and-Match Hangover. I achieved as much the next morning, but not before boring the designers with stories of scotch drinking with Sara and Amanda in Dublin during college, dancing awkwardly in my seat to Kanye’s latest (“His shit is SO HOT!”), and getting hit on by the 24-year-old intern (who, knowing I’m from Texas, thought it would be charming to recite every line from every country music song he knew in an accent that sounded more Atlanta than Amarillo).

I hung on ‘til the bitter end, mostly keeping my decorum in tact in the presence of the colleagues, until I got home, got naked, and tried to make toast in a pan (it burned). I gave up and got into bed. I turned on HBO and Bill Maher, my real favorite Friday night date. My head was spinning, but I was sharp enough to curse aloud at the young, conservative woman’s point of view (“Don’t you know anything about the politics of your own self-interests?!”) and laugh at the sardonic Richard Belzer’s Bush-bashing.

Then it dawned on me. A brilliant idea:

“I should get out my credit card, get on my computer, and make a huge donation to Barack Obama’s presidential campaign!”

“I can make a difference,” I thought. “Help change history! Help elect a visionary! Maybe all he needs is a few more dollars to put him over the top, get the nomination, get elected President, bring admiration from the rest of the world to the United States and achieve peace in the Middle East. He’s just waiting for my contribution!”

I vaguely remembered this mental monologue this morning when I stumbled into my office, on the way back from throwing up in the bathroom, and saw my credit card sitting on the computer keyboard, Barack smiling out of the screen at my naked self, thanking me for donating to his historic campaign.

I drunk donated.

If he wins, thank Glenrothes.

I’m from Buffalo, a town where wings and football are things of reverence and proud reputation (though the football bit often leaves something to be desired). Buff, as I affectionately refer to her, is home to nearly half my relatives, all my oldest friends, the best bar food the world over, and a huge obesity problem (pun intended). The fact is, it’s hard to eat healthy in a city famous for the most irresistible of foods, “junk.” The junk food in Buff is superb: fish fry Fridays, chili-chugging game days, pizza drowned in bleu cheese, loganberry slushies, Cajun curlycues, gouda and beer bisque, banana peppers stuffed with bacon, Ranch with a side of salad, roast beef on weck, venison sausage and peppers, chicken finger subs, sauerkraut pirogies, Chiavetta’s BBQ, Frank’s RedHot, Weber’s Mustard, Sahlen's foot-long dogs, Jim's SteakOut, Mighty Taco, Anderson's Soft Serve, pop, Lake Effect brew, Cole's penultimate reuben, anything fried and everything covered with mozzarella. And then, of course, there are the wings. You call them “Buffalo wings;” we needn't qualify. Everyone knows that saucy combination of butter, hot pepper puree, chicken, and a vat of boiling oil has Buffalo as its namesake.

For my money, the best wings in Buff come not from Anchor Bar, famed originator of the spicy treat, but from Duff’s, the perfector of the wing. Over the holidays, my brother and I visted Duff’s on a dare to see how many “death” wings each of us could stomach before heading home to watch the Giants kick the shit out of our Bills. I’m sure you’ve heard of “suicide” wings ‘round your parts, hell, they even advertise them on West 4th Street, but Duff’s takes it to a whole new level of hot with their secret Death sauce, which I can tell you tastes like little more than Frank’s RedHot with about a pound of straight up cayenne pepper thrown in. It’s brutal, not delicious, but worth experiencing if you’ve got a penchant for living dangerously, or a death wish (sorry, another pun). We ordered our classic wings and fries combo, which comes with a pitcher of pop and a pile of celery, carrots, and blue cheese, (the standard Buff accoutremont), and a side of Death. Truth be told, I only made it through two wings covered in Death (one and a half, to be fair), while Brother took the trophey, managing to scarf down three whole ones before knocking the remaining tub of Death onto the floor and into my purse. Taking that as a sign that further indulgence in the pursuit of “death” was not to be toyed with, we finished our meal, skipping the remaining wings of Death, and raced home to watch the game. We lost, and the faint smell of cayenne still lingers on my favorite black bag...

