Old friends, new restaurants, and a little bit of a tangent

Emily, a girl I went to high school with, and have since become friends with, is visiting New York this week. Out-of-towners are always a good excuse to try eating at restaurants that I otherwise would probably not venture to, whether it's because they're expensive, out of the way, or time-consuming (i.e., too long for work lunch).

A summary:

In November, I went to Brasserie with another high school acquaintance, Amy, and her husband, Derek. I hadn't seen her since high school graduation and we didn't so much get along, in those days. Thanks to the modern miracles of MySpace (R.I.P.) and Facebook (and maybe some growing up on both of our parts?), we have become quite friendly over the past few years. Regardless, I still kind of wanted to show off and go somewhere impressive for lunch. Silly? Probably.

Brasserie was recommended by a couple people at work. Shiny, modern, expensive, but apparently with good food. I took the 6 train up there, and although it was great to see her (and meet him) and reconnect, I don't think any of us was impressed much by the food. For $27, I expect more something from a lobster club sandwich. Thanks, Derek, for buying!

In December, my former co-worker at Starbucks and all-around awesome chick Caroline came to NYC to see her friend do some standup comedy. In true Caroline and Catherine fashion, there were all sorts of directional miscommunications, but we ended up at a cheap bar in TriBeCa, where friends old and new and drunk and jet-lagged had burgers and beer. And we made good use of the pub's crayons to draw all over the butcher paper table covering.

Past two friend visits, totally authentic to each of the relationships. Also, now I wouldn't hesitate to go to a dive with Amy and Derek. We just had to get that out of the way. Next time, I'll buy.

But then... Last month, my BFF from junior high came out to NY with a friend. I think I'd seen N once or twice since 8th-grade graduation, but she looked pretty much the same. Just thinner. Very thin. I am always a little suspicious when planning lunch with a thin person whom I don't know very well. Our trip to Les Halles proved why. This place, just up the street from work, is the former home of the gonzo chef Anthony Bourdain. It garnered rave reviews from my coworkers about the reasonably priced, pretty damn good, unpretentious, bistro food.

How bad is it that I have to think really hard to remember what I got? I was dressed pretty business-casually. Something about the visitors screamed "tourists!" — the shopping bags? the heels? They just seemed less than enthused to be there, and I wasn't the only one picking up on it. The dining room was not packed, but service was pretty inattentive (for a fairly popular place that has at least as many regulars/locals as it does tourists, I am used to more here in the city). My old friend ordered — wait for it — a salad. Her friend got, I think, a croque monsieur, but mostly ate the fries. After reviewing the online menu, I am remembering the "Merguez, Frites, and Salade" I ordered. Everything seemed fine, and the table bread was good.

* * * time out * * *

I'm reminded as I write this that there is a fundamental disconnect between me, someone who loves food and enjoys savoring and sharing flavors, and gets excited about little things like the seasoning in the (quite tasty) Merguez sausages, and people who eat only because they have to survive somehow, and grazing on grass simply isn't efficient. My boyfriend once made that observation about his brother. Funny thing: My boyfriend is the former; my ex-husband, the latter. I know that I shouldn't judge, it's not their fault we speak different languages, but maybe for those people I should stick to coffee dates? (But I get just as worked up about coffee. Sigh.)

* * * time in * * *

So the girls just picked. In my perfect little "let's get together for lunch," we would have ordered wine, and an appetizer (I sensed this would not be a good first time to order escargots), and compelling lunches that we couldn't have found many other places, and certainly not at these prices. Then our tipsy selves would pass around the plates and try everything. And then, of course, dessert. There's always room for dessert at "I-haven't-seen-you-in-15-years" meetups. At least in my little made-up world. It's possible the service would have been just as meh, but at least we the diners would have had more fun.

And then, the visitors were bad tippers. Oh well. Then they were scared of the subway. Oh well, again. (I know that there are people with fears and anxieties over so many things, but this was just, I dunno, exceptional. Too much for me to just go with.) We didn't hang out again while they were here. I guess it's nice to get together anyway, and see how the 8th-grade BFF-ness still aligns...

