Goodies First

Accounting for This Monte Cristo

Many regional specialties get bastardized beyond comprehension once they leave their home state. I wouldn't necessarily know that first hand since the only vaguely NW-specific food I can recall eating are jo jo potatoes (definitely no morels or cedar-planked salmon).

I think California might lay claim to the monte cristo (proper version, above) but it has been a bountiful favorite of mine for years, one that I rarely indulge in here not out of concern for my health but because NYC has done terrible things to the poor sandwich. I learned this lesson a decade ago when I used to frequent Odessa in the wee hours. This weekend I relived the shock and horror at Carroll Gardens' Hill Diner (the dearth of post-midnight options in the area is sad).

The monte cristo I've always known and loved is essentially a club sandwich on French toast served with jelly (strawberry if you're classy, grape if you're not) and fries on the side. I'm pretty sure there's a layer of mustard too. Sweet, savory and yes, a little weird but if you like poultry, pastry and powdered sugary bisteeya like I do, this isn't much of a stretch. Moroccan…Californian…whatever.  Some go as far as battering and deep-frying the whole thing, Disneyland-style, though I've yet to encounter such as beast.

My first clue that something was awry in New York was the sandwich's inclusion in the breakfast section, mingling with the omelets and pancakes. My version is lunch or dinner fare, tidy, not what I would consider overstuffed, and definitely handheld, which is why I balked when I was brought an enormous slab that nearly filled an entire plate. It seems that the NYC diner version (I've never had or seen one outside of a diner) is French toast—they have that part right—topped with thinly sliced turkey and ham and gelled together with a solid layer of melted swiss cheese, served open-faced. A pitcher of syrup is brought out with the confusing amalgam.

Not that I can't learn to love this gooey sugared package. I will say that this is a sandwich for these times; not only did I get post-Cyclones meal (beer and pretzels didn’t cut it) but also breakfast the following two mornings. Now that's good value.

After nearly forgetting about this sandwich—I think this was my first monte cristo of this millennium—my passion has been renewed. I am now determined to find a true monte cristo. There must be one lurking somewhere in the city. Anyone know anything?

Leave it to Martha Stewart to come up with a Ghost of Monte Cristo sandwich.

Example of normal monte cristo from LAist.com

Swaddling

There was a time in the not so distant past when I declared my love of all things Swad, which appear to be the house brand at Patel's. Anything Indian you can think of, and they make it. Even though I can get fresh chiles and lotus root, I still like stocking up on their frozen their frozen versions, plus exotics like cubed ratlau (purple yam).

Clearly, I'm not the modern all-from-scratch woman. I like to cook, but on a weeknight I'm not always up for scrubbing and peeling, or more accurately sourcing ingredients on the fly. I don't even know who stocks any Indian items in Brooklyn.

I've always been fond of Swad’s 99-cent boxes (which contain pouches) of sides that knock Tasty Bite out of the water for price and variety. And that's where my love affair has turned tragic. Two weeks ago I whipped up a quick mid-week meal of madras curry chicken supplemented by a package of paneer makhani around 9pm. It all tasted fine. About four hours later, just around 1am, I was hit with sharp and sudden stomach pains, no gentle nausea or indigestion. I was violently puking within minutes. Urgh. I blamed the frozen chicken breasts and wondered if I should start shunning grocery store meat, after all. The inexplicable thing was that James ate the exact dinner and he was fine. The only thing I ate that he didn’t was a mango (fresh, thank you) that had been sitting on the counter for a week. A reluctant fruit eater, I wanted to blame the mango for my distress.

Then last night it happened again. We had leftover lamb chops and I thought they would go well with peas but being too lazy to track down fresh peas (yes, even though they are in season) I grabbed a box of methai mutter malai from downstairs. Indian peas with fenugreek in minutes. James questioned my use of readymade food after the last incident but I figured that was a fluke. After my first bite, I became hesitant even though the puree didn’t taste off, and only ate two more spoonfuls.

This time I was puking by 12:45am. And yet again, James wasn't sick. What is up with you, Swad?! Is this tough love pushing me to the greenmarket? I'd go if I could walk to one. That little sad one on Carroll Street has done nothing to motivate me and Grand Army Plaza isn't where I want to be on the weekend, it's all handholders and zombie pregnant women with cups of gelato sauntering in front of your car during green lights and giving you the evil eye if you act as if you'd, you know, like to Drive when you're legally allowed to do so.

It's not just me, car-owning friends who moved from Oakland to Greenpoint who I think are returning to Oakland, were all what the hell is wrong with pedestrians here? They guessed that the problems stem from the city being a non-driving majority who don’t understand what it’s like to behind the wheel (I’m way too jumpy to drive in the city).  That's the nice theory. You could also argue that people in New York are just self-absorbed to the point that they think cars should stop for them. Me, I'm a namby-pamby rule follower both ways because people drive like assholes in Brooklyn and I don’t want to get smooshed. Common sense would dictate that if you have a Don't Walk sign yet continue walking without looking, you might just get flattened.

Jeez, now oblivious, selfish Brooklynites have distracted me from the matter at hand--my poisonous stash of packaged Indian food! I think I’ll lay off the Swad for a while, it's making me delusional.

Hollow Inside

Whoa, it takes a lot to gross me out food-wise. My only real hang-ups are melons, edible flowers and stems. I have a hard time with raw foliage. For what felt like years (it was probably only one) during grade school there was a potted African Violet in the center of the dining table and I couldn't look at the thick, furry stems while eating my morning Grapenuts and yogurt without my throat clenching up. Too much nature first thing in the morning.

It still really grosses me out to see spinach, arugula and the like with tough protrusions hanging off the leaves (cooked spinach doesn't bother me unless there is an egregiously firm tail or two that survived the sautee). I'm also scared of currently in fashion fiddlehead ferns, one reason why I've never visited any super-jungle-y parts of Malaysia—this wild plant worries me way more than sago worms.

I've been waiting for a real Hunan restaurant to show up in NYC but I most definitely won't be ordering the Hunan House's "hollow stem vegetable" pictured above and blogged about on Fork in the Road today. An all stem dish?! I'm going to have nightmares.

UnConference Call

Is someone messing with me? I bemoan Portland’s stranglehold on the food media and the pain of being the oldest gal in the bar, and then I get e-mailed an invite to an “UnConference” (I shit you not) called PDX Gen Y? Really?

Get the Honey

I will always remember Dom Deluise’s shining moment as a food addict in Fatso, a touching movie that among other things spoofed Weight Watcher with a self-help group called the Chubby Checkers.

It’s practically like watching my life on the big screen (well, I’ve only ever seen it on the small screen).

No more ominous words than “Get the honey,” have ever been spoken on film.

Water St. Banh Mi Cart Update

I've had a few people ask about the status of the Financial District's (sorry for the Twitter FiDi usage but I'm horrible texter and need all lame abbreviations at my disposal) once-mobbed banh mi cart. Well, as of 1:30pm this afternoon, it appeared to be a no show.

Don't these guys know about the banh mi boomlet sweeping the city? They are seriously missing their opportunity to cash in five-bucks-a-pop on the trend.

But more importantly, I was deprived of the lunch I had been thinking about all morning. Maybe the growing Baoguette empire will hear my cries and expand way downtown.

Does Anyone Really Eat Ribbon Candy?

Whenever James returns from visiting his parents in Northern Virginia I get scared. When returning from trips related to a gift-giving event such as Christmas or a birthday, I become even more frightened. I have a low tolerance for useless crap and clutter. If I had my way, it wouldn't enter the front door because once it has crossed the threshold you know it's stuck in the apartment for life (or until I move).

It's one thing to lug home lamps and potholders sourced from stores like Home Goods or the back section of Marshalls that looks just like Home Goods, but in some ways the oddball cast off food is even worse. Monday night I was faced with the following:

¾ of a white fruit-topped cake from Giant (I tried a slice because I can't resist desserts in the house and the damn thing was 85% whipped cream, 10% dry cake, 5% flavorless fruit…so disappointing)
2 packages of Oscar Meyer bacon
4 pounds of powdered sugar (have you ever heard of Holly brand?)
2 bananas
1 Chick-fil-A spicy chicken sandwich
1 Chick-fil-A waffle fries
1 packages of Vortman sugar free Almondette cookies
1 bag of Barcel pork rinds (a Mexican brand)
1 2.25 pound bag of Sun Maid raisins
1 bottle of V8
1 tray of Costco sweet rolls
1 pound of Costco butter
6 assorted Kashi TLC bars
18 extra large eggs
1 bag of stale looking cookies with lots of German and Russian words (The only English reads Ginger “Lux” cookies. These look to be a product of Moldova imported to Brighton Beach. I imagine these were purchased during a trip to Brooklyn, forgotten about, and now repatriated.
1 box of hard ribbon candy (about as foul a treat as candy corn, but it certainly is pretty)

So many abnormal sizes and peculiar brands, half probably past their expiration dates. EVen my cat is baffled. One would say that this bounty definitely provides a window into the psyche of the givers.