Superbowl Sunday is now upon us, and I’ll be damned before I root for the NY Giants. I’m a New Yorker through and through, but I am also a real Fan, and my allegiance is sworn to my hometown teams, come triumph or tragedy, rain or shine (and you know it’s not likely to be fair weather on or off the playing field in Buff.) Then again, I have always and will always depise The New England Patriots. So what’s a girl to do? I was hoping Celest’s Cowboys might make it to The Big Game and give us something to celebrate on Sunday. But instead, we’re stuck with a lose-lose ballgame, living only for the moment when Justin Timberlake flies across the screen in his latest Pepsi commerical! Sara is especially psyched.

So, to ease our dashed Superbowl dreams and tempt our mouths with the stuff of Buff, I’m baking wings for the very first time. Yes, I’m baking them (for fear of a Tribal uprising), and using the Duff’s sauce I brought from home; but I’m also deep-frying a batch of Spicy Japanese Style Chicken Wings that I hope will prove comparable to the only other wings on the planet that make my mouth water: Kasadela’s Tebasaki Chicken Wings. They are better than Momofuku’s, better than Fatty Crab’s, and at the risk of self-incrimination, they may even be better than Duff’s. The spice for these comes not from the cayenne but from the Thai Sriracha sauce (which I keep in my fridge door for any time a dish turns out to be bland). Having never attempted this before, I will refer to the experts at Food & Wine, who have just published a Superbowl-Worthy Wings Menu. Both their recipes for Spicy Sriracha Chicken Wings and Baked Buffalo Chicken Wings can be found on their website. I’m hoping this will be the year my Tribe and I can watch the big game with homemade treats from my hometown, but without the heartburn.

Go Sabres!

Last night I visited relatives in New Jersey. It’s true; I have them.

Now, I’ve actually had a few good meals in the ‘Jerz, but this time around, there was none. We went to The Frog and the Peach in downtown New Brunswick (home to Rutgers University), which is supposed to be one of the finest restaurants in the Garden State. however…

The first tip off to impending disappointment was the very odd lighting scheme: there were wide, cylindrical cloth shades over the lights at the bar, but plain, harsh spotlights over each table. It was like eating in an interrogation room, ala Law and Order. Bizarre. Didn’t understand. I know what you’re thinking,

“Poor décor at New Brunswick’s finest, no way!”

I won’t waste time discussing the small portions of unimpressive food (thank God I’d had a big bowl of leftover chicken pot pie for lunch), but the cheese plate included a favorite of mine, one worth a musing: Cabrales. I’m a fan of stinky, and I’m a fan of bleu, so of course I adore this Spanish curd! Now, a lot of cheeses are purportedly Cabrales, but if it ain’t from the northern coast of Spain, it just ain’t it. Cabrales looks like Roquefort, in terms of its veins and marbled, bruise-like colors, but it’s typically much more pungent, spicier and peppery by comparison. The one I ate at The Frog and the Peach was a bit unique: it was made of a blend of cow, sheep, and goat’s milk (often Cabrales is made only of cow’s milk) which gave it complexity and intensity that lingered on my palette as I waited for my (sadly sub-par) steak frites…

That meal was not a success, but it did put me in mind of a quick trip to my favorite Spanish spot, Bar Carrera, for one of my most-beloved desserts in the East Village. (By the way, sources tell me this spot is about to expand to almost twice its current size. This is great news since it’s always a tight squeeze in there as is, and it suggests that business is booming for Frederick Twomey and his partners, who have followed the opening of Solex with the re-opening of the original Bar Veloce on Cleveland Place in SoHo; the space was Room4Dessert in the interim. Now comes the expansion of the Spanish spot…their formula for success seems solid.) There, they serve a Cabrales cheesecake that gives me heart palpitations. It is simplicity defined: a small round portion (the size of a Kennedy half dollar) of robust Spanish blue cheese, topped with a silky veil of white chocolate. The sweet, salty and sour flavors play off one another perfectly, and the texture of the tiny dessert is meltingly creamy. So when Sara and I planned to meet for drinks and toast her new deal with Showtime Television (!), I suggested a little cava sipping on 2nd Avenue just so I could get my hands on that little Cabrales concoction! It was as good as ever; it never lets me down.

