Red Sauce

I Like My Oysters With Just Lemon, Thanks

Aah, yes, blogging. I have not been so into it, lately, as you can see.
So, I am here today to tell you the obvious. Blogging will be sporadic but still here in the future.
I am just not feeling the blog lately. I am feeling dreadful and embarrassed that this has become more diary than anything else and that grosses me out, as any articulate might say.
One too many people in my life have cut me off, mid-story to tell me, “Oh, I know that already, I read it in your blog.”
My intention was not to make this a diary. But alas, intentions are meaningless sometimes.
Let me just recap some great food moments of late and then hope that when I begin working at home in my skivvies in a couple of weeks, I will have more interesting things to share than what I ate, where I ate it and what I am thinking about Mariah Carey and/or my mother that day. Oy vey…
Oysters, Crab, Aretha
Crab cake, oysters, at Grand Central Oyster Bar.
Crab cake, not freshly cooked. And oddly seemed deep fried. But nice big lumps of crab in there.
Oysters—I have decided definitively after oyster eating binges lately, my favorite oysters are Malpeques.
Spare ribs, shrimp wonton soup at N.Y. Noodle Town.
Proscuitto, Arugula pizza at Graziella’s.
On another note—the lovely Aretha (this review says she was recovering from a cold in Boston) has lost some of her Aretha range. And her show was something like a Vegas-act with old jazz standards sung in between some Aretha-classics. But she’s still the queen. Seeing her live, though, a bit sad these days.
But I have faith that she will be singing the national anthem at one of the Tigers' World Series games!!!
Go Tigers!

Sending Props to the Ghetto Chicken Shack

Once, while treading up a low hill near Lake Michigan in Chicago, a bird shat on my mother’s shoulder. We were headed up to meet some of my friends for brunch and as my mother huffed and puffed her way up this little hill, a gray blob dropped from the sky and landed on the shoulder of her St. John suit.
She looked over at her broad shoulder and, in Italian said, “la mia fortuna.”
But is there such a thing as bad luck? Or black clouds or even mercury in retrograde?
Last night, I experienced a series of bad luck moments. Or what could be construed as bad luck moments.
A behemoth of a vehicle keeps breaking down on me. And I have no control over it. My presta valves on my beloved bicycles keep breaking off, leaving me with eventual flat tires. I am constantly changing tubes.
Finally, on a bicycle ride over to see a friend and to have some much needed drinks after a series of bad luck moments throughout the day, all the songs on my ipod mysteriously vanished. No more songs on my iPod. No more soothing Aretha, crazy Mariah, depressing Smiths. Nada. Nothing.
So, after sitting through trivia night at a Brooklyn bar, I headed to Crown Chicken for an 8 piece order of chicken nuggets and fries at midnight.
Crown Chicken’s nuggets are surprisingly tasty, all white meat and all 8 of them were surprisingly void of strange cartilage and/or rough bits. And the batter was salty and sweet. The fries were thin and crisp. Thank god for the corner, greasy chicken joint in the ghetto. People do not take them seriously. But, Crown Chicken is now my go to spot for after the bar and after a series of bad luck or just down days.
Everyone else who came in while I waited for my box of nuggets ordered Gyros (pronounced Jie-Rose). So, maybe I am missing out on something else at the Crown Chicken. But I am going to stick to their specialty. Thank god for Crown Chicken.

On an unrelated note--heads up to everyone on one of my favorite enlightening time wasters--Elisabeth Vincentelli's lovely blog here.