So then yesterday Emily hops on the subway (her answer to my query on her comfort level with subways: I've done a bagilliion subway systems so just tell me which line and I'll be there! Nothing could be harder than Tokyo..partly because theirs is in Japanese.). I'd been thinking about hitting a cheap Indian buffet in the neighborhood, but then we passed Bagel & Schmear, home of the best tacos in New York. We each snagged a trio of those, as well as a black and white cookie, then sat in the sun at Madison Square Park and caught up.

The last time I saw Emily, she was visiting Salt Lake for work two years ago, and our dinner turned all romantical when a car hit a pole a couple blocks from the restaurant. The power went out, and the whole place was candle-lit and, well, romantical. We hadn't seen each other since high school, and we weren't even friends then, but we had a freaking blast! So maybe that's why this time was easy-peasy, too.

So, taco-lunching with me must not have been too bad, because when I got out of work and got out of the post office much more quickly than expected, we met up again at Union Square and headed for a dessert place (at lunch, she'd mentioned some fancy-schmancy dessert place with a gargantuan menu, and I started Yelping "dessert bar" when I got back to the office).

Dessert fans, meet The Spot. On a funky street in the East Village, a sign proclaiming a sweet retreat will call out to you, like an angel's voice in the wilderness (or something). (I tried to post pictures, but that didn't work, so other people's photos are linked instead.) At any rate, I had the Yuzu Eskimo ("oreo, strawberry, raspberry foam"). The menu neglected to mention the edible glitter! But there it was. Apparently, I'm not the only one to have been captivated by it. Really, I thought I was having a blonde moment... The dessert was unlike anything I've had before, and I'd have to say that that is probably this Spot's greatest strength. They're unique, just like every other dessert tapas bar in the East Village — except that I haven't yet tried any of the other ones. :)

Emily got the Chocolate Banana Pudding ("caramel, cocoa soil, vanilla chantilly"). It was good, just maybe not as experimental as we'd hoped? Regardless, we dipped into each other's dainty little plates freely. (The Spot was, unfortunately, out of the Ovaltine and Kabocha Roll we were both intrigued by.) They have a ton of different selections, including a half-dozen cupcake flavors, ice cream and sorbets, weird and right-up-my-alley toppings such as palm and basil seeds, and my if-I-were-on-death-row-this-would-be-my-final-meal, the $48 omakase dessert tasting menu.

My cousin Jamie is visiting next month, and I am going nuts trying to figure out where we will eat while she's here. She is definitely in the former, food-lovin', passionate-eatin', group. There are so many places and concepts we could try while she's here! Aaaaackkk!

Once we've been out and about, and proper pictures have been taken, you'll read about it right here. But now that this is ridiculously long, I pledge to break restaurant visits into their own posts from now on.

Home sweet garden

If I figure out a way to buy a house in the next year, it will be because I want a real food garden. I'll probably end up spending all of my money on plants and seeds and garden-y stuff, and I'll crash on the floor of a woefully underfurnished room in a sleeping bag.

But I'll have squash next year, dammit!

Would having chickens be going too far?

Guess I should get the yard first, before I think of the chickens.

This book has done a number on me.

Drool-worthy summer inspiration

It's really hot. Like, sweating-while-sitting-still hot. Yeah, I could turn on the air conditioner, but it's all the way upstairs and any move away from this seat would be just. too. much. effort.

So this'll be a roundup, of sorts.

Cruising Thekitchn.com this morning, I have been so inspired by posts about and gorgeous pictures of salads: cabbage, macaroni, beet... I was reminded of what a geek I am when I saw this book, On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen, by Harold McGee. I literally drooled while I was reading the post. Maybe the science-y stuff in this book could explain exactly what neurotransmitter synapse caused me to salivate over a reference work. Or, I might just be a sleep-deprived nerd.

Reading through my favorite food blogs, instead of getting into the kitchen and making something refreshing like a kickass spicy Chinese cabbage/carrot/pickled chili salad, reminded me of this article at the New York Times last month. I hope I'm not becoming one of those people who are "out of the kitchen, onto the couch"; reading about food instead of doing something with it. I don't even own a TV, so maybe I'm somewhere in the middle? Believe me, I'd rather be cooking. It's just that the kitchen has no air flow. No, it's worse: It has negative air flow. All the hot air in the apartment goes there to hang out, and like some dinner guests, it doesn't know when to just leave.