Baby, it’s cold outside, but it’s so cozy its sweltering inside my 5^th floor walkup. I just made Chicken Pot Pie and Cinnamon Sugar Cookies. So, my home smells like comfort but feels like Miami in July! You see, I have no control over the heat in my apartment, and in what must be my landlord’s only gesture that can be characterized as generosity, cozy has reached new heights (upper 90s, I’d say) on Christopher Street during this week of bitter cold. With my oven baking for nearly two hours and my steam pipes at a near constant whine and screech, I’m sitting down to dinner, in January in New York City, with my only two windows (neither of which are in the kitchen, of course) thrown open wide, wearing shorts and a white tank…ah, the joys of tenement chic!

Neveryoumind. You probably reside in far greater luxury, in apartments with cross breezes and thermostats, with technological miracles like the ceiling fan to keep you comfortable. Hell, maybe you even own a house in which the sheer expanse of space is too costly to heat at humane levels, so you wake up in the mornings dauntingly at peace with the fact that you can see your breath whilst lying in your own bed (Buffalonians, Mom, I’m talking about you!) Whatever your digs and wherever you find yourself this month, winter weather invites you to cozy up next to someone and share the warmth of freshly baked cookies and savory meat pies…in fact, these seem to be a bit of trend these days, what with Helena Bonham Carter as the Chef de Flesh on Fleet Street and Amanda and Celest off eating veal pot pies at Solex. I’ll be damned if I let a little thing like ungodly, nauseating home heating stop me from enjoying a winter comfort food trend! I’ve got leftover roast chicken and veg in my fridge, a head of winter perfect cauliflower in my in my pantry, a dripping wheel of stinky cheese calling my name, and an “I don’t care” attitude about my sweltering abode. Come what may (like sweat trickling into my cocoa), there will be pot pie aplenty ‘round my pad this week.

Chicken Pot Pie (serves 8 slices)

Pâte Brisée (a.k.a. Pastry Dough or Pie Crust) Ingredients:

· 2 cups all-purpose Flour, plus extra for rolling

· 2 sticks Unsalted Butter, very cold and cut into ½ inch cubes

· 1 T Kosher Salt

· 6-8 TB Ice Water

Filling Ingredients:

Have fun filling your pie. I ransacked my fridge and diced up some fresh veg I picked out at the farmers market (cauliflower, broccoli, parsnips, and greens are in their prime this month). Throw your favorite herbs, cheeses, and whatever you got lying around into the mix. You’ll need some heavy cream to make a sauce and some butter to leave a layer of sweet cream atop your pie, but the goodness is in the combo, so blend all your fave winter flaves together. This time around, I used: cauliflower, broccoli, parsnips, baby bok choy, carrots, cipollini onions, frozen corn and peas, a wheel of stinky French cheese, cumin, thyme, tarragon, pistachios, black pepper, and of course, salt. If I had stopped there, I’d have a gorgeous veggie pie, but instead, I added about a pound of chicken leftover from the roast I made last week. This already seasoned and ready-to-bake meat is a huge flavor boost; just peel away all the gnarly bits and beware of bones.

Pâte Brisée:

Since I’m without a thermostat or a cool breeze, I let the food processor do most of the heavy work when making pie dough, and no one’s the wiser.

Combine flour and salt in a food processor and pulse to sift. Add butter and pulse 6 to 8 times, until mixture resembles coarse meal, with pea size pieces of butter. Add ice water 1 TB at a time, pulsing until mixture just begins to clump together. If you pinch some of the crumbly dough and it holds together, it's ready. If the dough doesn't hold together, add a little more water and pulse again.

Remove dough from machine and place in a mound on a clean surface. Gently shape into 2 discs. Knead the dough just enough to form the discs. Do not over-knead. You should be able to see little bits of butter in the dough. These small chunks of butter are what will allow the resulting crust to be flaky. Sprinkle a little flour around the discs. Wrap each disc in plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 1 hour, up to 2 days.

