Kashkaval

This post was supposed to be about Hand to God, the "well-reviewed, recently shuttered Off-Broadway production that revolves around a demonic sock puppet." It's currently playing for a second round at the Ensemble Studio Theater, uptown and all the way over between 10th and 11th ave. Megan and I tried for tickets two Mondays ago only to find the show sold out, and last Monday, well, we missed the show.

We met at our favorite wine bar, Kashkaval, for a 'quick glass of wine and maybe some hummus or something'. Good intentions, I swear to you. But one glass turned into two, and hummus turned into a platter, stories turned into laughter and two minutes before curtain we found ourselves huffing up the theater steps, tickets in hand. They oversold that show, we quickly learned, and gave away our seats. That happened.

No matter! We are trying again tonight! Third time's a charm, right? Let's talk about Kashkaval.

Kashkaval is the perfect spot to meet before attending theater on Broadway (or at the Ensemble Studio Theater, as we are tonight), seeing a show at the dreaded Terminal 5, or taking a much needed break from an art fair. The wine list is generous, the service friendly, and the food is meant to be shared. We love the giant beans (giant beans? Is that a thing?), hummus, tahini, spinach, and olives. I asked our waitress for the funkiest red wine they served and I swear to you it tasted like a barnyard. Perfection.

Megan and I, after, well, two glasses of wine, both declared it our 'favorite wine bar in all of the land!' But even today, after nothing but iced water (so far) it might still hold true. Yes, it's all the way up and all the way over but perhaps one of these nights I'll make a special trip and stay for dinner. But tonight!--- theater. Round 3.

Black Mountain Wine House

I know. I know, I know, I know. I've been away from this space for a million years (since Halloween? Eeks.) But life has been a little nutty recently and I didn't feel like writing. That's just the truth. That's real life. Life got weird and then it got bad and then better, and now it's just plain BETTER and I'm back and I'm fine and let's talk about wine!

This Christmas, instead exchanging gifts, two of my girlfriends and I treated ourselves to dinner and told each other how appreciative we are of each other. It started out as a joke, (it sounds so lame and corny, doesn't it?) but in the end it was really lovely. How often do you do that with your girlfriends? Just look them straight in the eye and say 'I really like this about you'? Not enough! Maybe never! It's a little awkward! But-- as a wise woman once said--- I like corny. I've been looking for corny. My friends said that they appreciate me for the good advice that I give. Isn't that the nicest!? Thanks, girls. I love my gift.

This little verbal gift exchange took place at one of my favorite spots in New York the world-- Black Mountain Wine House in Carroll Gardens. I wasn't initially going to share the name of this little gem in fear of it becoming garishly crowded and famous, but another bloggie already gave it up today, and, well, sharing is the right thing to do. We sat in the back corner, right next to the most perfect little fireplace, sipped champagne, and then Pinot Noir, munched on cheese and meatballs, and just plain enjoyed ourselves.

In addition to our appreciation conversation we talked about 2011 in it's entirety. We went month-by-month and rehashed the craziness of being women in our 20s figuring it all out. Katie lived in Germany for the first six months of 2011. Alison got to spend an entire week in Miami with her sweet mother. I traveled to Florida three times this year (what?!)--- the first time alone, the second time with a boy, and the third time in panic. Life is weird!

And now it's suddenly Christmastime and I've never been more ready to celebrate. Cheers, my lovelies. Here's to us.

Cochinita

Photo: Michael Allin

WHAT THE....?!?!

Again. When I lived in Clinton Hill, just ONE YEAR AGO, we had to walk for years to find a decent place to eat/drink/not do our laundry. Now, it seems, the neighborhood has decided to wake up, stretch, and put on a decent outfit. First Hot Bird, followed by Fulton Grand, then Brooklyn Victory Garden (BVG is so great!) Then came Beny's, Hanson Dry, and Dean Street. And now THIS!?