I was happy for the Chick-fil-A items, though, since those were specifically bought for me somewhere in Maryland. Now that I look at it, most of the non-sweet items are useful. I'm still not touching the unappealing cookies, candy, cake or the powdered sugar. I can't even recall the last time I used confectioner's sugar and I don't see any glazing or frosting in my future either. If only I could go a little re-gifting of my own.

Chew on This

Things have been quiet around here, not so much because I’m lazy, but because I can’t eat anything except mush and I’m foggy from pain killers. I had my wisdom tooth out over a week ago and something went awry and it’s not healing. Hmm, maybe I attempted corned beef, hamburgers and a pupu platter a bit too soon. I was being optimistic. After a return visit to the dentist and a new batch of vicodin, I am now back to oatmeal, soup and yogurt. Despite being three pounds lighter (temporarily, I’m sure) I am also greatly saddened, not to mention starving.

Reading about the opening of Num Pang makes me want to cry. I don’t know if I can read food blogs until I can eat real food again.

On the up side, I am just about exactly half-way through the 896-page 2666. A little book learning never killed anyone.

Mystery Solved

I wasn’t expecting Arby’s as the mystery chain taking over the Gage & Tollner spot because it’s not as if we haven’t experienced Arby’s in the city (two in Queens and one now closed in the Manhattan Mall).

I used to eat a Beef ‘n Cheddar and Jamocha shake for lunch practically every day as a high school freshman so I’ve been swayed the allure of Arby’s (I don’t think I’ve foot in one in over 15 years, though).

I would just be concerned about their move into a landmarked building. In 2005 Arby’s razed Niederstein’s, Queens’ oldest restaurant, and built right on top of the spot.

1939 Niederstein's photo from Maspeth Chamber of Commerce.

Certain Standards

As a Pacific Northwest native, I’ll be extra certain to never ever visit this Brooklyn bar.

Cheese Sandwiches Are a Dish Best Served Cold

Confused as to why a cold cheese sandwich, fruit and carton of milk is somehow more punitive than going lunchless. Isn’t free blah food better than no food at all? I ate many a PB&J/orange (ok, I might've also gotten a granola bar) bagged lunch in grade school and managed to survive. And please don't tell me this is about self-esteem.

Then again,  I used to sneak pinches of processed American cheese out of my school cafeteria's walk-in fridge so I probably would've enjoyed a cold cheese sandwich. Yes, I've written about processed cheese on more than one occasion--here and here--because I love it that much.

The First Rule of Raw Milk Club

It’s not easy for me to articulate why, but I hate community (I’m also not fond of the concept of legacy). In theory, likeminded people who do things together or at least operate in overlapping social spheres with common goals would be positive, yet so much fostering of taste and values only ends up feeling inbred and smug to me.

There’s nothing wrong with creating your own chocolate from cacao or butchering your own locally sourced meat or pickling, like everything. I’ll concede that it all sounds very cool. (It’s funny that this is all coming to fruition. Eons ago, ok, in 2000, I worked at a short-lived culinary start-up founded by a respected food writer whose byline you see less regularly than you used to. I distinctly recall a group excursion to long-gone Pearson’s Barbecue where a few of us were jokingly speculating when hipsters would start getting into homemade sausages and charcuterie. Who knew it would be a reality in eight years?)

But pegging this behavior to a particular neighborhood (yes, the Times article is titled “Brooklyn’s New Culinary Movement” but this trend really only thrives in a northwestern swath of the borough among a very narrow segment of Kings County's 2.5 million residents) only serves to mythologize a scene. Maybe it’s scenes that I have issues with not community.

Gabrielle Langholtz, editor of Edible Brooklyn stated, “Every person you pass has read Michael Pollan, every person has thought about joining a raw milk club, and if they haven’t made ricotta, they want to.” Really? Raw milk clubs? Exclusive. How does one become a member in this secret dairy society? I’m waiting for a password-protected speakeasy offering unpasteurized delights. It probably already exists somewhere on my block, but you have to look like a daguerreotype come to life to gain entry.

Perhaps I’m just a killjoy. I can’t get into the countless indie cook-offs: pies, chili, casseroles that also a growing Brooklyn staple, any more than I want to be a part of chef worship, the glam other extreme exemplified by the South Beach Food & Wine Festival being covered to death by a certain strata of food blogs this week.

My feelings on this so-called movement can be summed up using the same words Bruni used to describe Buttermilk Channel, the restaurant spitting distance from my apartment that was today’s one-star review (can’t believe I’m using his prose to express my feelings). “It’s laudable and predictable in equal measures.” True that.

Of course I love food; I just find it hard to care about precious foodie fads, and ones so close to home, no less.  One might argue that the problem lies with me rather than those pursuing their supposed culinary passions. It’s very possible that I’m simply jealous of artisanal entrepreneurs because I’m tied to a day job for survival (who could afford $8 bars of chocolate without steady work?) Oh, and that there isn’t a single foodstuff I’d even be inclined to make, perfect and sell.

Hmm, the comments section of the Diner's Journal is getting mildly heated (the space was intended for questions to be passed along to the subjects of the Brooklyn-centric article, but it's filling up with cranky statements instead). I'm surprised that there's surprise over a backlash.

What Would a Libertine Do?

Just got back from discount oysters and nearly half-priced beers at The Libertine. Not sure if it’s a true indication of Wall Street’s collapse, but the bar was dead (granted, on a Monday night). As a cheap crowd-phobic who has a job for the time being, I will continue indulging in cut-rate specials. Enjoyed my half-dozen West Coast bivalves, but the most entertaining part was how due to renovations the bathrooms are actually in hotel rooms on the Gild Hall’s third floor via key cards available at the front desk. I guess only common decency would prevent one from bouncing on the bed or whatnot. It did not inhibit whoever used the room before me from taking a odorific dump in the toilet, though.

Unbearably Mediocre

Normally, I scoff at brand label buyers who shun generics. Why buy Advil when Duane Reade ibuprofen does the same thing for less? But I just discovered that not all processed cheese is created equal (ok, I already knew that Kraft singles melt while weird 99-cent brands like Tropical don't).

While perusing the refrigerated deli section at a NJ Shop Rite, I went to grab my occasional guilty treat Land O'Lakes white American cheese then noticed a twin product mixed right into the pile: Black Bear, a brand I'd never heard of and can find no evidence of on the internet, for $2 less per pound. Sure, I'd try it.

I anticipated my first creamy bite, but no, it wasn't right. The deceptively albino slice just tasted like a normal shiny orange square that comes individually wrapped in plastic. It was lacking chewiness and real cheese flavor that might be attributable to milk though I can't say for sure.  I'm certain this knock off would taste fine in a grilled cheese sandwich but I just like tearing off bits of cheese to snack on straight from the fridge and Black Bear lacks purity. No more cutting corners with cheese products again.

It Had Better Not Be Bird Flu

I don’t know what’s going on. Yesterday I forced myself to go to work despite being insanely jetlagged and having a horrible sore throat/head cold. I managed to make it through my office holiday party, met friends for drinks at The Bell House afterward and even ate White Castle at 2am no problem. But this morning I woke up feverish and barely able to speak. And after finally getting a bagel (something New Yorky I had been craving in Asia) and a cup of coffee, instead of feeling better I started puking uncontrollably. I’ve spent my entire Saturday in bed. I’m too dizzy to even look at a computer screen for long, which is frustrating because I have a zillion photos to go through. All I can do is sit still, drink water and watch bad TV. Thank goodness TNT has a new Librarian movie premiering tonight.

Hong Kong Fluey

I’ve been mum the past few days because the nausea that randomly struck in the cab on the way to the airport on Saturday turned into some sort of full blown stomach flu. I’ve barely been able to keep food down in Hong Kong, which is distressing to someone who travels with the primary intention of eating. I’ve been biting my tongue (or rather, tempering my typing fingers) but now I can honestly declare this the worst vacation ever.

(I also just found out that my freelance review gig for nymag.com has been eliminated, which was no surprise after the recent Gael Greene debacle. I do wonder if it’s bad karma for recently speculating on how the economy hadn’t really fucked me up yet. At least I have a day job and it’s not as if penning a few short reviews a month subsidized SE Asian vacations, anyway. That said, I wouldn’t mind another side deal.)

I spent all Monday night throwing up with those severe kind of stomach cramps where you think a creature is trying to escape. I had to lie mummy-like still on the bed, even moving an inch would trigger another vomit attack. I began to have new empathy for the Zimbabwean cholera victims they keep showing on rows of hospital beds on CNN (and Al Jazeera—I’ve really taken a liking to that station and totally don’t get why Americans are so freaked by it. I learned more about the Hajj in the past few days than I have in a lifetime). At least I’d probably perk up in 36 hours or so. Amd all that hurling has left my ribs in pain, which must mean that my abs have been given a work out. Oh, and I probably didn't digest nearly as many calories as I thought I would. Great vacation diet.

