Goodies First

May 18

Newborns: Cake & Pretzels

I’ve recently discovered two new treats that have made my day. (And no, Coca-Cola BlaK isn’t on my list, though I actually like it better than plain cola which isn’t saying much because most cola type beverages upset me.).

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Entenmann’s Ultimate Celebration Cake
It practically jumped off the shelf at me at Western Beef. Really, it’s just a yellow cake with chocolate frosting and circular sprinkles, but it’s so damn festive. It brought me joy on three separate occasions in the past week or so (that’s the benefit of junky preservative-laden snacks—they keep in the fridge for abnormal lengths of time). Watching Sunday night HBO can be a celebration, managing to make it to six o’clock without hurting others (or yourself) can be a celebration. Life can be one big freaking celebration. Thank you, Entenmann’s.

Snyder’s of Hanover Hot Buffalo Wing Pieces
Pretz has nothing over Snyder's. They already make those peculiar ochre honey mustard nubs that I find disgustingly tasty. They must put something extra in those artificial flavors to increase appetite. I’m able to resist Dorrito dust, but Cheeto powder has an allure. Wasabi peas too—I can eat a whole bag in one sitting, and almost did just that on Sunday.

But buffalo wing pretzels?! Is buffalo flavor the new ranch? That’s outrageous. The pretzel cubes are shocking orange and initially too tangy, but then you get a little spice and the vinegary quality is mitigated when the blander pretzel middle breaks open and mixes in your mouth. Not bad. And next thing you know, you’ve reached into the bag like ten times. Just imagine dipping these pieces in blue cheese dressing.

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May 17

My Way or the Fairway

Everyone has priorities in life. Me, I took a day off work to check out the new Fairway in Red Hook. I almost spontaneously gave my notice yesterday, which would've been severely stupid since I have zero job prospects at the moment. The only thing that kept me from walking out was the promise of a shiny, new Fairway to visit the following day. Seriously…I never claimed to be un-pathetic.

It's odd because in a car, it's only like five minutes to get to the end of Van Brunt St., but walking it seemed like more of a haul, maybe 30 minutes or so. I took the BQE foot bridge that's across the street from my apt. and then proceeded to get twisted around and ended up over off Lorraine St. where all those busted stores and laundromat are, at the end of the projects. Even the nasty now shuttered Court St. Key Food that the entire (blog) world hated would be an improvement over the Red Hook grocery situation. The Fairway is like a massive jump from shitty to super with never having spent any time in the mediocre middle.

I'm guessing I made it there around 10:35am and I was completely surprised by the lack of massive crowds. Not that I'm complaining, I'm severely pushy people-phobic. Of course, there was lots of rampant shopping cart banging and blocking and the usual slow movers and gawkers. But it was manageable. For a while, there might've been more press than public.

I got overwhelmed and only ended buying a Vitamin Water (lemon-lime perform because you know, I'm a high performing individual). Now that I'm back home and settled in, I wish I would've bought some snacks (there aren't any real grocery stores in Carroll Gardens proper since the Key Foods went bust. Jeez, I can't believe I've managed to bring up that abominable store twice in one post).

I've posted more images on Flickr (yes, I've started buying into the whole Flickr mania–though I could still take or leave You Tube) if you're interested.

The parking lot was about 85% full

They had just wrapped up a stirring rendition of "New York, New York"

The Brooklyn Eagle and either a co-owner or the landlord (I've seen this same man with two different names attributed to him in newspapers–maybe the landlord and owner are both large gray-haired men in overalls?).

ho I tCheeses of the

world

A cute alternative to the typical laughing cow cheese. I think the text was in Hebrew.

I'm not cheese obsessed, I was just trying to find something for price comparison. Blue Castello, one of my middlebrow favorites, was $4.29 (or $4.59–my mind is blanking) which seemed spendy. It's only 99-cents at the East Village Cheese Shop, but then theirs is also half-rancid half of the time.

The bakery scene. I managed to abstain from the free cookies

No crowd for meat

Awesome. The world has totally gone squeezable crazy. I mean, is there such a high demand for convenient cranberry sauce?