Rub My Fat Belly With Avocado

Give me some creamy guacamole, a pulled beef quesadilla, a plantain and black bean empanada and some prickly pear margaritas to start.
After that I want a caramel crepe filled with pistachio paste, covered in ribbons of chocolate and caramel, lying next to a round of homemade intensely vanilla ice cream and then I want an illicit tryst.
Thanks.
You ask for shit and you get it. This is my new revelation. It’s so powerful that I need to break it apart in pieces. First I will consider the cost.
Because inflated costs leave you not only with a bloated belly and a bloated credit card but an oddly configured ego that can make you a shut in on a rainy Saturday afternoon, throwing out old sweaters, shoes and listening to hours of Al Green and Aretha Franklin. Taking me home, ‘Ree.
Dos Caminos is excellent. But an overpriced bitch that I won’t be doing again anytime soon. And it was, yes, illicit, because the bitch did not really own up to her costs in dollars and sense right away. And you know, I didn’t ask, either.
And usually I give it up for restaurants that do a meal right. I give them that and say, eh, so the burger was $20, but it was a good fucking burger. So, the tryst made you lose sleep and throw out some perfectly good shoes. Eh, it’s a price you pay…
But for many reasons, quesadillas are a food that should always be reasonably priced. If it’s a duck in mole sauce, I expect you to give me an inflated price. But black beans and plantains and beef in a tortilla, should be delicately priced, just like a soft kiss on the belly. Aaaah, even an inflated belly likes to be kissed.
That’s what Mexican food should feel like when you are done, actually, no matter how bloated your belly is, it should just feel good. Mexican is the feel good food.
So the final bill for my Mexican belly kiss? $120. I do not scoff at spending money on food. Now that I no longer spend so much on pot, coke or alcohol, I indulge in the finer things that can stimulate my taste buds.
But baby, baby please, break it to me with a kiss on the belly.
The illicit tryst was only welcomed by an appetizer of waffles with fruit, caramel and fudge and that was all it needed.

Denied My Own Personal Cheese Pocket

Inside every burrito lies a cheese pocket. It’s a beautiful, warm cubby of melty cheese that is a pleasure to cut into whether you are holding the burrito in your hands or cutting it with a knife and fork.
The only problem that may incur with you enjoying a cheese pocket is if you don’t like sour cream and the burrito order comes and there is sour cream in your burrito. So you decide to take fork and knife to burrito to try to cut out sour cream parts. But then you find that underneath the sour cream parts, on the outside of the line of cream sandwiched between tortilla and sour cream, is your cheese pocket. You are totally screwed.
Unless you are willing to eat the sour cream, you can’t have what you have been looking forward to. You’ve really just been denied your joy. Well to be more exact, your joy is surrounded by something you loathe.
Foods from the weekend:
Friday evening: A bit chewy thin fried calamari rings and Mee Goreng (Indonestan style stir-fried egg noodles with shrimp rofu and bean sprouts) from Mai in Boerum Hill. The food is not outstanding here but it’s better than some other thai and south Asian food in Brooklyn. It’s all worth it to take in their lovely garden. It’s quiet, serene and green.
Saturday: Burrito with aborted cheese pocket noted above
Brie, Chevre and crackers with a very buttery Australian grenache.
Sunday: Buckwheat banana pancakes and bacon
Popcorn and a coke
Fake meat Chinese from Gobo
For entertainment? A marathon viewing of "Bad Girls” This UK soap is set in Larkhall prison. It reminds me of good ol’ Prisoner Cell Block H. But with no Bea, it can’t really compare but it’s good, addictive trash nonetheless.

On Both Coasts, Eyebrows Are In

“For women who overpluck, this season will be about growing your eyebrows back so that they have a natural arch that extends out and ends in a beautiful point,” said Pat McGrath, a makeup artist for Max Factor and CoverGirl and the creative director for Procter & Gamble Beauty.

I know a lot about a few things. But never that impressive to anyone. Want to know how they kill ducks for foie gras? I am your woman.
Want to know what kind of shape to put your brows in this fall? I have no idea. But I thought that Pat’s genius above might help us all out. Now, when I’ve been a bit lax in the tweezing department, I will decide I am just giving into fashion--the kind of slave I am to it, it makes sense. I should just throw my tweezers away as the Times headline tells me to. It’s fuzzy brow time, ladies! Wasn’t it that last year, too?
Ms. McGrath really takes her brow knowledge seriously. I like that she can say with no irony—“this season will be about growing your eyebrows back.”
She makes me think I am welcoming an old friend back, like school in September. My eyebrows come with complications just like some friends do. Taking eyebrows as well as unruly friends seriously is an intense and dedicated endeavor. I applaud the likes of McGrath. How do you do it?