According to Grub Street,

“I’m a gringo preaching the taco gospel,” says Los Angeleno Adam Frank, a former event planner and gallery director who soft-opens the taco shop Cochinita on Friday. Frank is willing to concede that New Yorkers’ understanding of Mexican cuisine has progressed “beyond the ingredients for nachos,” but ascertains that there’s still plenty of work to be done. He makes the process relatively painless, though: You order your $3.50 tacos by penciling in a form, checking off fillings, sides, and condiments. Then a cashier rings it all up on an iPad — a transaction we imagine wasn’t much in evidence in the Mexican wholesale-market food stalls that inspired the shop’s design. The corn tortillas are made in house, and the pork in the signature taco filling, the Yucatán specialty cochinita pibil, is humanely raised. (Humane treatment extends to vegetarians, as well, via a few meat-free options.) There’s flan for dessert and beer on the way.

Cochinita, 922 Fulton St., nr. St. James St., Clinton Hill; 718-789-7700

Humrph. Good luck trying to get everyone to my new, fancy, hood now, huh?

Pier 6, Brooklyn Bridge Park

Good news, just steps from my front door:

The eating options in Brooklyn Bridge Park will spread south to Pier 6 on May 28 when Bark, the haute dog spot in Park Slope, Brooklyn, opens a stand there serving franks and burgers, along with ice cream from Blue Marble and Uncle Louie G’s, and sandwiches from Milk Truck Grilled Cheese. Later next month it will move to a terrace cafe on the pier with 200 seats and will start serving beers from Sixpoint Craft Ales and wine. The stand will be open Saturdays and Sundays, then the terrace will be open Friday nights, Saturdays and Sundays through Labor Day.

Who wants to join me for a grilled cheese and a Sixpoint on the terrace at Pier 6? Done.

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Babycakes NYC

Okay! Further delaying the inevitable! Let's talk about cookies!

I first read of Erin McKenna on the Awl a few weeks ago, completely impressed with her savvy business model and jealous of her cute haircut. Babycakes is a 100% vegan, gluten free, wheat free, sugar free, most-allergen-free bakery on the Lower East Side, just a short jaunt from my office. I don't have any allergies, but I do like a fresh idea (well, it's been open for years, I'm late on this train) and am a sucker for pink icing.

So a few days later I slipped over to Babycakes on my lunch break and tried a cookie sandwich. Holy balls, people. TRY A COOKIE SANDWICH. I've been back twice since my initial visit, shoving them into the slightly skeptical fists of my friends and coworkers, then watching their reactions with an anticipation not unlike Doc Brown with his flux capacitor, coconut oil in place of plutonium.

But don't let the vegan-gluten-whatever stuff fool you, these are neither healthy nor bland. They aren't the least bit dry, and they are hands down my favorite treat in all of New York City. Even Alison agrees, and she's a tough crowd on baked goods. Okay, I don't have a whole lot else to say on the subject, but I just felt the need to share.

And now... a video.

BabyCakes NYC: Frosting Party! from BabyCakes NYC on Vimeo.

Salt Bar

Pre-pre-Mynabirds John and I had after work cocktails (well, after work for me, early morning for John, who slept until 3pm that day and had a Sidecar for breakfast, eh hem) at the only open establishment we could find on the LES. Is 5:30 on a Monday too early to start drinking? Yeek.

At any rate, we were the first customers in this warm little bar chock full of things that white girls I like-- fancy cocktails for under $10, small plates, salty olives, vintage wallpaper, reclaimed wood, a friendly Aussie bartender, and a Pandora station set to play things like the Xx, Thom Yorke, and Beach House.

Two hours later, we were best friends forever with a couple honeymooning in NY from London, throwing high-fives with the aforementioned Aussie, and having heated discussions cross-bar about Florence and the Machine, Black Swan, and the National Board of Review.

I'm told that Salt Bar gets over crowded on weekends, as all LES spots do, but for one cold night in what-felt-like-was-the-middle-of-winter-but-was-actually-the-beginning-of-spring it was our own little Cheers. And for the record, I loved Black Swan, and let's all go back soon.