Bounty of produce. They had some nice looking heirloom tomatoes, but I wasn't on a mission to buy.

Just a lone mopper on this aisle

In case you were interested. I've always been scared of grocery store bathrooms so I didn't go in.

Firemen love dry aged meat. Isn't there a beefcake joke in there somewhere?

There was a mob for free samples of jumbo shrimp, off to the left.

No lines at checkout–I wonder how long that'll last.

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May 11

Singapore Cafe

You might think that I'd eat Malaysian/Singaporean food more than I do since those are my favorite countries to eat in and I'm frequently trying to reproduce the cuisine in my cramped kitchen, but I dine on Chinese and Thai fare way more often. Much of the fun of Malaysian fare is the hawker or food court experience, the caliber of the cooking itself and cheap cheap prices. It doesn't quite translate in NYC.

James and I did a Mott and Canal after work meet-up to see what struck our fancies. I couldn't make a restaurant decision (I've noticed one of the many downsides of my not-so-new-anymore job is that it has made me exhausted and indecisive) earlier so wandering seemed like a good antidote.

I'd eaten at Singapore Café, twice before, though not recently, and it appears to be under new management. They now have two menus, one Chinese and the other "Asian fusion" which contains the Singaporean stuff. That's an interesting tactic. I guess they think that no one knows what Singaporean food is because they explain it to you without being prompted, and it appeared that most diners were eating Chinese food either because they were Chinese or because they were tourists (yes, I'm generalizing).

We had adequate versions of char kway teow, roti canai, grilled chicken in pandan leaves and beef rendang. I'm sure purists would find nitpicking points galore, but it was about what I'd expected going in. It's wise to be wary of restaurants that offer two cuisines because it's likely one is going to suffer. I don't even know if there are any Malay-run Malaysian or Singaporean restaurants in NYC. It's a more Chinese-y kind of city, I think.

My only complaint was the hovering service, which I realize sounds petty considering many consider Chinatown the epitome of brusqueness (I do not). Everyone watched us like a hawk, filled drinks too frequently and generally made me self-conscious. Two of the waitresses kept staring at my feet and I couldn't figure out why. I was too unnerved to snap photos, primarily because I was convinced that it would lead the host to think we were tourists who'd never seen Singaporean food and he'd come over and school us. Maybe I'm just an unfriendly crab but I'm a leave me alone kind of person.

Singapore Cafe * 69 Mott St., New York, NY

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May 10

The Company I Keep

Though it’s doubtful, perhaps I’m maturing or getting taste, but the clothes are crap everywhere I look. Ok, I only looked at New York & Company but even amidst their mediocrity I often find one or two reasonable items (seriously, no one believes that I’ve actually unearthed unhideous duds there). Not so, recently.

I think it’s the midtown dilemma. Something that would be $9.99 in the boroughs (or the rest of America) seems to stay at $39.99 at this location. This shiny, newish NY & Co. lacks the chain’s major calling card: the sloppy sale rack. No one shops at the former Lerner because they actually love the clothes. At any Brooklyn branch, the full-priced front displays are desolate with just a lone security guard milling around. The crowds are all crammed in the back where the marked down stuff is.

Not only was former stalwart NY & Co. a bust when I paid a visit last week, but my go-to cheap shoe store, Strawberry, a couple store fronts down, had been decimated, it was just a shell. Not that I mind having that lame excuse for a Strawberry put out of its misery. I only went twice since setting up shop in this part of midtown and both excursions were beyond fruitless. The stock was depleted and miserable, and now I know why. Boo to the east 50s—Bloomingdale’s is no substitute when I need a cheap and borderline tacky fix.

New York & Company * 715 Lexington Ave., New York, NY

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May 6

Pacifico

1/2 There are moments made for mish mash. And those moments tend to involve alcohol impaired judgment. Pacifico, it turns out, is great for what it is: drunk food. Unfortunately, it almost became puke food after swilling mint juleps and bourbon slushes for five hours straight. Despite the burgoo and derby pie consumed earlier, I still needed a little padding of the stomach lining.