So, today is my last day in Hong Kong and I’m determined to have fun. I’ll eat Sichuan food for lunch, something I’ve had to put off all week, even if it kills me. Tonight it’s schmancy Chinese food at Hutong. HK is obsessed with dress codes, as if the average citizen (or perhaps tourist) is brain damaged. Do not show up at Hutong in shorts, sandals or sleeveless. Our pricy Intercontinental buffet admonished, “no slippers or singlets.” I assume slippers are sandals and flip flops but singlet threw me for a loop. I’m guessing tank top?

I will buck up, keep my meals down and try to refrain from putting on a singlet. And I will be back in NYC Thursday determined to make the rest of 2008 a win.

Sick But Not Homesick

I've been trying to be negative, as is my usual way, but this is devolving into the worst vacation ever. My mild sniffles have turned into an ear and throat ache and James' cold and cough that he left NYC with has turned into something where he can't breathe or walk more than ten feet without hyperventilating. We considered going to the emergency room last night and I think we're going to have to go to the hospital today (Friday morning) because it's getting worse. I think it's severe bronchitis, at least I hope so, because respiratory ailments in Singapore and Hong Kong (where we're supposed to be tomorrow) are very serious post-SARS. If it's pneunonia they will send up back to the US. I'm afraid showing up with breathing problems and a cough is going to fuck up the rest of this vacation. At least I don't think either of us has a fever, which would be the kiss of death. And it's all because of Thailand. If we were there like we were meant to be this week, we could just buy amoxicillin over the counter. You can't just go to a clinic in Singapore and ask for antibiotics, they're going to x-ray, lord knows what else and quarantine you or something.

I had planned on trying the DiFara of rojak today but it appears that I'll be in a hospital waiting room. And if you never hear from me again, I'm stuck in a Singaporean isolation ward.

Black Friday, Indeed

Tracking travel data is part of my job, and I’ll admit that I’ve been selfishly happy over all the statistics about Americans staying home or close to home during the holidays. Fewer hordes are always a good thing. I’m not scared of our nation’s floundering financial state, I just want to get the hell out of the country for a few weeks. Especially now that vague terror threats are aimed at NYC’s subways.

But as it stands, it looks like half of my vacation is a bust, and it has nothing to do with Thanksgiving traffic or our tanking economy. I’m honestly not sure what will happen tomorrow morning when I depart JFK for Hong Kong, Bangkok being my ultimate destination. If the airports in Bangkok are still closed, Friday night, 16 hours later am I just stuck in Hong Kong? I don’t even want to begin thinking of how I’m going to get money back on the three hotels in Thailand I’ve already paid for (that all stipulate that cancellations less than two days before reservation are eligible for zero refund. And no, I don’t have travel insurance, as I’ve been asked multiple times today—I never gave any thought to such a thing).

I don’t want to spend a whole two weeks in Hong Kong, it’s likeable, but not that likeable. I’ve scoured for cheap (or even not so cheap) flights to either Singapore or Kuala Lumpur. If need be we can scramble and put together a new itinerary, but seriously, everything in the immediate future is booked and the available tickets are close to $900, ridiculous for such a short flight.

I was really counting on cheap prescription drugs and a haircut at Toni & Guy, but more importantly, my detailed eating list may not be realized and that breaks my heart. As much as I like Chinese food, I like Thai more. And I learned my lesson trying to eat Thai food in spice-averse Hong Kong last time I was there. You’re better off in NYC.

Wherever I may be the next two weeks, I won’t likely post much if anything. I never do on vacation. But I have the feeling I may Twitter a bit. As much as I like to loathe the service, it’s growing on me rapidly. There, I said it, Twitter is fun.

Apple (Burnt to a) Crisp

I’m starting to think that many Chinese are onto something with their non-use of ovens. I’m about sick of mine because nothing but sadness comes out of it. Last week I bungled my attempt at a simple roast chicken (the skin wouldn’t crisp and the juices stayed bloody despite doubling the cooking time).

Sunday I tried making what I thought would be a simple apple crisp to get rid of a glut of on-the-verge-of-rotting apples given to James by his mom. I really hate unsolicited fruit (there were also oranges that already molded) and just don't enjoy it enough to eat a serving a day. Nature's candy, my ass.

This mishap was partially my own fault because after 45 minutes in the oven, the topping was still white and floury, no buttery crispness in sight. It was only after I took a dry test bite that I realized the mistake was not so much the temperature but that I’d forgotten to add a cup of brown sugar. Duh. In a last ditch effort to save the dessert, I rubbed the sugar over the top anyway and put it back in hoping for caramelization.

I think this would’ve succeed somewhat, and here is where blame is hard to pin down. James decided to take the pan out put it in the broiler. Despite not agreeing with this move, I then turned the knob to broil from 375. Within a minute, the treat had burst into foot-high flames rendering the entire thing charcoal black (once we were able to put the fire out). A total bust, which steamed me over the amount of time it took to peel and slice a million apples, not to mention the expense of wasted Plugra, pecans and hazelnuts.

Above is the salvaged version, after the blistered black top had been scraped off. It still tasted like shit and was dotted with persistent white floury patches. Just looking at the disaster makes me feel physically violent.

I say it was James’ fault for putting the dish in the broiler. He says it was mine for turning up the temperature. Really, I think I’m being punished for wanting to eat dessert. I try not only to minimize my sugar intake, but to keep it out of the house or else I'll pick at it all week (I'm still bummed over the ice cream maker downstairs that's only been used once). I had already made a minor health concession by making a pure apple crisp when I really wanted to make a version with a caramel layer. I'm definitely being punished.

Too Long To Twitter

El Bulli: "The demand that we have received at the first moment has again surpassed our limited possibilities for one season and we regret not to be able to full fill more reservation requests."

Well, duh, but it was worth a try.

I'm almost ready to be swayed toward this camp.

Never Say Never

I have to be careful about never because softening occasionally occurs. I resisted using the term blog for many years, until it became so pervasive that using personal website, online journal or just anything else sounded as antiquated as referring to an iPod as a Walkman (which I’ve been known to do unintentionally—at least I don’t call computers “the machine”). I held out on buying a cell phone until last August (I seriously use it like three times a week, kind of a waste) and at some point decided leggings weren’t the devil (but I still don’t believe they are a substitute for pants and these skintight shiny things must go away).

The only thing I can say with strong certainty is that I will never wear thongs (flip flops or flossy undergarments).

But I’ve caved on Twitter. I still think it’s asinine and do not understand why anyone wants to read non sequitur snippets from friends, family or strangers. I don’t really. Yet as each month seems to become more time-crunched, a sentence or two is sometimes all you can muster. I get that.

So, hidden halfway down my right-hand column is evidence of my potentially short-lived foray into microblogging. Tweet tweet. Please don’t hate me for succumbing.

Bulking Up For the Winter

Why don’t run-of-the-mill grocery stores in NYC sell bulk food? This was literally keeping me awake last night. I yelled the question repeatedly from my bedroom into the kitchen where James was doing dishes and garnered no response until my third attempt got a ridiculous “It’s not worth answering.” That’s absolutely not true.

A million years ago when I first moved to NYC I was stymied by the Associateds, Key Foods, C Towns and the like packaging everything up for you in Styrofoam and cling film or plastic containers. What if I only wanted a handful of white mushrooms or half a cup of pecans? It seemed so wasteful to force large amounts of perishables on a shopper.

My genius idea would be selling fresh herbs in bulk. Of course, there wouldn’t be much profit in this business model. I can never use 20 thyme sprigs or even a whole cilantro bundle before it starts to go bad.

I’m still not sure if it’s a space and convenience issue; it’s just easier for a store to present you with ready-to-go items, if it’s hygiene like too many hands touching the goods, that people would just take food and not pay or that New Yorkers have a more difficult time than the average consumer with self-service (I tend to believe the latter having seen way too many jams and general cluelessness at the few stores that offer self-checkout).

My big scam when I was a younger teen and candy was enough to make my day, was filling my baggie with bridge mix and writing down the code for chocolate-covered peanuts, which were way cheaper. I only got busted once, which was no big deal because you could just play dumb. People were more trusting. This was during the era when stores would sell kids cigarettes with notes from their parents (I had a neighbor in high school who legitimately did this, the reasoning being that they had had drug problems and were in recovery and their family was happy to see them smoking as long as it meant they weren’t abusing other substances).

I’d forgotten about the lack of bulk food even being problematic until this weekend when I paid a visit to Wegmans in Woodbridge, NJ, a much higher class of grocery store than the already classier-than-NYC garden state supermarkets I normally patronize. The store is mammoth with spacious rows of anything you could think of (except corn tortillas and polenta in a tube it turned out—what’s up with the maize aversion? Maybe someone read The Omnivore's Dilemma one too many times) including a nice row of bulk food dispensers. You don’t even know the joy I derived from meting out the tiniest scoop of pepitas. It’s very satisfying to pay $1 and some change for what you actually need instead of $5 for a container that will just go stale.