After you’ve made your filling and it’s time to assemble the pie, remove one crust disc from the refrigerator. Let sit at room temperature for 5-10 minutes in order to soften just enough to make rolling out a bit easier. Roll out with a rolling pin on a lightly floured surface to a 12-inch circle, about 1/8 of an inch thick. As you roll out the dough, check if the dough is sticking to the surface below. If necessary, add a few sprinkles of flour under the dough to keep it from sticking. Carefully place onto a lightly greased 9-inch pie plate. Gently press the pie dough down so that it lines the bottom and sides of the pie plate and poke a few holes in the bottom to give it room to breathe. After you’ve filled the pie, repeat this process with the second disc and cover the pie. I used a heart shaped cookie cutter to cut out decorative silhouettes in my crust that allow the steam to escape as the pie bakes, and stuck the cut-out hearts on with little smears of butter. Finally, trim the excess dough with a knife and roll the edge of the crust in to create a rustic trim. Crimping or molding is also an option, especially if you’re trying to show off! (Erin loves to do this!)

With the remaining scraps of dough, make cookies by once again rolling out your pastry, sprinkling it generously with cinnamon and sugar, cutting out your favorite shapes, and baking in a conventional or toaster oven until they lightly brown, about 7 minutes at 350 degrees.

Filling:

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Chop all your ingredients into bite-sized morsels. I didn’t bother parboiling or sautéing any of my ingredients with exception of the cauliflower and parsnip, which I dry roasted in just a wee bit of olive oil and a dash of cumin at 425 degrees, while I was preparing my sauce.

In a saucepan over medium heat, cook onions in butter until soft and translucent. Slowly stir in about a cup of heavy cream and season with salt and pepper. Once the cream begins to simmer (don’t let it boil) stir in all your cheese. Simmer over low heat until thick. Remove from heat and set aside.

Take out your blender and combine the cheesy sauce with cauliflower and parsnip. Blend until smooth then pour onto the chicken mixture and stir.

Place the chicken mixture in the bottom of the piecrust and add dabs of butter over everything. Follow the directions above to top your pie.

Bake in the preheated oven for about at hour, or until pastry is golden brown and filling is bubbly. Cool for 10 minutes before serving.

If you’re at my house, don a bikini and dig in!

Yeah! Winter Restaurant Week is finally upon us! One of my favorite weeks in the New York City calendar has arrived—it’s time to dine like a mogul on a mouse-sized budget. In the past, I’ve tried tons of new restaurants and classic Manhattan institutions during this magical, frugal time of year. It is the time to sample places on your radar, but out of reach (especially if there’s still no acting work because of a certain, interminable writers’ strike…) I plan to rack up a few more experiences this time around. And you should too. Though of course, if you’re just now contemplating it, you’re gonna have a hell of a time getting in anywhere. So, hop to it!

During our recent Dinner Belle retreat to my family’s home in Connecticut, Kimberly and I sat one morning in flannel pajamas, with our cocoa and mini marshmallows, pens itching, Restaurant Week booklets in hand, poised and eager to star and highlight all our top picks. After a disappointing fieldtrip last year to Brooklyn’s over-hyped and totally underwhelming River Café, we decided to make it really count this go ‘round. This meant making our reservations EARLY. A couple of weeks ago, we decided to book a lunch at Nobu together and to each try a new, romantic place with a hot date.

For me, that meant a certain charming West Village carriage house. You know, the one that could easily win the dual titles of “NYC’s Most Romantic Restaurant” and “Longest Name for a Hostess to Have to Proclaim When Answering the Phone.” History buffs, like me (hello, President of History Club, XHS 1997!) know the name of the place is from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s famous poem about Paul Revere’s ride. Restaurant and romance fanatics in New York City know it simply as “One if by Land, Two if by Sea.”