Perfection Irritates As Well As It Attracts

On Madison Avenue on the upper reaches of the respectable bits of the Upper East Side there are quite a few signless restaurants and delis. The French cafés thankfully have tasteful shading that protect the delicate paleskins from the summer sun and heat while they sit on the sidewalk and eat perfect omelets with perfect mixed green salads. The awnings delicately announce the cafes names.
But, in life you have to come to terms with the fact that rarely can you see what you are getting yourself into. And on the Upper East Side you have to come to terms with this fact as well as the idea that this is not your home and there are secrets within these clear windows that you can only figure out if you dare to go in. You just have to decide which one to take a chance with.
So, it takes some wandering before I decide where it is I will buy my lunch. For this, I usually have in in my right hand, my new go to friend - Raspberry sorbet on a sugar cone from Ciao Bella. The two hefty scoops my new friend at the ice cream shop plops on top of the cone gingerly, pressing them down into the cone and on top of each other contain such an intense raspberry flavor that it is amazing that the only ingredients are raspberry, ice and sugar. It just seems like something artificial has to go into it to make this flavor so purely raspberry.
Walking up and down and trying to decide whether or not the woman outside Yura and Company is going to go home and take a bottle of pills or spend the afternoon at pilates because of the years of her husbands absences and dalliances that have just washed away any color from her pale brown hair is much more satisfying with the sweet, intense raspberry cone in hand. But this woman, by the way, is really rocking that Lily Pulitzer skirt.
The Upper East Side and raspberry sorbet from Ciao Bella—two near perfect specimens of purity and my new guilty pleasures.

Big Muffins, Big Hills, Big Crab Cake

Against a brick wall they sat in their tight shirts and their tight shorts and their clicky clacky clipped shoes. In the early afternoon on a Saturday or Sunday at the Runcible Spoon in Nyack you will see at least one hundred of them, cyclists, drinking iced coffee, eating huge (albeit spongy) muffins and pouring cool brightly colored smoothies down their throats.
The Runcible Spoon is about a 25 mile ride from the George W Bridge in Manhattan through farm country and rolling suburban hill country. It’s lovely, but someone has to learn to make a better muffin there. After riding 30 miles there I was happy to have a huge muffin and a smoothie. But during my 30 plus miles back to my Brooklyn apartment, I unfortunately still felt that huge, dense, meatloaf textured-apple crumb muffin sitting at the bottom of my belly. I wonder if the sinewy cyclists are just used to this or only eat half a muffin at “the Spoon.”
But I didn’t puke. I loved me the crazy gearheads. Will go back next weekend.

Lemons Love Like No Other

When the lights went off and the lightning cracked, the waitress was scared.
“Ew, that was scary,” she said and you know if she were home in her apartment somewhere she would have turned her lights off and huddled in a corner. But waitresses have to at least seem like they are in control. So her little scared mouse moment actually threw me off. Something was really wrong here.
But again, at Mary’s Fish Camp, most anything can be forgiven. (Yes, again for the steamed lemon pudding and some fish.) Here’s a recipe posting that Willow (still pregnant) found that may be similar to Mary’s. Mary’s instead opts for the most luscious and creamy creme fraiche topping.
They served me lemons!! With my fish. This excited me to no end. I wondered then if there are some fish that people deem improper to serve lemons with. But I got the flounder and it came with a large wedge of lemon, a pile of asparagus, some mushrooms and a panko breadcrumb topping. It was lovely and fresh, and flaky and lemony, thanks to the wedge.
We also got Mary’s addictive and greasy (but greasy in a good way) shoestring fries and corn on the cob. I appreciate a restaurant that takes the time to undress a corn completely—taking all the nasty corn string off it. Mary’s did not do this. So at the bottom of the bowl, pile of nasty strings.
Somehow the whole night felt like some kind of disjointed mess. The steamed lemon pudding was right on. But the cracking lightning, the scared waitress and the wet bowl of string, an anomaly and not so indicative of our nice table with the three blondes next to us who just bought shirts at Pink and who were interested in our very insane discussion about how this amazing pudding got to be the way it is. Was it that the flour rested on top? Or is it all through and the heavier ingredients just settle to make a crust? These are the matters of life that count. Do the heavy things rise up or fall to the bottom and who can handle them either way?
And nothing, nothing just kind of happens. I mean after a night of perfectly cooked fish and perfectly steamed lemon pudding with a tedious discussion about the makings of said pudding, I know nothing in life just happens. Love, flirtations, an illicit, evil tryst are delicate matters. Both can’t just happen. They are shaped, cooked, if you will for moments on end, moment after moment all tied together with method and process.
Pudding has to be prodded, tempted into shape with boiling and stirring and measuring and timing. The texture, just the right firmness, suppleness, all taken into account. Then right when you are supposedly on your way home, it just sort of happens? No, things just don’t cook that way. They take longer. It’s more subtle. There are details. You find yourself with a mouthful of lemon pudding and you are like, what the fuck? I love lemon pudding. Whose lemon pudding is this? Not mine? Mine is taken. But go ahead, have some. It just kind of happened.
Nope, someone took care with that lemon pudding. Someone made that shit happen.
Willow and I got our own lemon pudding last night. Because sometimes sharing is just gross and a little dessert may not be enough for two people. Sometimes you need your own. We took the mature route and you know being mature is not about sharing and then laughing it off the next day. Nope, being mature is just about knowing what is yours and keeping your pants on.
I went home to not sleep a wink and to wake up and ride my bike like the wind. These are the times of the Gods.