I would’ve explored Wegmans further (and possibly found those corn products eventually) but I was running late to meet friends at Cheeseburger in Paradise just minutes away on the other side of Route 1. If you ever want live covers of all your favorite ‘90s hits (think Counting Crows and Extreme) and a signature cocktail composed of pina colada, rum runner, margarita, daiquiri and blue curacao layers, all in the same glass, garnished with a gummy cheeseburger on a toothpick and fruit wearing sunglasses (they’re called “garnimals”) show up at this Jimmy Buffet chain at 9:30pm on a Saturday.

Oh, and why don’t they sell bulk food in NYC?

Springing Forward, Falling Back

I know I am wasting my breath (fingertips, whatever) but I must break this too-busy-with-work-to-post dry spell to state the obvious: summer is not over until September 21st. Right? Why do people insist on using three-day weekends to mark seasons when Memorial Day and Labor Day are nearly a month from the beginning of summer and fall, respectively? The weatherlady on channel 772 (Weather Channel HD) just said "today is the official end of summer." I'm not clear if people don't understand the meaning of the word summer or official.

Leave the Driving to Us

This has absolutely nothing to with food, me, or any of my other favorite topics, but I’m unduly horrified by the freak who beheaded his seatmate, a total stranger, a carny, no less, on a Greyhound bus in rural Canada. Somehow I could understand it more if they knew each other. This is the kind of random violence that scares the shit out of me.

I’ve never taken a Greyhound and am now even less inclined to. I was scared off years ago by a coworker’s tale of a Portland-to-Seattle journey where a woman only wearing a t-shirt and nothing else came out of the bathroom smeared in feces, shot everyone a dirty look and shouted, “What?! Haven’t you seen a miniskirt before?” Priceless.

Now I'll Never Taste a Blarney Blast

I would be sad about Bennigan’s closing (I’m kind of excited about a Ruby Tuesday getting blown up, though) if I’d ever been to one. I didn’t even know the chain was Irish-themed. I wanted to learn more about the Kilkenny Country Chicken Salad, but their website is already down.

Mervyns (no apostrophe) filing for bankruptcy, however, fills me with sadness. I haven’t set foot in one of the so-so Kohl’s-esque retailers in over a decade, and I know they closed all of their Oregon locations early last year so this shouldn’t come as a surprise. But I’ve always had a soft spot for the chain.

Any shop that still has a section called missy (which contrary to popular belief is not a euphemism for plus-sized. Missy just means the even 4, 6, 8, etc. sizes as opposed to the odd-numbered 3, 5, 7 narrower-cut junior sizes. And while I’m on this tangent, I was shocked at this letter in Time Out NY a few weeks ago from a girl who claims she never can find XS or size 4 at H&M. Are you shitting me? I even emailed the store when they first arrived in NYC asking why they didn’t seem to stock larger sizes even though I know for a fact they make clothes up to a size 16 since it’s clearly listed on in-store placards. I did feel a bit vindicated by the Time Out’s response: “We did a random, unscientific sampling of the summer stock racks at four Manhattan H&M stores, and size 4 was among the top three most populous sizes in each instance, while a mere 6.7 percent of garments were size 14 or above.” ) is good with me.

Photo of a 2005 Mervyns still using the '80s font instead of the current yet still '90s perky style from The Detroit News

It Doesn't Get Juicier Than This

Strange that those “mandarin juicers” (get it?) from Alessi are just now causing a commotion, and at Pinkberry, no less. My sister sent me a blue one for my birthday at least five years ago and I never gave it a second thought.

But then, I’m not attuned to cartoony racial stereotypes. I had no idea that Speedy Gonzalez had been retired to the permanent archives either.

Personally, I’m more offended by the inexplicable glut of frozen yogurt shops in the city. I haven’t touched a dollop of the pseudo-dessert since the ‘80s TCBY craze and don't plan on starting now.

Why So Possessive of That S?

I’m not even close to a grammarian, mostly because my grammar sucks and I make up rules as I go along. I can't properly use commas for shit and for absolutely no reason whatsoever I’ve been doing the s’s (Thomas’s muffin) for years and then yesterday decided to stop.

With that said, the white trash S, adding an S or an apostrophe S typically to a proper noun a la Barnes & Nobles, makes me violent. I’ll admit that sometimes I catch myself starting to say things like Nordstroms and sometimes it slips out, but I can’t allow it in print.

I don’t know how many times I’ve seen steakhouse, Peter Luger, written as Luger’s (not being used as a possessive). I noticed it on TV this weekend and I just spied it on a blog seconds ago. It's so commonplace that I'm staring to wonder if I'm in the wrong and even more grammatically misguided than I originally thought.

Closer to home, I’ve even seen this site referred to as Goodie’s First. Frankly, I can let that one slide because a mention is a mention and I take what I can get.

Denim Shorts, You Com-Pleat Me

There was a time, oh say, two-and-a-half years ago when I was pointlessly outraged at the return of leggings. And yet I’m wearing a pair this very second. Apparently, some horrible fashions have ways of worming their way into our lives.

These high-waisted, pleated and bulging at the hip denim shorts are not one of them. Yes, I realize these are intended for young ladies, which I am not. But could any female, even one with the figure of a 10-year-old boy really pull these off? This pair is also quite frightening, especially if you even had the slightest hint of a paunch.

Who knows, though. Check back on me in 2010 and I could quite possibly be wearing the most stonewashed, pleated, high-waisted shorts you’ve ever seen. Um, but they'll probably come from Silhouettes or something.

Remind Me, Why do Goldfish Need to Wear Sunglasses?

Pepperidge Farm Partners With Natural Food Chef, Bethenny Frankel, To Debut Baked Naturals Crackers and Encourage People to Take Back the Snack!

Funny that they don’t mention her current role as the single Real Housewife of New York City who can’t get her boyfriend who already has three children to commit to her and make more babies.

Instead, Pepperidge Farms has played her up as the “break-out star” from a 2005 Martha Stewart Apprentice spot (the gal clearly loves her camera time).

I suspect it’s because it’s hard to sell the concept of  taking back snacks when the woman subsists on lychee martinis and air. I keep waiting for her to eat something, one little nibble—she’s a “healthy foodie,” right? But no, just cocktails.

On last night’s episode Bethanny was bragging about her friend’s restaurant Table 8 in Miami and the whole scene filmed there was her sitting at the bar drinking and getting a lecture about her eggs no longer being fresh (admittedly, someone talking about my eggs like they’re a farm product would make me want to slam a few oranjitas, myself). What’s the use of pals with restaurants if you don’t get free food?

But you seriously think I’m going to read a book called, Gain 25 Thin Thoughts. Lose 25 Heavy Habits and Be: NATURALLY THIN! written by a drunkorexic?

For Just 5 Cents a Day...

Do you know how long it takes to earn $100 (the minimum amount they’ll cut you a check for) through Google ads? If you’re me: 18 months. Today I finally became rich. I would’ve just gotten rid of the damn ads but it was an experiment. A long, drawn out experiment, for sure.

I could just take them down now and declare the test an unsuccess, but I’m kind of looking forward to that next $100 check…in October 2009.

Screw You, Too

Some time ago, during a hellish meal at Montreal’s Au Pied de Cochon (service was some of the most sophomoric, assholiest I’ve encountered, which isn’t entirely unusual with restaurants foodies love) James found a screw in his pork chop. At the time we speculated about how it would be reported in a New York Post headline and imagined it would involve the staff having a screw loose.

Well, we finally got our answer thanks to a disgruntled bacon cheeseburger eater in the Bronx: “Wendy’s Got a Screw Loose: Suit”

Back on the Chain Gang

Who knew that it was even possible to blow $300 a pop on Boston Market? Or that you could pay for fast food with checks.  I guess you do what you have to for rotisserie chicken and chipotle meatloaf.

I kind of prefer the sheer idiocy of the Indiana woman who scored $57 worth of Applebee’s food after finding worms in her salad…then left her purse behind with a container of worms. At least it wasn’t a human finger.

Even though I didn’t think it wasn’t true, I was kind of scared by the inexplicable ‘80s urban legend that Wendy’s put worms in their burgers. (To this day, I still believe that Rod Stewart had gallons of antelope semen pumped from his stomach, so these myths are persuasive.) The second I heard chain restaurant and worms in conjunction with the above story, I automatically assumed it was about Wendy’s.

Wendy’s seems to have a lot of trouble. Just off the top of my head I can think of two shooting incidents involving the chain, one recent, one not.