Once I’d decided on this spot last week, I called immediately. Didn’t matter, I was still told I was too late to get in. They informed me they were fully booked for the entire run of Restaurant Week. (Guess the great press on their new chef Craig Hopson, from Picholine, made this place even more popular than normal this year.)

“How can this be,” I whined on the phone when I was turned down. “It’s two weeks out, are you sure there’s absolutely nothing?”

I heard a snooty sigh on the other end of the line. “We always book up right away for Restaurant Week. It’s a little late.”

I paused. I considered hanging up on the rude reservationist, but ultimately I couldn’t help but feel sorry for this creature who must get so sick and tired of answering the phone, “Good evening, One if by Land, Two if by Sea,” for hours on end every day; I decided to ‘smile’ at her over the phone and see where that got me.

“Well, is there any suggestion you might have for me, for next time? How should I make sure I get a table? I was really looking forward to eating at your establishment…”

She softened and pretended to “remember” another option. “Well, we have added an extra week. We are offering the $35 prix fix Restaurant Week option this week in addition to next week, and we have a few slots open.”

(“Why the hell didn’t she just say so in the first place?” I thought!)

“That’s fantastic! I’ll take whatever you’ve got!!”

So Me and my Man attended a show at my favorite East Village music venue, Rockwood Music Hall, at 8pm, then enjoyed a brisk and chilly walk to the West Village for our hard-fought 9:30pm reservation.

As we rounded the corner onto tiny, quaint Barrow Street, I saw two dimly lit lanterns straight out of 1775, marking the entrance to what I knew must be our place. Inside, a tuxedoed man was playing Gershwin on a beautiful piano and the many lit fireplaces and flickering chandeliers made the space sparkle and glow. It was everything I could want out of a winter’s night refuge. The hostess (wonder if was Snotty herself, or a compatriot?) greeted us and showed us to a table upstairs.

At first, I thought the second-story dining would be extra-fancy! But, in fact, that wasn’t so much the case…while the tables were beautifully set and the candles blazed, there was no fireplace like downstairs and the ceiling was so low, I felt like I was hiding in Anne Frank’s attic! Slightly disappointed, I took my seat against the wall, from which I could at least look out over the rest of the attic diners. My Man, on the other hand, was left only cheesy New England landscape paintings at which to gaze.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I only want to look at you anyway.” Ah! So sweet!

As we perused the offerings, I realized what a good deal we were getting. The standard dinner menu offers three courses for $75 or a Chef’s Tasting Menu at $95 a pop ($150 if you include the wine pairings). Pretty sweet then, to have a three-course option for $35, if you ask me!

And the food was exquisite! Portions were on the small side, but the flavors weren’t. They offered an amuse bouche of apple and cheddar puree garnished with an aged cheddar crisp; it was like drinking salty, fruity cream straight from a Vermont farm. My starter course was a simple, tart salad of winter greens, sprinkled with walnuts and pomegranate seeds. The salad was followed by a perfectly-cooked, hanger steak, served with braised sweet and sour turnips; the dish had strong Asian influences—loads of fresh, spicy ginger! Last, but not least, came dessert, in the form a semi-liquid flourless chocolate cake that oozed oodles of chocolaty goodness and was topped with salted caramel ice cream. (Salt in the dolce—Kimberly’s fave!) All was tres, tres, tres bien!

As we licked the last bites of melted chocolate from our spoons, I scanned the room and couldn’t help but notice how many of the diners were couples; many were holding hands and gazing at one another through the delicate candlelight, like we were. With the faint but unmistakable sound of piano keys swimming in the background, there was no doubt this place was romantic in a very classic, wintery and very New England-y sort of way. Snobbery be damned!

My favorite part of my pre-Restaurant Week, Restaurant Week meal was the company and conversation. We played our typical “What’s Our Overly Polite Waiter Really Like Outside of Here” game. We decided on Reggae music enthusiast who parties a little too hard but volunteers with children in his spare time. And then we got to giggling when we thought about how Yiddish-sounding the restaurant’s name would be if they went by the acronym created by its initials: OIBLTIBS = Oye’-bl Tibbz.