Beer and a carnitas quesadilla did more harm than good. The cheese and grease backfired and I was only able to eat one of my four stuffed tortilla wedges. It wasn't half bad, I just wasn't primed for eating. But I was happy the next day to have hefty leftovers as hangover food.

Pacifico * 269 Pacific St., Brooklyn, NY

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May 4

2 Comments

Asian Persuasion

I'm not sure that I'm loving it. I'm always willing and able to taste test a new fast food salad. And I'm a sucker for anything Asian. But, as I'm sure you know these "Asian" salads (Wendy's has had one for a while, though I've only tried it once) are eerily sweet and crunchy concoctions formerly known as Oriental. I think mandarin oranges means Oriental, right?

I rarely eat at McDonald's, and I find the menu baffling. If you don't want a value meal, you're mildly screwed. I hate soda, so I like to order a cheeseburger and fries a la carte, which is no easy feat but doable. The salads, however, aren't listed anywhere on the menu. I know they have four choices because I've looked online like a freak. The only hint that they sell even salads is the one color ad touting the Asian salad, Dasani water combo with a free exercise DVD. Nowhere can you see how much the salad costs by itself or what other options are available, and that's fundamentally irritating.

The chicken comes glazed with a sweet and sour orange sauce, so you already have a tangy, sugary component. If you use the entire packet of Newman's Own Low Fat Sesame Ginger dressing, you're in for a zingy not-so-pleasant surprise. I could barely slog through the chunks of white iceberg because my tongue was being zapped with citric jolts, and I only used about ? of the packet.

The edamame were a nice touch. I did like the slivered almonds, and prefer them to Wendy's crispy noodles (oh, I just checked-Wendy's has almonds and noodles-no wonder it's higher fat). Wendy's also wins out for using fresher greens and offering a slightly larger portion. Granted, salads aren't necessarily intended as hearty fare, but I don't want to be starving a few hours later, either. I might actually give it another go when I'm feeling particularly cheap and calorie conscious, but I'll by hyper diligent about portioning that damn dressing.

Oh, have you seen McDonald's i-am-asian section? It's not hideous and patronizing like it used to be. Now it's just kind of fun (yes, I find this kind of promotional crap fun) and informational. 365Black and LoMcximo, I'm not so sure about.

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May 3

Nine Lives

Catimage Lately when I get up in the morning, The Gray Cat is sitting on the temporarily gray (we still have the winter slipcover on—summer is turquoise) couch upstairs, which is good because it means he’s agile enough to get up the stairs. For a while he didn’t come up unless he was carried. I think the Gray Cat is 15, pretty old for cat, (I just realized my Portland cat, Li’l Smokey, is 11 now, which is crazy because she was like three when I moved to NYC. Er, I suppose that makes me eight years older, as well. My mom hasn’t mentioned her recently, which I hope doesn’t mean that she’s no longer with us, so to speak) and diabetic and I have this fear that I’m going to find him one day keeled over in the closet or sprawled out stiff on the sofa. I mean, he seems lively enough, but it crosses my mind. I was glad to find him awake this morning.

As I headed to the subway, my eye was caught by a make shift sign and a candle shrine on the metal fence of the apartment around the corner. I was hoping it wasn’t what I suspected it was. I totally started bawling (well, tearing up) when I saw the cat memorial for Angelica, the friendly little gray kitty who (I think) lived in the building with the wrought iron fence. I say I think because I never saw anyone feeding her or letting her in, but she had a collar (that I swear read Angelica, despite the R.I.P. sign saying Anjelica. The herb or Ms. Huston?) and wasn’t out in the middle of winter. She was almost always somewhere on our corner, behind a bush, lying on the sidewalk, hiding under a car, and would follow you around and roll around on her back until you pet her. She was one of the selling points of our apartment I was struck by how quiet and quaint the neighborhood was (never mind the BQE), tame enough to foster a resident outdoor cat. Plus, I liked the idea of living on Henry St.