Browned Out

If for some strange reason anyone was curious about brown rice sushi, I’ll save you the trouble. It sucks. I should be avoiding rice in general, sushi rice specifically (it’s sugared, which not everyone seems to know) but I wanted something fishy and Japanese for lunch yesterday. I would’ve been fine with sashimi. Sometimes I prefer sashimi but that seems like something that should be ordered fresh and I only had time for take out not for a sit down meal.

I couldn’t bring myself to take a photo. But as you can see from the borrowed pic (misguidedly titled The Perfect Meal) it looks like poop. (I would much prefer blue sushi.) There were bits of eel and avocado inside, I could see them with my eyes but the heavy, oatmealy rice dominated every bite. Never again.

Oh, and I have to review a restaurant this weekend that serves sushi (as well as Mexican, Cajun and bbq--wtf is right) and I’m not sure what I’ll do. Honestly, I don’t think a few pieces of sushi are going to lead to diabetic foot rot and blindness but I’m trying to be conscientious.

I had no idea that basmati is less glycemic (I hate delving into the world of low glycemic blogs because I think there's a lot of quackery, and fervent regimen followers scare me) than other white rices and almost on par with brown rice. I realize that’s no help for sushi, but from now on if the urge for rice strikes I’ll stick with basmati or the not-terribly-offensive brown jasmine I picked up at Trader Joe’s.

The Sweet Life

Do you know what happens when you dredge up memories of an unwelcome diabetic birthday dessert from more than a decade ago? God gives you diabetes. Seriously.

Considering the alarmingly crappy genes, particularly on my father’s side of the family (in college, my aunt Belia’s foot rotted from diabetes and rather than have it amputated, it festered and she died. The story is funny to me, both ha ha and strange, because it seems so unreal and antiquated for the late 20th century), I just assumed that the disease would eventually catch up with me. I kind of thought I’d at least make it to my forties, though.

What irks me most is that diabetes is viewed as an affliction for fat, stupid people, primarily minorities with the exception of Wilford Brimley. All the literature I was given was illustrated with smiling blacks and Latinos and a list of foods you can still eat at McDonald’s and Wendy’s.

I certainly don’t think I’m special but I don’t need to be told about walking (I’ve been working out 3-4 times a week since the early ‘00s), I haven’t touched a Big Gulp since I was in grade school and I eat Whoppers like never. Of course I do like pork belly, curries, cocktails and dulce de leche and sit in front of a computer all day like total diabetes bait. I just get frustrated because while I have slowly chunked up over the years, I’m not Biggest Loser, gastric bypass obese and the people I see on TV don’t even have high blood pressure or diabetes. What gives?

No longer being able to eat (much) sugar and starch does not fit into my pro-rat year. Not one bit. At least I'm not being made to take any medicine or deal with needles yet. I pretty much need to lose the twenty pounds I've been trying to get rid of for an eternity and see if that does anything. I almost cried when I saw my favorite seasonal treat, green Hostess Sno Balls at CVS last week and had to ignore the beauties, and it bummed me out not to be able to partake in cornball bagel Friday at work.

There’s no way in hell I’m going to start eating boneless, skinless chicken breasts and steamed broccoli seasoned with Mrs. Dash. And I’ll keel over before allowing Splenda into my life. Who knows, though. I always though brown rice was for assholes, and this weekend I was the asshole who asked for brown rice with my Sichuan food and only ate a quarter cup.

I’m still going to eat good food. This site will not turn into Goodies Never, but I don’t feel like there are any online role models for people who like to eat well, adventurously and happen to be diabetic. As far as I can tell there aren’t any. Vegans and the allergic have their place in the food blog world (as well as the inexplicable volume penned by lawyers, ex-lawyers and Asian girls) but it’s not like I want to read about their foibles. Diet talk is too uncomfortably close to Lifetime territory.

Mickey Finn Meet Ruby Tuesday

Ack, I’m home sick for the second day in a row (I just spent the week entertaining my sister and her husband who were visiting from England. It was all fun and good, despite their vegetarianism, until I caught the creeping crud or whatever virulent bug they brought with them from Europe. As if it wasn’t enough that our dollars are chump change to them. I can barely hear, breathe or swallow and was convinced I had a deadly fever but my temperature is only 97.1. I hate when people say they have fevers and it’s not true so I wanted to make extra sure before declaring one) and have no typing energy.

But I can’t ignore stories involving chain restaurants, especially ones involving Ruby Tuesday, roofies and vigilant waiters named Colt.

Heavens, I don’t want to live in a world where single women with master’s degrees aren’t even safe in family restaurants.

Nature's Candy

I love this article, “The Myth of Fruit” from Wednesday’s Guardian. This quote sums up what I’ve thought for some time. And I can get all cranky on the subject and presumably not rile up freaks on the internet, assuming the public is less passionate about fruit than food allergies, their appearances on Jeopardy! and wine bars in Williamsburg (scroll to comments for warm fuzzy fun).

“If you believe the nutrition industry, every week produces some new superfood, often a fruit: blueberries, pomegranates, acai berries. The fact is that fruit consists of water, sugars (normally about 10%), some vitamin C, and some potassium (thought to be good for controlling blood pressure). And that's kind of it.”

I’ve always hated fruit (though I love vegetables) and feel like it’s a chore to eat. The mandarin oranges (I can’t call them clementines—is this an East Coast thing?) Granny Smiths and bananas I’ve been lugging to work the past few months have been killing me.

Fruit juice feels like a total waste of calories and smoothies seem like a joke. Melon is flat-out disgusting and the only food in the entire universe that I won’t eat (well, there’s malta, but that’s a beverage). Minus melon, I don’t mind tropical fruit every now and then, but that’s all. And maybe my problem is that I was raised on bland grocery store produce, though I doubt it. People are always raving about Honeycrisp apples, but to me an apple is an apple and they’re boring.

If I want sweets, I would rather eat real desserts (poached pears and baked apples will not cut it). Nature just doesn’t make candy; that’s as sad as calling graham crackers cookies.

Bad fruit image from Lunacy Beads

New Levels of Nuttiness

I’m not really about newsiness, if you haven’t noticed. I much prefer writing about things of little importance than current events. But I swear I’ve been channeling the New York Times dining section for the past two weeks. Last Wednesday they had the article about creating an indoor market in NYC when I had just been talking about the very thing (mostly an inner monologue) after visiting Toronto’s St. Lawrence Market.

Today, they tackled a pet peeve that I was actively researching for no purpose whatsoever last week: food allergies. This was prompted by a woman sitting at the table next to me at beerbistro on New Year’s Eve who made a point of asking if the desserts had peanuts in them because she was allergic. But she didn’t seem truly concerned, especially since she’d already taken a bite. I imagine if you were genuinely prone to goober-induced anaphylactic shock you would be more diligent than that.

I’ve always been very suspicious of people who claim allergies because I think with adults it’s just a way of legitimizing food aversions and quirks. A former coworker used to mention her chocolate allergy whenever treats were brought into the office, and I was convinced it was just a mental thing to keep from eating desserts. With kids it seems more the domain of neurotic overeducated, wealthy-yet-not-working mommies who have no real problems to fixate on. Seriously, according to the CDC only twelve people died from food allergies in 2004 (their most recent data).

Too bad I’m not a Harper’s subscriber because I’d like to read this month’s article, “Everyone's gone nuts: The exaggerated threat of food allergies.” “Are the dangers of childhood food allergy exaggerated?” provides a scholarly UK perspective.

So, I was a bit relieved that today’s article, “Food Allergies Stir a Mother to Action” painted Robyn O’Brien as somewhat of a crackpot. I do think it’s notable that children are increasingly allergic to food and I don’t doubt that manufacturers play some role with unnecessary chemicals and additives. But I just can’t take a grown woman seriously when her arms are smaller than her single-digit-aged daughter’s. Intentionally emaciated limbs ≠ person possessing sound reasoning.

 

Move Over, w00t

While skimming New York’s Where to Eat 2008 at the gym (sure, it’s borderline grotesque to ogle steak photos while on an elliptical trainer) I was less dismayed at not having dined at a single best new restaurant of the year than by Adam Platt's rampant use of the word raffish.

I’m the last one to scrutinize repetition; my own bloggy vocabulary is extremely limited. Yet somehow, what seems forgivable online can feel egregious in print. I thought I might’ve been mistaken at first because I wasn’t taking in every word (my blood pressure prescription has run out [yes, my health is on par with an elderly male thanks to some shitass genes] and I genuinely feared I might have a heart attack or stroke while peddling). But now that I’m nice and sedentary in front of a computer I can see that I was correct: raffish was used four times in one—to be fair, long—article.

So, who was raffish in 2007?

The Waverly Inn

To gain access to the pleasingly raffish dining-room sanctum occupied by Carter and his chums, you’ll need a special phone number or e-mail address, or you’ll have to show up personally, then get on your hands and knees and beg.

dell’anima

Whenever I’m ambling down Eighth Avenue in the West Village, I like to duck into the raffish new bar-restaurant dell’anima for a stack of the crunchy house bruschette before proceeding to Centro Vinoteca…

Allen & Delancey

The raffish, deceptively stylish restaurant has a candlelit bar area up front, where you can buy all sorts of advanced mixological creations.