I mean how snotty can you be if you’re answering the phone, “Good evening, Oye’-bl Tibbz.”

Sounds like something out of a can that you’d feed an orange cat. Or an ointment you’d put on an infection. Wonder if Longfellow ever thought about acronyms when he wrote his poem? Wonder what he’d think about salted caramel ice cream?

A few days ago I woke up feeling disgusting. I was hung-over and I’d smoked too much the night before. For weeks now, it seems like I’ve been eating everything in sight. I feel bloated. During the holidays—in France, then California, finally New York—I was faced at every corner with plates of homemade Christmas cookies, flutes of champagne and rich dishes of juicy meats, fried and baked starches, gravies of salty creaminess and sugar-coated goodies I couldn’t resist, whether at home in my comfies or in spectacular restaurants, celebrating in my sparklies.

Food itself is not really the problem. I love food! But the amount of food consumed at holiday parties, where I was also drinking, drinking, drinking…well, it’s just been a bit much!

In New York, it gets cold in the winter (like a civilized city is supposed to!) and it seems normal to indulge your cravings a bit. It’s as if you have to fortify yourself for the freezing weather that lies ahead, for months on end. But in L.A., with its perpetual spring-like climate, where I can sport open-toed platforms and a halter-top in January, the holiday splurges seem excessive...at least that’s how I felt when I woke up this morning.

If I’m totally honest, it’s more than the jitters from the caffeine, the stomach aches from too much comforting dairy, the pounding hangovers reminding me of the cocktails downed, or my parched mouth and sore throat from…eek, (NAUGHTY Amanda!)…the tobacco, I’ve smoked. The feeling from which I was suffering this morning had more than a little to do with the gentleman lying next to me in my bed (NAUGHTY, again!), merely an acquaintance from the night before. Newly-single, I seemed to have an endless supply of holiday dates this year. Many dates. And what was I to do? There were almost as many men as Christmas cookies to consume! And they were similarly yummy (all buttery and sugar-coated) but ultimately, little more than empty calories. No nourishment.

This morning, I realized…the overeating and the hard partying has caught up with me and I need a cleanse. I will moderate and purge the gluten, the gluttony, and the promiscuous toxicity out of my system! I’ve devised a plan to purify my body and mind and fortify my heart, in anticipation of a promising 2008.

“The Men Cleanse”

Consumption to Curb:

1. Cut out all “sugar.” This includes alcohol and sex.

2. No breads, crackers (made with flour), potatoes or pasta for awhile.

3. Put caffeine to bed.

4. Cigarettes are absolutely verboten.

5. No aged cheeses. Fresh cheeses only, like chevre and ricotta.

Consumption to Incorporate:

1. Eat dried fruits. Maybe mixed into goat’s milk yogurt.

2. Drink 3 cups of Gynostemma Tea each day. (Gynostemma is considered the "magic grass" of China. It’s the only naturally non-caffeinated green tea. It has an effect similar to ginseng, giving you energy while detoxifying your corrupted insides.)

3. Drink at least 8 large glasses of water daily. Duh.

4. Drink other teas as well, like ginger and mint.

5. Take lots of Vitamin C and get plenty of Calcium.

Menu Recommendations:

1. Eat any and all fruits and vegetables.

2. Obviously, eat organic if possible.

3. Enjoy lean poultry (no skins), and lots of fresh fish.

4. Limit red meat to one serving every few days.

5. Yogurts are good, but eat the plain variety with no added sugar.

6. For your grains, choose brown rice and quinoa.

7. Rice cakes and rice crackers are also okay and are good for crunch cravings.

8. All nuts are good, in all forms that are natural and don’t include extra salt ot sugar.

9. Small bites of high-quality dark chocolate (66% cocoa or more) are the best answer to the persistent sweet tooth.

10. Stevia. To make things sweet.

Other Recommendations:

1. Take lots of hot baths.

2. Buy yourself a wonderful, new perfume.

3. Exercise a lot!!!! Aerobic exercise is important! Running, dancing. Also Yoga! (Since you are not having sex and not eating sugar, you need the excecise for the endorphins.)