When we first moved in I thought she was an outgoing stray. The pre-gentrifiers in our building (we were the first to move into the remodeled, likely-doubled-rent first floor apartment. Eventually, the upper three units were upgraded and re-inhabited with respectable folks) would leave paper plates with cat food in our yard for her. This stopped once our building filled up with fussier tenants, the kinds who worry about attracting rats and having junky overgrown patches of weeds in front. Once we felt bad for the cat because it was cold and it seemed like she wanted to come inside, so we brought her in and she totally freaked out and hid under the bed and hissed at Caesar, the only cat we had at the time. When I first saw the sign in the distance with her photo on it, I was hoping it was just a missing poster and that maybe someone else had simply smuggled Angelica into their apartment. No such luck, she probably used up her nine lives many times over.

I don’t know why a dead cat makes me so sad. It’s a fact of life. Now that I think about it, as a kid our cats came and went. One got hit by a car, one who knows, another was creepily found lifeless on the sidewalk on Halloween. Some wandered off never to be seen again, some mysteriously vanished, likely at the hands of parents who carted them off to the pound. Not a lot of sentimentality in my family. It bothers me more as an adult than it did as a youngster.

On my way out the door this morning, I debated whether or not I needed my camera in my bag, and took it out because it was too heavy (no, I don’t have a miniscule sleek model, and certainly no camera phone). Besides, I’m too self-conscious to snap photos in public half the time. But I kind of wish I’d had it to capture the cat shrine. Maybe after work, if I don’t feel too weird about it.

Angelica2
Would spray painting rest in peace my nigga Anjelica be a wholly inappropriate response?

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May 1

Sundays & Sundaes

Sundays suck, they've always sucked, and the older I get the more they seem to suck. There's just something dreary about a Sunday. As a kid, I remember them being gray and rainy and the tv shows were bad, no cartoons, all current events, sports or depressing fare like Grizzly Adams (the wistful folky theme song; the premise, a man on the run for crime he didn't commit; the era, 1970s masquerading as 1850s —so downtrodden and dirty). Obviously, this was pre cable tv or internet. I read in bed a lot during the afternoon. Now, I have other distractions, but there's still something dread-filled about a Sunday. I don't understand the whole "having a case of the Mondays" (what a poignant phrase) because by Monday you're already in the thick of it. Sunday you have a whole day to dwell on the awfulness of the impending week. Saturday I wake up no problem, but Sunday I often lay in bed well past noon, not really tired, but reluctant to get up because it means the weekend's end is drawing near and it's too much to bear. Melodrama aside, it's true. Motivation is tough even though it tends to be sunny in NYC. (Sometimes music helps—I'm very keen on the Envelopes today)

Today was balmy enough, and it was the opening weekend for the soccer and food stand extravaganza in Red Hook. I mean, it's only about a 12-minute walk from my apt. and it's not like you can get a decent taco anywhere in BoCoCa (oh, yes I did). After one massive huarache, I was done. I could've squeezed in an arepa, but didn't want to go overboard as I'm known to do.

The word huarache is amusing to me because if you recall huaraches, the sandals, were popular somewhere in the '80s. And my dad who had like zero accent (he would occasionally put the emphasis on the wrong syllable, but that's about it) would pronounce huarache with an insane amount of precision and Spanish flair. You know, like when newscasters speak standard English and then call Chile chee-lay. Every time my dad would theatrically say hurache, my sister and I would bust a gut and try and find ways to work the word into conversations just to get him to say it again.

Instead of going the more meat and corn route, I went wild and bought a baggie of fruit, which is very unlike myself because I rarely eat fruit. Nature's candy (what a crock) just doesn't do it for me, I have to force myself to eat it (I bought a bag of tangerines yesterday with the notion that I'll bring them to work as healthy snacks, but I see that lasting about one day). But I love the Mexican style of preparing mangos, which is actually very Thai right down serving the slices in a plastic baggie with disposable fork (dispensing beverages this same way, but with a straw, seems very precarious, however. See random person's photo for example). They sprinkle the fruit with salt, chile powder and lime juice (actually the Red Hook vendor used bottled lemon juice, but same idea) and you get that crazy salty/sweet/spicy effect. It's almost like you're not even eating fruit, which is a plus in my book.