Death & Co.

If I can still walk after that, I’ll stagger a couple of blocks south, to the raffish new cocktail hangout Death & Co., to dine on sophisticated bar snacks like lamb sliders, and quesadillas stuffed with braised duck…

That’s a lot of freaking raffishness for one year. I’m hoping for a rash of rakish eateries in 2008.

Most Wanted

That story of modern day slavery on Long Island was kind of a downer (as are most tales of indentured labor). But now that the perpetrators have been found guilty, I can focus on the strangest aspect of the case: the Indonesian women’s apparent affinity for doughnuts.

Both doughnut-related incidents are mentioned in consecutive paragraphs of today’s New York Times article:

“In the trial, a landscaper testified that one of the women had once approached him, indicated that she was hungry and uttered a single word: doughnut. He said he gave her some doughnuts and she ran back in the house.”

And it was a Dunkin’ Donuts employee who ultimately called the police:

“Finally, one of the women, Samirah, sought help by wandering into a Dunkin’ Donuts shop in Syosset one Sunday morning, slapping herself and uttering a word that sounded like ‘master.’”

They do have doughnuts in Indonesia, in case you were wondering. I was. Um, and they cover them in melted cheese and Oreos and give them names like the Alcapone.

J.Co Donuts photo from a touch of serenity

Whine Bar

I was going to post this last week and forgot about it and was about to discard it because now it’s old news, plus complaining isn’t attractive. Unfortunately, now I have to because this weekend I ran into a friend at a party who was raving about how great Viñas is and I realize people who live in Williamsburg have wildly different standards from mine but I can’t allow delusional folks to perpetuate falsehoods. So, my friend, her South American boyfriend and a Zagat employee who treated them to a meal love this place. So much so that it was brought up as a fun New Year’s Eve dining spot. That already breaks my rule for a Williamsburg/’80s music-free new year. It’s going to be a tough 2008, I fear.

Original post (ha, or should I say blog as is the new-style parlance):

Generally, I hate eating in Williamsburg. The only time I ever dine in the neighborhood (my hand so wants to type ‘hood or nabe) is when I get a haircut every three months or so, which lord knows, sounds way lamer than just flat out eating in Williamsburg but I’ve yet to find any professional with better prices who grasps non-ugly styling. (Here’s my new cut if you’re into exhibitionist MySpace crap—I don’t like putting photos of myself here despite the Me in the title)

But if for some reason you like to eat in Williamsburg, stay away from Viñas. I know the no seating until your party has arrived deal is an annoying standard but they went beyond. I’m punctuality-crazed but was fifteen minutes later than expected thanks to the G train. I said I’d meet James there at 7:15 and didn’t make it till 7:30. He showed up fifteen minutes early, which was also uncharacteristic. It was a perfect storm of time management flubs.

They wouldn’t let him have a drink at the bar (because essentially most of the seating is at the bar, I assume) even though the room was empty. They wouldn’t let him stand inside and wait either. It’s not that small of a space--75-seats according to New York. And now that we’re into winter weather, it seems especially rude. What kind of restaurant insists you must leave when it’s not even half-full? I don’t want to turn into a fussbudget, but it seems kind of ridiculous because couldn’t you just change your tune and say you were dining solo, oh, and then a friend stops by like fifteen minutes later?

So, there wasn’t any way we were going to eat there when the full party, i.e. me finally showed up. Ok, out of curiosity we did pop in to ask about seating for two and were quoted 30 minutes. Please, it’s just pan-latin tapas.

Old standby Diner, a block away, seated us immediately and my duck breast with sweet potatoes (mysteriously crunchy and brown) “spaetzle” and endive salad with lardons, poached egg and walnut vinaigrette were uber-seasonal and higher caliber than much of what passes for edible in the area. I can’t really find fault with them, though that chain restaurant-style of waiters crouching at your table has always weirded me out. And somehow we managed to spend $100 without even realizing it. Still, it’s $100 that thankfully wasn’t wasted on a needlessly attitudinal new wine bar.

Poster Children

Please tell me that using blog as a synonym for blog post isn’t standard parlance. It took me years to come to terms with using the word blog, at all, and this bastardization is making me feel icky all over again. I was hoping it was exclusive to dolts like Rosanna Scotto and/or the elderly but it’s cropping up more and more.

A good friend even used it recently, as in, “I read your blog on…” First, I was like, “Really? Someone actually reads this?” Then, I was jarred by her word usage and had to remind myself that this is someone who didn’t know who Tim Gunn was and doesn’t understand why Zach Braff is even grosser than the word blog.

I don’t take specific issue with chef Traci Des Jardins or Epi Log, but it was the first sentence of her first ever post today that made me question the evolution of English, and I could really give a rat’s ass about grammar and purity of language  (obvs).

L'Eggo my Eggo

In my nine-and-a-half NYC years, I’ve pretty much managed to re-buy all the kitchen appliances and utensils I left behind in Portland and then some (though I’ve never been able to justify another juice machine and toaster oven).

But I don’t think I ever had a waffle maker and finding one is more problematic than I realized. It seems that all they sell now (at least at mainstream stores like Target and Wal-Mart) are Belgian-style waffle makers. I don’t want big squares and fluffiness. I never even eat waffles, but I might if I could make ones that were crispy with lots of close together crisscrossed ridges.

Eggos aren't Belgian-style, Waffle House doesn't serve Belgian..why are Belgian waffle makers the standard machine?

And is it my own fault for shopping at big box stores or is this a rampant epidemic all over?

I Went All the Way to Forest Hills and All I Got Was This Lousy Peanut Butter Granola Bar

“We should’ve gone to New Jersey,” was one of the first things I heard after shoving my way into the new Queens Trader Joe’s. Ah, no truer words have ever been spoken by a stranger. (I rarely go in for message board posting and have yet to chime in on this egullet discussion, but I am a proud car-owning [well, car-owning household] New Yorker who chooses to go to New Jersey for food. Not so much for hidden gems as for chain restaurants and big box stores, which is why I haven’t gotten involved with the foodie back and forth.)

Where else can you pick up some chocolate-covered edamame and satiate all of your scrapbooking needs in the same shopping trip? Welcome to the borough's first Trader Joe's and Michaels Crafts. 

I refused to believe James’s prediction that the latest Trader Joe’s addition would suck by virtue of being in NYC. It bummed me out that we missed opening weekend while in Beijing, but that also allowed two weeks for any initial crowds to die down. I don’t want to be negative all the time, so on the ride over I trying to justify how the Forest Hills location is so isolated (no subway access) that it would keep away the riff raff. Instead, it’d only be local curiosity seekers and intrepid yet misguided folks like us who should know better.

 

I was wrong. It was a nightmare. My photos don’t convey the crush, but the aisles were impenetrable. It was no less packed than my first and last Union Square TJ’s foray (and the paunchy, non-young employees here were most definitely not art students/candidates for American Apparel ads) Carts were pointless, though it didn’t stop people from trying to approximate normal shopping behavior anyway, creating irreparable traffic jams.

 

I wanted to grab four yogurts but couldn’t even get within arm’s reach of the shelf. I eyeballed a wedge of Cambozola yet was kept from it by a solid wall of zombies just standing and staring at the cheese case like they’d never seen dairy products before. The granola bar section never materialized at all, and settling on peanut butter bars from an end display instead of finding the sweet and salty ones I had my heart set on was the final straw. Plus, they didn’t carry Plugra butter like the New Jersey locations. And no, they don’t sell wine.

 

I could only be angry at myself for giving NYC the benefit of the doubt. The remedy for my gross miscalculation was to head up the street to Eddie’s Sweet Shop for a soothing hot fudge sundae.

New York does best when it sticks with what it knows; faded, old-timey ice cream parlors are a resounding success while facsimiles of quirky, low-priced faux gourmet chains are excruciatingly bad.

Trader Joe’s * 90-30 Metropolitan Ave., Forest Hills, NY (local press is calling this Rego Park, but that seems a bit off to me)

Hungry Like the Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

I can’t ignore that every single blurb on new Soho Vietnamese eatery Bun, mentions that “former Duran Duran guitarist Warren Cuccurullo” is co-owner. Warren Cuccurullo isn’t a real Duran Duran member, ok? Never was. Whether Bun is worth visiting is beside the point, no decrepit Duranie should abide such sacrilege.

While I see the fun immediacy in texting in IMing, I still find it hard to believe that only a decade ago, people, low-level celebrities included, actually wrote handwritten letters and months might go between correspondence. After once referring to All-American Girl as unstalkable in print (there was no Googling this shit), I got a letter from Margaret Cho.