4. You will most likely feel very sexy after you’ve spent awhile on The Men Cleanse…you will start to drop a few pounds and your spirit will feel lighter. So be social with men—hang out, flirt, even hold hands. But no more!

5. You will feel your natural sexual energy build up like a super power. Wield that power and let it drive your creativity!

Conclusion:

Ironically, this kind of cleanse will most likely result in you attracting lots of attention from men. When you feel ready, pick someone worthy of you new self and began to incorporate some "sugar” back into your diet.

Welcome to the new year!

My bright, young cousin Natalie, a constant running buddy since she came to study at NYU in 2006, is moving to Paris for the next six months! I’ll miss our Grey Dog lunches and Sunday night movie dates while she’s immersed at The Sorbonne, seeking out the company of romantic young Frenchmen (who, I’ve already warned her, will most likely stink). But, as I’ve also told her, she’ll become a citizen of the world in a way she’s never experienced before: speaking another language, soaking up celebrated art and architecture, discovering the dark, agnostic philosophies of the French. Mostly, I’m excited for her to develop her culinary palette and discover food and wine that stirs her soul the way mine was first stirred in Europe.

But first, a fitting goodbye to New York City had to be arranged. A night out on the town! Just the two of us…

We met for cocktails at Balthazar. Thought we’d get those Gallic impulses going with a couple of glasses of Lillet on the rocks. Now, I taught Natalie how to drink gin (though she always prefers a mixer of some sort: lime juice, tonic, etc., even when I request mine straight-up, as a martini), but Amanda is the one who introduced me to Lillet. In college, she would often sip it as a pre-dinner drink and I always thought it very chic. In truth, it’s a little too sweet for my typical taste in aperitif, but Natalie loved it, and now I’ll picture her with said stinky Frenchman at a glowing bistro in the Marais, sipping away on the liquor. Maybe she’ll even remember New York and me!

After drinks in SoHo, we moved on to my neighborhood, with the intention of trying out the new low-key Gastroteca (thus dubbed by New York Magazine), Gottino. I have been very excited to eat at the well-reviewed Gottino, where the head chef is a woman, Jodi Williams; I always welcome a new, easy-going establishment with purportedly fantastic food and wine into the West Village. Natalie was psyched to go because it was my treat. I mean, what’s an older, wiser, more sophisticated, and devastatingly stylish cousin supposed to do for her protégé who’s leaving the country for her first semester abroad…?

But, I was spending a lot of time complaining about how my devastatingly stylish pumps were killing me after having told the cab the wrong place to drop us off and having to walk blocks without finding the restaurant. Finally, we were on Greenwich Ave, which was where we needed to be, but I was still unsure about where to find Gottino. Then, we passed Gusto, a place that’s not new or particularly hip right now, but that I have often thought I’d love to try, not insignificantly because it too is run by a female chef, Amanda Freitag. Knowing we were close to our destination, but still turned around as to which way to head, I walked into Gusto and asked the modish host for directions.

He steered us a few doors down the street, and we found what we were looking for. Sort of. Gottino was unimpressive. Uninviting. Un-spectacular. And too hot to breathe in; not because of throngs of enthusiastic diners, mind you, there was just too much central heat!

So, we returned to Gusto and its gracious, au courant host, Sofian. He was French; it was a good sign. And then, we proceeded to have one of the most inspiring evenings I’ve had in a restaurant in a long time. The service was outstanding, with Sofian taking care of us as if we were regulars with huge expense accounts. Though we had no reservations and walked into the buzzing restaurant at 8:30pm, he ensconced us in prime seats at the bar and then sent out three appetizers, brushing aside our grateful astonishment with a simple, “for your wait.” The parmigiano and prosciutto fritters were delicious: fluffy, salty, crunchy all at once. The portion of cheese in the caprese salad was very generous, and if the mozzarella di buffala wasn’t the creamiest I’ve ever had, it was properly milky and the marinated red and orange peppers underneath, perfectly sweet. I’ll admit, the crisp radishes with anchovy paste wasn’t adored my Natalie or me, but we had plenty to keep us busy those first dishes and a quartino of Nero d’Avola.