So, my Sunday afternoon was tolerable but now it's starting to get dark out and night time means Monday is mere hours away and that's a hideous thought. At least I have some leftovers from yesterday's Sripraphai excursion to look forward to later. It's not a good thing when food is the only exciting part of your day (my cat is the same way. Do you think pets get their owners' personalities? Like Caesar, James's cat, is kind of prickly, keeps to himself and is not one for idle chit chat. The cat won't meow to save his life. Sukey, my cat, is talkative and constantly meowing and complaining and is obsessed with eating. In fact, she's starting to get a feline gut)…or life, for that matter.

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Apr 29

I’m Too Excited to Sleep

Actually, I can always sleep, no problem. I've never understood those Ambien addicts. I just get in bed and close my eyes and I fall asleep. But my wholesome sleeping habits aren't issue here. Though I haven’t noticed it in a few weeks, I was most disturbed when maybe a month ago I discovered that Disney World had dug up that extremely old commercial where the little boy at the end says in a peculiarly endearing voice (I’m only ever swayed by the use of pipsqueaks in advertisements maybe 2% of the time) “I'm too excited to sleep.”

Seeing it made me feel like I was going insane because I know that thing must be at least a decade old. I swear, my sister and I used to laugh at that commercial and we haven't lived in the same city and watched American TV together since 1994. That kid probably has kids of his own by now. At the very least, he’d be in college.

It’s not a classic like that Mikey Life cereal deal, so I don’t think they’re trying to capitalize on nostalgia. And I can’t imagine that Disney World is so cheap that they’d be forced to re-use a twelve-year-old commercial. There’s nothing distinctly dated about it, the hairstyles are kind of neutral and the family is wearing pajamas rather than clothes so there’s little giveaway there either.

Slightly less baffling, but no less confusing is how I keep seeing Sonic ads when there aren’t any Sonics even remotely near NYC. And they're not planning on coming here any time soon, if I'm to believe their map. The nearest location is 123 miles away in Ephrata, PA. Isn’t that wrong somehow? Aren’t ads sold in targeted markets? When I first moved here I went nuts every time I saw an ad for Friendly’s because I’d never heard of such a place and it sounded so likeable. You know, friends and ice cream, it doesn’t get any better. But the only one in NYC, at least at the time, was at a Staten Island mall. I did end up going almost two years later (scroll to 6/13/00 if you’re that bored/curious–it was too much trouble to import ancient entries by date) and it was a bit of a freak show. I’m not sure if it’s worth a two-hour drive just for Tea & BLT.

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Apr 27

Las Ramblas

Tapas are tricky. I love the little morsels, but I'm averse to the little rooms that usually go along with the package. It's not like I'm accustomed to large open spaces in NYC, but tapas in particular seem synonymous with long waits and being squished. Um, and I have my own issues with bar stools: one, my balance is horrendous, I feel like I'm going to topple over, and two, I have a fat ass, at least fat enough to mush over the sides of many stools' tiny circular tops.

I shied away from Tia Pol for ages because I thought it would be a nightmare, and it wasn't at all. Las Ramblas is more how I envisioned Tia Pol to be, if that makes any sense. Not a nightmare by any means, but bedroom-sized with a handful of nearly touching tables. When I arrived there were actually two spots open, but they wouldn't seat me without my dining companion so I waited the four-stooled bar. Of course, the place filled up in mere minutes and when James showed up we just ate at the bar because there was no telling if anyone was ever going to leave (we were asked if we wanted an open table about half way through, but we were already established where we were).

We didn't go wild with ordering, just four items, and pretty basic ones at that. Everything was likeable, but perhaps a notch below the dishes we had at Tia Pol (I'm only using them for comparison because it's the most recent tapas experience I've had, though it wasn't all that recent).

Simple gambas. There was something almost Caribbean about the preparation. Instead of simply sliced garlic, it was like they'd used a sofrito.