I was probably taken to task, but what I remember most about her missive was that she’d attended some Duran Duran related event, got drunk and went over to Warren Cuccurullo’s mom and started in on how he wasn’t a real Duran Duran member. I could only applaud this misguided effort to right the wrongs of music’s past.

Sure, Warren replaced Andy, the gross unlovable Duran Duran member, but if I heard Andy Taylor was opening a Thai restaurant in Tribeca, I’d hotfoot it over immediately. Even though I’m sure the curries would suck. At least Andy would wear a shirt.

Mall Tease

Do you know what’s annoying?

Decommissioning all three New Jersey Uniqlo locations to focus on Manhattan. Yesterday, I was very upset (Ok, just mildly—James is more into Uniqlo than I am) to see that the shiny red storefront at the Menlo Park Mall had be replaced by some trashy clothing store with 2 in the title.

Perhaps the NYC store has the exact same selection of merchandise and prices (though I’m not convinced of that) but I have no desire to shop in Soho. I don’t like Soho; I like Edison, NJ and being able to pick up cheap colorful clothing from a Japanese chain without running into tourists or locals who might as well be tourists, and then driving across the street to Benihana afterward.

Uniqlo is dead to me.

Do you know what’s irrationally laugh inducing?

When you’re feeling kind of serious doing thigh presses or something at the gym and Duran Duran’s "Hold Back the Rain" comes on your iPod. Second runner up is Alan Parsons Project, "Eye in the Sky."

Though all it takes to shatter this illusion is a grunter. Not a guido grunter--because you can’t fight nature--a guido’s going to grunt. But a Cobble Hiller who reads while using equipment and selfishly hogs machines because apparently they think they’re in a freakin’ den (the same genre who cluelessly block all store aisles with their fertility drug, double wide strollers). If you’re perusing Marion Nestle’s, What to Eat while squeezing in a few bicep curls every couple minutes, you are most definitely not allowed to grunt. However, I’m allowed to scream (in my head, of course).

Fighting Tooth and Nail

Maybe it’s because I just got a filling (those eight years of dentist-avoidance are starting to catch up with me. I never used to get cavities. I fear that my 20/20 vision is the only thing still going for me. Now, it’s only a matter of time before cholesterol, diabetes and other inevitables start ravaging my system. But I’m definitely having second thoughts about picking a Brooklyn dentist, the original logic being an office I could walk to in case I ever had to be anesthetized. It’s all stereotypes you could imagine. While drilling my teeth, the phone repair guy forced his way back to our room and got into an altercation about a job taking too long even though the dentist had given him $20 to work quickly, and the repair guy didn’t speak English and the dentist didn’t speak Spanish so they were angrily translating through the dental hygienist, all the while the pressure and pulling in my mouth got more aggressive as this situation escalated. I will definitely not return to this office when and if I ever decide to get my wisdom teeth out) or because I’m at my bedroom computer, which I rarely use since I got a laptop for Christmas, but I’m out of sorts.

There’s no excuse for feeling irrationally downtrodden; it’s Friday, the weather is finally crisp, I’m leaving for China in twelve days, there’s a fun food adventure planned for tomorrow, my copy of Dead Boys showed up at the library last week and it’s really good (reading fiction before going to bed instead of browsing websites [urgh, I almost typed Web sites, which is the wrongheaded style I must use at work] is so much more satisfying)…but I’m one of those moods where I hate everything and want to lay in bed for a week. Is that indulgent or pitiful?

The grunginess of the spaces between the keys on my keyboard is bothering me, and my irritation starts at my fingers and spreads outward to infinity. I can’t concentrate because I’ve run out of room on my shelf for magazine storage and now there’s a foot-high pile of newish issues stacking up on a speaker, my cat hasn’t stopped pooping on the floor and peeing on my clothes since spring (I had to remove all of my clothes from the bottom shelf they’re stacked on—not having drawers for nearly a decade also irks me—and now they’re piled in my windowsills, which is doubly irksome), the zipper on my only decent winter coat has been broken since last year and I don’t know how to fix it, the prospect of dyeing my rapidly graying hair dark brown for the rest of my life only to have it fade to copper a few weeks later is demoralizing, letting it just go gray is even more demoralizing, I need to move my old Tripod site to save a few bucks a month but never find the time, this here blog makes me crazy because the design was only meant to be temporary and it’s not like web weaving is my forte, plus I’m sick of the name, and I don’t mean to write about food so much but I’m too old to regale the world with personal foibles, and now I’m annoyed for even saying that because I don’t really believe that personal foibles ever get stale, long live personal foibles, I want my apartment to look stylish and thought out rather than being a junk heap—I would be fine with a ReadyMade or the low end stuff from Domino look, there’s no need for Elle Décor or Dwell…

Do you know how ridiculous/embarrassing it is to complain about a two-floor apartment in NYC with a dishwasher, washer and dryer and two refrigerators? That’s like weighing 120 pounds and thinking you’re fat (unless you’re a dwarf, in which that case might be tubby). See? Now I’ve crossed the line and annoyed myself, which is great because now I feel much better and can shut the fuck up. But seriously, what do you do with a grown cat who refuses to use a litter box even when you clean it twice a day?

Machismo, Page and Screen

It’s the first day of fall and I’m using air conditioning. Just thought I’d briefly share my 90% humidity sadness. On to oh-so-serious matters...

I think I was recently complaining about food writing. I say, I think, because I’m not sure that I was all that concerned with writing but more the voices that accompany so much of it. On the one hand, weirdly confident married men with children who do stuff that they think is brilliant, on the other hand, an often female bounty-of-the-earth worshippers, paying homage to home cooking and the wisdom gleaned from humble but all-knowing grandmothers.

Macho food writing? I hadn’t really even considered it as an irritant because I wasn’t aware that it was a rampant genre. But British food writer Paul Levy has been stirring the pot with his Slate article that takes issue with the likes of Anthony Bourdain and Bill Buford, to name two.

I don’t have a problem with “coarse” descriptions, and the author comes across as a bit of a persnickety relic, but I don’t completely disagree with the tiresomeness of needing to be extreme. I’ve always thought it was strange that Bourdain has developed such a cult-like following by being opinionated, balls out (hate that phrase as much as the visual image) and culinarily open-minded.

I don’t begrudge his success; what I’ve been curious about is why there is no female equivalent. Why aren’t there any women doing the foul mouthed gourmand shtick (because they have better sense, some might argue)?

Judging from TV, you have to be sexualized (Giada, Nigella), accessibly girl next door (Rachael), or frumpy and unintimidating (Paula, Ina). Ok, that’s Food Network, what do you expect? But as contrast, they just picked up that bumbling yet personable smartass from drinking with locals, Three Sheets and gave him another travel show. That’s what men get to do on TV.

Women travel too, of course. I had the misfortune of catching part of Samantha Brown: Passport to Latin America in Belize. I don’t even know who this blah, late-in-life-mom type woman is (I can’t find an official bio anywhere but her fan wiki claims her favorite book is Atlas Shrugged. Strange, I was just reading about Ayn Rand and her influence on modern businessmen) but she made a huge fuss over cow tongue in a soup that was presented to her. She wouldn’t even try one bite, which was an instant turn off.

Sorry, now I’m meandering towards TV and away from writing, different and more physical. However, it would seem that there’s wide open opportunity for even vaguely interesting female food TV personalities. Or does the public enjoy what’s currently on offer?

More reactions to Paul Levy’s Slate article (my original focus):
The Grinder
Word of Mouth

Livin' la Vida Local

If I have to read about one more NYC’er living off the land, I will hurl up locally sourced bile. I wish that I could care about all this stuff (I did make it about 80% of the way through The Omnivore’s Dilemma. I don’t see Animal, Vegetable, Miracle in my future) but I can’t. And being deep into my freezer scavenger project, you know I’m not living la vida local.

The New Yorker usually scares me but I was bored enough in the airport last weekend to pick up the annual food issue (and then I was still bored). I felt like a douche brandishing some “my state is better than yours” periodical badge even though obvs New Yorker readers don’t all reside in New York.

Adam Gopnik had the requisite urban locavore article, complete with precocious quips from his author’s children. Lucky for you, “New York Local: Eating the fruits of the five boroughs” is one of the few articles freely available online.

Today I was treated to the New York version of this hot earthy trend, except Manny Howard isn’t so much sourcing as doing it himself. Good for him.

There are universals in these tales. Up-for-anything male narrators, an exasperated yet understanding wife, and if at all possible small children. (I know I’ll invoke foodie wrath but I’ve never found Calvin Trillin [as well a currently high profile, self-promoting, accurately monikered blogger that shall remain nameless—what am I? Regina Schrambling?!] as hilarious as others do [plus he stole my fantasy/idea of creating a hawker center in NYC for his New Yorker piece on Singapore. He’d put his on the Hudson River while I think the waterfront along Red Hook or Sunset Park would be better suited but I suspect both suggestions are selfishly based upon proximity to the idea generator’s home]. It’s the foiblesome guy coupled with straight-man wife that fails to grab me, kind of the Larry David wife as comedic foil M.O. except that I do like Curb Your Enthusiasm. Maybe I’m more disconcerted by so much female food writing centering around nostalgia, family and recipe-driven life lessons.)