Sofian held a prime table up front for us as we finished our appetizers. When we sat, we both gushed over how beautiful the restaurant is, with huge picture windows up front and sleek, glossy accents presided over by a massive, sparkling chandelier. The back and downstairs rooms add elements of cozy to the more modern main dining room. It is glamorous, but not at all stuffy. Loved it. And rest of the dishes we tried followed suit. There was a gloriously simple salad of delicate, buttery lettuces, which we paired with no less than three starchy dishes (hey, the appetizers had been comped and we were out to do it up right!). We ate the simple but fabulous cacio e pepe (essentially a dish of spaghetti with pecorino romano and lots of fresh cracked black pepper); a second dish consisted of silky pappardelle noodles with a rich, acidic ragu of oxtail and tomato, and finally, we tried the risotto del giorno, which proved a creamy pile of Arborio rice with soft artichoke hearts and lumps of fresh ricotta. Loved it.

As an accompaniment to our final plate, a dessert of rich chocolate torta, we had the pleasure of Sofian’s flirty, but sexually ambiguous company. Natalie and I sipped our wine and licked chocolate off the backs of our forks while the gentleman whose lighthearted hospitality enchanted us with Gusto, patiently gave notes on navigating the city of Paris as a young American student. He drew maps, suggested publications and bars and clubs and museums and how to avoid pickpockets. He made her eyes sparkle with stories of the city, which made me know we had ended up in just the right spot for her last night on this side of the Atlantic.

We headed to Blue Ribbon Bar for an after dinner drink, as is our tradition on long nights out together. I drank my favorite, dry sherry and she sampled a sparkling pear cider recommended by the laid-back, bearded bartender. We contemplated falling in love with men who speak French (but smell like they’ve embraced American hygiene) and imagined ourselves together in Paris, in the spring, when I plan to visit.

Bon voyage Natalie! Bon chance!

I stopped by Bacaro last week with an old friend visiting from out of town. I’ve been impatient to try the new “Venetian Cicchetti” place since the team behind it is the same one that owns Peasant, a perennial Nolita FAVE of mine (with the greatest octopus dish I’ve ever tried, plus beautiful, fresh ricotta served gratis to every table with chewy, rustic bread, all in front of a glowing open kitchen…dreamy). Bacaro has a little ways to go to become a worthy sibling to Peasant, but it has some good stuff going for it. We were told the downstairs area wassn’t open because of an earlier private party, so we sat at the lovely upstairs bar, where we had some reasonably priced wine by the carafe and shared a few dishes. It turns out Bacaro is a pretty good deal, monetarily, since the dishes are priced as small plates, but the portions are very generous. The only disappointment was—gasp!—the octopus dish, which my companion said was slimy, and I thought was completely under-seasoned. Turns out big sis’ Peasant has em’ beat completely with the polpi. But the creamy radicchio lasagna was a standout, as was the unusual, creamed salt cod with polenta, which was like a Venetian version of the Southern (U.S.) classic, shrimp 'n grits.

It’s ironic that the entire front of the place is beautiful picture windows, since the block on which it looks out is a somewhat sketchy one with no ambiance whatsoever. If you really want special at Bacaro, it looks like you’ll want to head downstairs with a group of friends. With a little flirty smile from yours truly, a gracious waiter let us take a peek at the wine cellar dining area, which includes a second bar and will be a wonderful setting for intimate, private parties held ‘round rustic tables, which are hidden in a maze of winding brick alcoves. Really sexy.

I want to host a traditional, Venetian, masked ball down there and all my guests can pretend they’re in Franco Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet. It’s just the kind of candlelit space that, especially with a little Nebbiolo in your system, would inspire you to brazenly make out with a masked stranger. Just be sure to keep your wine goggles on along with that mask when you go out to hail a cab, because out there—well, you’re still in Chinatown baby!


Bacaro ($$)
Italian, Tapas, Other
136 Division St, btwn Orchard & Ludlow St