I have had a fair amount of food interaction this summer:

In July I made awesome strawberry-sour cream scones (recipe here). It was still raining every day at that point, so using the oven was not so painful.


My vindaloo spices. I think getting them prepped for the cooking is my favorite part of making that dish.


The Latin American festival at Beacon's Riverfront Park:


Where I come from, "Latin American festival" likely means a huge event with a ton of Mexican food, with at least one vendor for each of the country's distinct regions, plus Central American and South American booths. Roaming mariachis, and the Chilean folk music Inti-Illimani guys, and the Peruvian pan flute players, and tiny wrinkled Guatemalan ladies selling brightly colored cloths. So it felt strange to go to a smallish event, with booths mainly representing Caribbean nations such as the Dominican Republic and Cuba, and Puerto Rico of course. Welcome to New York, Cali girl... Of course the food was amazing. This was actually the second of two plates B and I shared (and maybe Leo got some too).


I had a rare weekend off after the hecticness (hecticity?) of the past few weeks, and I needed to get out of town. B found a bouldering area near a lake in the Adirondacks. I stuffed a bottle of wine in my backpack for Saturday night. It was worth the extra weight.


Wild blueberry bushes covered the area where we camped. The ones I picked Sunday morning were just what the Quaker Instant Oatmeal needed. (Well, it needed a lot of help, but the berries were a great start.)

Comfort food

photo source

I'm nearing the end of a pretty trying 10-day stretch. There have been some lows, but to be fair, some highs too (including meeting extended family in Boston). This afternoon, I only had a few minutes to concoct something to eat between finishing errands and leaving for work at 3. It was raining and at only 70 degrees felt a little chilly (how pathetic, I know), so I wanted something comforting...

I cooked a Chinese stir-fry last night and made extra rice. There were leftover garlicky-gingery sautéed veggies from something else a few days ago. Perfect.

After I mixed those and heated them through, I cracked an egg over the top, stirred it and put a lid on the disgusting-looking mixture, then took the dog out. (I'm all about being efficient.) When I came back in from the rain, the egg was cooked perfectly. Added a little sriracha and soy sauce and I was set... (Then I made an egg for Leo. He's the most spoiled dog ever, I swear.)

I'm not sure why I have an Asian comfort food. It's not like I had a sweet little grandma whipping up congee for me (although mine did have lemon drops). You'd think it'd be something like mashed potatoes and beef stew or something, with my Euro-mutt roots. Of course, those sound good too.

Lately, some readers have e-mailed comments to me... Why not post them instead and share your favorite comfort foods? I'll make cookies for the most unusual one.

one.

I love food. Is that quite clear yet? I guess this blog exists for me (and you, my dear potential readers) to explore what that means.

One of my main interests is yoga. I often think, and say, that doing yoga gives me permission to eat whatever I want and enjoy it. I don't mean that in a calories-in-to-calories-out-ratio kind of way. I mean it like this: Yoga has taught me, and continues to teach me, that being a human being is very much about the senses. The act of creating meals from scratch tickles allll the senses. Smelling sweet, spicy, and savory aromas wafting through the whole apartment. Seeing brightly colored fruits and vegetables mingling in the pan, mellowing with a little cream. Hearing the crackling, popping sound of seeds, or the low roil of boiling water, full of potential. Feeling the dry, comforting heat of an oven or the sharp OW! of a slipped paring knife. And the best - tasting not just the finished product, but during each step along the way.

Yoga also teaches me that enjoyment is a good thing (I know - who has to be taught, right?). And cooking is downright fun! The process of creating a unified something from a bunch of little somethings is so fulfilling to me. And then, of course, there's the eating.

Before I worked at the paper, I liked food, a lot, but now cooking is part of me. When I started there in January 2005, I became responsible for the production of two weekly features sections. I refer to only one of them as "mine." This attachment wouldn't be the case if not for the amazing women I work with, reporter Kathy and editor Lesli.

Oh - and for the record, I'm a stickler for Associated Press style. I must differ, though, on one point. The stylebook lists "chili" for all food-related uses. I diligently, if begrudgingly, follow that rule for print copy. Here, you will see that spelling used only if I'm referring to a concoction headed for a bowl. Members of the capsicum family are, of course, "chiles."

If you happen to be a member of AFJ, lobby your representative to lobby AP. Peppers everywhere are counting on you.