Oh, and despite never having written for The New Yorker, as his bio points out, I'd also like to add "Alternadad" Neal Pollack to the mix. Just because.

At least the New York writer lives in Kensington and not classic brownstone Brooklyn, making me sick farming in his quaint $2 mil home. In fact, it looks like he paid $830,000  for the little eight-bedroom house in 2003. Or rather his wife did, as the title appears to be in her name, which is completely unsurprising. Someone’s got to subsidize a freelance writing career in NYC.

Ok, I wasn’t going to actually read the article, but you can’t get mildly cranky over a cover a magazine without at least skimming the text. Ok, it’s actually kind of creepy. There’s a lot of accidental animal death, so I guess you could call it the story of a Brooklyn family of bunny and duck killers. Dark comedy or not, god invokes his wrath on the city slicker by sending a rare, inexplicable tornado to destroy his fecund patch of land. Now, it all makes sense. We have Manny to blame for the freak weather incident last month.

If I have to agree with one sentiment, it’s the final sentences:

“It wasn’t just a matter of buying regionally, or seasonally, or organically—the important thing was to consume responsibly. ‘I’ll never be as wasteful,’ she said. ‘We throw away more food than we eat.’”

That’s a lesson I don’t need to learn from growing my own food, and it’s exactly why I have to eat all the crap stored in my freezers. There’ll be no waste (or bunny or duck maiming) in this household.

*Hilarious non-New Yorker cartoon lifted from CartoonStock. I wish I knew who Dave was.

When Life Gives You Lemons...

Every so often I have severe lapses in judgment that can hardly be explained away. There’s no way that ingesting only lemon juice, cayenne pepper and maple syrup for ten days can possibly be good for you. Call it a detox, a cleanse, whatever, but it’s got to be quackery. I thought so, and yet I couldn’t resist giving it a go. And well, the experience was extremely short-lived and beyond disastrous.

I was gung ho yesterday morning, drank my not all that grotesque concoction during the day and began feeling cloudy headed around lunch time. There’s no way I was starving already but figured I was missing my two usual cups of coffee. Around 2:30 I started getting a pounding headache and began sweating and getting dizzy and seriously started having second thoughts.  Even though it would ruin my detox, I thought I would eat some lettuce so I ran downstairs and got a salad at Au Bon Pain. Before I could get back to my desk I started heaving and had to run to the communal one-stall bathroom and violently puked off and on for five minutes. My face was soaked in sweat and red as a ripe tomato (I always use a tomato to describe my face because I can’t think of a better description). All I could think was that I had to get out of there and get home somehow.

This is one of the many reasons why living in NYC sucks. Getting home rapidly is an ordeal and affords no privacy. At least in the rest of the country, if you’re sick you be so in the privacy of your own car. I considered getting a cab but that made me more nervous. I was going to have to subway it. Normally, I take two with a 10 minute walk but the walk seemed too treacherous so I had to do three subways. Miraculously, they all met up. The J came quickly, I switched to the A and it came immediately and I got a seat because it wasn’t quite rush hour but I was holding in vomit and sweating profusely the entire two stops. Then at Jay St. the F was sitting across the platform, which never ever happens. And it was nearly empty, so I took a seat and the guy across from me was skeeving me out, he kept staring at me and whispering to himself and I was a little delirious at this point and he might’ve been reading lines but I felt like I was being harassed, and the train wouldn’t go, it was just sitting there tormenting me.

I totally freaked out, jumped off and started barfing all over my salad in its bag. I was trying to get everything out so I could get back on the train but the doors started closing and I couldn’t stop wretching and I felt like my brain was swelling and hitting my skull. I almost started crying because I just wanted to get home and now I couldn’t stop puking and had to wait for another subway. I really felt crazy and unstable and swore people were looking at me exaggeratedly like I was high and paranoid. Well, I was hurling into a plastic bag but that’s nothing in the scheme of things. I’ve seen much worse.

So, I did manage to wait ten minutes or so for the next train and last the next two stops and the five blocks to my apartment before practically spewing out my entire stomach lining. I lied in bed from 5pm to about 9pm when I got up, tried to watch TV and ate one bite of cheese and one bite of granola bar. I promptly threw those up and went back to bed until 8am this morning when I tried to get up for work, decided to work from home, then felt too ill to even do that and went back to bed at 10am where I stayed until 1pm. It’s now 4pm and I still feel like shit (though I can now eat). And I feel like the outer layer of enamel has been eaten off my teeth and my throat and esophagus have been bathed in acid.

I don’t understand how just drinking lemon juice, cayenne and syrup for a day could make one so ill. Of course, all the hardcore diet freaks would just say that it was because I was so full of toxins that I was having a serve reaction and that I should stick with it. I say that’s nuts and that a regimen that induces severe vomiting can’t possibly be healthy. If anything, I was poisoned and not already full of poisons.

Or maybe I really am addicted to caffeine, sugar and fat. My last lapse in diet judgment occurred back in 2003 when I wanted to see what all the Atkin’s hubbub was about. I also threw up repeatedly the day after starting that horrible routine and had welts and hives all over my chest the entire six weeks I did it. And I lost a measly six pounds, which is what anyone would lose by just eating healthier for six weeks. On the other hand, I lost six pounds since yesterday with this wonderful master cleanse. Seriously. Puking ten times in a day apparently melts away the pounds. But I was trying to detox, not involuntarily become bulimic.

Make it a True Daily Double

(Paraphrasing because I was only half-watching) “Which section of the New York Times allows critic Frank Bruni a $350,000 annual budget for expenses?” (And my own question, who's flying him first class to Moscow?)

No one on this evening’s Jeopardy knew the answer (ok, Tim Abou-Sayed from Florida did eventually come up with “what is restaurants” as a sheer guess, right at the buzzer and after a miss from the ultimate winner Monica Lenhard of Michigan answered, “theater”).

Not that Jeopardy contestants are representative of the nation at large (more informed yet more socially retarded) but it relieved me that clearly no one outside of New York reads the New York Times dining section. I like to be reminded that NYC is not the center of the world, even though I admit to feeling anxious and out of touch with local media when I’m out of town (which is why I was reading “Off the Menu” on vacation in ’05 and learned about Fatty Crab. This was pre-food blog glut by the way, when I relied on print for restaurant openings. I swear I’m not obsessed with hating/loving Fatty Crab—I think I just like typing the word fatty).

Sometimes I wish I didn’t know things, the kinds of things in the New York Approval Matrix. I don’t want to know who The Splasher and Boerum Hill Crapper are (ok, maybe the crapper is alright), yet I do. Why? The person I live with has no knowledge of any of this non-importance (though it’s not as bad as the sixth grade dropout boyfriend raised in an orphanage who had never watched TV in his entire life. Honest to god, he had no clue who Tom Cruise was and that’s a hard one to avoid). Easily 85% of the people I come into contact daily for business and pleasure are not familiar with useless New York-ish pop culture talking points. Should I stop reading self-referential blogs for sanity’s sake? It’s not like I impress anyone with witty, informed banter. In fact, I often go all day without uttering more than a sentence or two, which likely contributes to my urge for spewing nonsense here.

Last night I saw an ad for a job I’d be perfect for. Not a cool job, library work, but definitely not hip as all (northern) Brooklyn librarians apparently now are. It involved food marketing. But it was in Virginia. I’ve seen Chicago ads and seriously think, but Virginia? Uh uh (it doesn’t help that James’s parents live in that state and would kill for him to live closer to home). It’s really out of the country or not at all.

Saturday I was informed that Manila might be in a business trip future. I’d love to go to the Philippines and have been interested in the country (well, the food) since I was a teenager. Shanghai was also tossed out as a possibility for the fall, maybe both. Could I stop reading the New York Times and placeblogs, whatever the fuck those are, for at least a few weeks?

Last month everyone (in the blogosphere, duh--my god, it’s worse than I thought) was doing the let’s live on food stamp allotments challenge (I had food stamps in college and ate quite well--$112/month for a Northwestern 19-year-old in ’91 was a lot of extra money. That doesn’t seem right considering that same state’s average allotment appears to be less sixteen years later). Boring. Maybe I’ll do the same with regional periodicals and blogs. You know, doing without, living like the poors. But then, I’d miss the rare, cool non-NYC-centric chain restaurant article like this one appearing in tomorrow’s print edition.

It’s not like I’m moving (back) to Oregon anytime soon. Wild west or not, the rugged individualist state probably isn’t all that welcoming of outlaw chefs. Jason Neroni will only luck out because no Oregonian has any inkling or interest about what goes on in NYC. God bless them.