Dean Street

As I mentioned last week, my ol' stomping grounds are suddenly becoming the place to be. Shocking! Last week, just blocks from the aforementioned Hanson Dry, Dean Street opened in the old Tavern on Dean building, with The Spotted Pig's Nate Smith signed on as head chef, and his wife Sophie Kamin of Four & Twenty Blackbirds as pastry chef. Again, SHOCKING. (I actually had no idea that Tavern on Dean had closed, but to be honest, I was okay with it. They weren't all that friendly there.)

The menu is tiny-- one fish option, one pasta, a rocking burger, two salads, etc. The decor is minimal, which serves to lovingly recognize the beautiful old bar and dark woodwork that Tavern on Dean never quite understood. The apple pie is outstanding, and the fries still resemble potatoes. The staff is green, to say the least, but they will get better.

Smith's menu seems to reflect the new Brooklyn standard of good food made well-- a simpler dining option, consciously removed from the decedent and overly sauced Spotted Pig. (He brought along the deviled eggs though, and thank goodness for that.)

The best part? Dean Street is eons away from anything else. It's a little gem just off Atlantic (the dodgy end) that aims to serve locals without pomp. Let's go back soon.

**That salad photo is not from Dean Street, but I didn't bring my camera and there isn't another photo to be found! Why is no one writing about this place? Lovely Day: on the pulse.

Hanson Dry

Since my departure last April, Clinton Hill appears to have gotten noticeably cooler. First Fulton Grand, then Brooklyn Victory Garden, then Beny's, and now THIS!? When I lived in Clinton Hill, the best thing on Fulton was Clean Rite University. And Putnam Candy Store.

Al, Beth, and I tried Hanson Dry for the first time last week, pleased as punch to be drinking fancy cocktails so close to home. (Well, Al's home. I had to take the G.) The dark and manly interior fits nicely with the current 60's Mad Men trend sweeping the borough and I hope it sticks around. It was kind of empty that Friday.

We tried to order drinks based on our personalities, but failed miserably. I ordered the 'classic' (ha!), Alison opted for the 'even' (sorry, but no.) and Beth tried the 'stealthy' (fail.) Tasty, though, every one of them.

Next time I'll bring my camera (there isn't a single current photo out there!) and I think I'll try the Kaboom. Sounds about right.

Victory 44

As mentioned, I traveled to the land of Fitzgerald (and Freedom, and A Serious Man and all of my collegiate memories) last weekend. I was honored to be included in a conference about art, welcomed by shockingly orange maples and the heavenly scent of chocolate Malt-O-Meal hanging thick in the air. Oh, sometimes I miss Northfield more than I care to admit.

It was a big weekend indeed, topped by a last minute dinner with The Great Mach1. We drove Saturday night from Northfield to Minneapolis in search of a new restaurant and long overdue banter. We found both at Victory 44 in North Minneapolis, where we quickly settled into cafe seating and generous laughter, playing the parts of the old friends that we are not.

Victory 44 specializes in small plates which happens to be my favorite way to dine. I like the idea of a group of people tasting food together and in small quantities. It's less overwhelming and more fun and just talking about it makes me miss Barcelona, though I've never actually been. Anyone up for a quick trip to Catalonia? I'm DYING to go. Anyway. We ate apple toothpicks and pork belly and salted peanut butter cookies the size of quarters. We split a serious bottle of Côtes du Rhône (no funny wines for us), although (you don't know this, Will) my throat was too sore to taste it. Seriously-- felt like someone had scraped out my pharynx with a spoon.

We talked about life and relationships and art. About food and families, and Rome and about our own worst qualities. I delighted in the strong cheese pairings while Will secured a gorgeous dessert platter. I won a bet over the flavoring of a salad dressing (I said mustard seed, he said cumin) and I don't think they charged me for my last glass of wine.