I Loved My Gay Dead Dog and Pizza

A green t-shirt was tucked into her jeans that were sitting a little high on her waist and she started crying. She was tearing up and not wiping away the tears. And I thought, for real, this is not an outfit to cry in, sister.
Before us at the bar were two pizzas from Nolita House with two separate topping sets. One had fresh mozzarella, pepperoni, olives and mushrooms. The other one had sausage and arugula and fresh mozzarella. In tiny plastic cups there were rounds of brownies. Fucking Jackpot! And when you are too drunk to do anything but swivel a little in your seat and talk to a woman who is distraught over the death of her dog.
I mean, it’s a horrible, horrible thing, losing your dog. But it’s also an uncomfortable conversation to have. That's what my dead, gay dog Caesar looked like up there in that photo. He was a white German Shepherd.
On the other side of me was a crazy, lovely couple who has been sleeping on people's couches for two months now because their place is not done. The man was making a pyramid out of his $1 tips. And his wife was lamenting the fact that she had to pick up her children tomorrow from some place somewhere. But there were funny stuff. We talked about hair for a while and then they left and went to Lucien. I love these kinds of barflys. The soft-spoken, funny, and even sad, dog mourning kind. These are the kind that won't likely slur sweet nothings at you later. No, they will just talk about their annoying cow licks and building pyramids out of dollar bills. As my friends were busy discussing news topics and I was pleasantly planted in front of the pizzas and my three new best friends.
For the pizza, it was good. But I must add here now, that sauce---yes, red sauce, is an oft overlooked ingredient when people talk about pizza. There is the talk of the fresh mozzarella and the talk of the crust and the toppings. But a fresh, sweet and salty, pungent tomato sauce on top, makes my day.
Bravo.
As for the crust and the toppings? Well the sausage was thickly cut and beefy but nondescript in a supermarket kind of way. They both had decent crusts, thanks to the brick oven no doubt, and nice slabs of melted fresh mozzarella. It was way better than good bar food. But not pizza like this or this or absolutely not this. But still good stuff.

This Pizza Bought This Fuckin' Dodge

She couldn’t remember which New York City magazine it was.
"Was it TimeOut NY or New York Magazine that always fucked us,” she asked no one in particular.
With her bluetooth attached to her ear and her car keys in her hand, this woman, my soon to be new best friend, was asking this question as she swiveled on her barstool and looked out the windows of her restaurant at her Dodge minivan. She pressed a button on her keychain and opened the sliding door of her minivan that was parked outside.
“I love my Dodge,” she kept repeating. “I just love my Dodge.” And now slowly the door began to shut.
“Can you turn on the air conditioning from here, too?” I asked.
“What? Sheeeeiiit. What do you think this is a Toyota? It’s a Dodge. It doesn’t do that. But look, it opens the trunk.”
And there on Second Avenue between 80th and 81st, a navy blue trunk on an indiscreet minivan popped up and no one was near it.
This woman is the woman behind Totonno’s on the Upper East Side. When I first came in to order my two pizzas she was buying dvds from a woman who was selling them for $5. She was very excited about the action flicks.
One of my pizzas was topped abundantly with spicy, slightly thick and tangy pepperoni (some piled on top of one another on the pie) and thick cut mushroom. The other pizza was plain—just cheese. The pies are cooked in a lovely brick oven in the back and I talk a bit more to my soon to be new best friend.