Was it perfect? No. The lighting could have been a bit dimmer, the art less cliche, and the noise more subdued. I wished my throat didn't hurt like it did and I wished there was a dark little wine bar nearby where we could have finished off the night with something bitter. And midway through a sentence about, I don't know, Why Amsterdam Isn't All That, William witnessed a street fight from his view out the front window. I turned to see four people throwing punches, I kid you not!

We did shut the place down, though. We left inspired and satisfied and eager for more meals spent exactly in this spirit. Next stop for small plates, Mach1? SPAIN. (Or at the very least, Brooklyn.)

PHOTO: Not from Victory 44, as I left my camera in the car. But I did take this one, at Char No. 4 in Brooklyn, which has a similar name. So there ya go.

Alma

And the bookend to my Hot Bird post... Alma.

Very few invites would have willed me to leave my apartment at 8:30 last night after said epic weekend, where I could be found enjoying a Sunday evening in the exact fashion that I prefer to be enjoying a Sunday evening-- finishing a project on the floor in sweatpants while watching Tracy Lord berate C.K Dexter Haven.

However, when a call came to grab a late dinner at Alma, I leapt out of the sweatpants and into-- oh, ya know, clothes-- and practically ran the four blocks from Congress to Degraw to drink in the sunset with a nice, tall cucumber margarita in hand.

The food is perfectly fine and the prices slightly annoying for tacos, but that margarita was divine and that view-- that view!-- worth leaving even Cary Grant in the dust for.

But the real reason that I went to Alma--the reason that I've been dying to go since hearing of it exactly one month ago-- wasn't for the short distance or even for the sunset. I've wanted to go for its name. Alma, in case you have forgotten, is the name of both female leads in Nicole Krauss's The History of Love.

And why would someone ever chose a restaurant based on its name? I don't really have an answer for that, other than that the name itself is significant in the text, and is in many ways, the driving force behind the story. And because sitting at a place named 'Alma' reminds me of chapters such as this:

"So many words get lost. They leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. On rainy days, you can hear their chorus rushing past: IwasabeautifulgirlPleasedon’tgoItoobelievemybodyismadeofglass-I’veneverlovedanyoneIthinkofmyselfasfunnyForgiveme….

There was a time when it wasn’t uncommon to use a piece of string to guide words that otherwise might falter on the way to their destinations. Shy people carried a little bunch of string in their pockets, but people considered loudmouths had no less need for it, since those used to being overheard by everyone were often at a loss for how to make themselves heard by someone. The physical distance between two people using a string was often small; sometimes the smaller the distance, the greater the need for the string.

The practice of attaching cups to the ends of string came much later. Some say it is related to the irrepressible urge to press shells to our ears, to hear the still-surviving echo of the world’s first expression. Others say it was started by a man who held the end of a string that was unraveled across the ocean by a girl who left for America.

When the world grew bigger, and there wasn’t enough string to keep the things people wanted to say from disappearing into the vastness, the telephone was invented.

Sometimes no length of string is long enough to say the thing that needs to be said. In such cases all the string can do, in whatever its form, is conduct a person’s silence."

And this:

"My brother and I used to play a game. I'd point to a chair. "THIS IS NOT A CHAIR," I'd say. Bird would point to the table. "THIS IS NOT A TABLE." "THIS IS NOT A WALL," I'd say. "THAT IS NOT A CEILING." We'd go on like that. "IT IS NOT RAINING OUT." "MY SHOE IS NOT UNTIED!" Bird would yell. I'd point to my elbow. "THIS IS NOT A SCRAPE." Bird would lift his knee. "THIS IS ALSO NOT A SCRAPE!" "THAT IS NOT A KETTLE!" "NOT A CUP!" "NOT A SPOON!" "NOT DIRTY DISHES!" We denied whole rooms, years, weathers. Once, at the peak of our shouting, Bird took a deep breath. At the top of his lungs, he shrieked: "I! HAVE NOT! BEEN! UNHAPPY! MY WHOLE! LIFE!" "But you're only seven," I said."

And then I'm reminded of another character in The History of Love whose name is Bird. Like Hot Bird, get it? A bookend, indeed.

Hot Bird

Hot Bird! Not only does this new bar on the corner of Atlantic and Clinton have the best new bar name around, but it also has a great outdoor space that isn't yet taken over by bouncers and motorcycles. It's just around the corner from my old stomping ground, rocks an antique tap, and served as the jumping point for what turned into a certifiably epic weekend.

Plus, they played vintage Dolly Parton for us all night long, and if Dolly doesn't put you in a good mood, I don't know what will. (Well, until happy hour ended at least, and we got hungry. Hot Bird isn't serving food yet, which is confusing as the name DOES allude to chicken. Although it is obviously named after those awesome yellow ads that have graced Atlantic Avenue for years, everyone knows that.)

***NOTE: This bar is so new and random that I am actually one of the first people to have written about it, or so it seems post-google search. NY Mag hasn't picked it up, and I can't find a website for the life of me. Just remember that you HEARD IT HERE FIRST. Lovely Day: On the pulse.

The Wednesday Chef: A Helluva Town

A nice start to my Monday morning--- Luisa's very sincere tribute to New York on her blog, The Wednesday Chef. Enjoy.

***Note: although I read her blog daily, I have only attempted one of Luisa's recipes. During Meghan's last visit to Brooklyn (second to last visit, if you include that rushed dinner at Cafe Luxembourg a few weeks back) we made Testaccio's Gnocchi alla Romana. Despite looking nothing like the photo and tasting somewhat bland, it ended up being one of my better nights in this city. We squeezed the ghocchi assembly in between Up in the Air at BAM, a rushed trip to Whole Foods on the Bowery, and a few bottles of Olivino red. I should cook more, I really should.

Public

Why Public claims to be 'library' themed, I do not know. I was expecting something more like Union Hall, where there are things like books and bookshelves everywhere. Public DOES have what look to be POs but might actually be old school card catalogs? (For those of you who did not attend St. Olaf College, POs mean 'post office boxes', as pictured above.) Public felt more, I don't know, breezy. And, come to find out, it is actually an Australian resty, so I was kind of on target with my breezy assessment. Who knew?!

At any rate, my roommate and I were out last night celebrating Katie's recently awarded FULBRIGHT TO GERMANY (my roommate is mad smart) and my, well, gift card. Dinner was lovely-- the good people at Public gave us free champagne and the scallops really are that good. I had the lamb, Katie had the venison. We shared candied brussels sprouts, an avocado lentil salad, and a salted chocolate mousse with two spoons.

Our conversation spanned the globe-- from German grocery stores to health care to a shared childhood obsession that I will not mention here. But even through our ever present laughter, our sentiment held a tone of muted sadness-- for we both know that our lives are quite suddenly changing at a rapid speed. It's the end of an era, people. Four residents of 50 Downing who drink coffee together each morning will each go their own way come fall. Until then, more scallops, please. Until then, more champagne.

Woodwork

After a crazy, rainy Sunday spent in the farthest reaches of Queens, I needed a shower, a blowout, some makeup, and most importantly-- Brooklyn normalcy. I also needed a glass of heavy red, real conversation, exposed brick. What we got was exactly that-- plus a fellow redheaded waiter with a fully formed elimination plan for the French (but not France), a clear opinion (our ricotta is crap, stick with the manchego) and comped glass of Quinta do Crasto Douro (yum).

You will need to forgive the good people at Woodwork for describing themselves and a 'sexy soccer bar' and just give them props for making it into New York Magazine's 'Best Of' issue within its first few months of opening. Alison and I read the entire issue aloud on the 7 train (to the ends of the earth), and noted Woodwork as the best soccer bar in NY.

Well, we don't necessarily like soccer, but we do like soccer fans and we do like new bars that we can walk to from our apartments. We also like things like reclaimed wood (from a Massachusetts dairy farm. Love that.), local produce, and $3 Red Stripe.

Go Arsenal!

Alice's Tea Cup

My dear friend Kelly's birthday presented the perfect opportunity to get out of Brooklyn on a cold and rainy Sunday and return to one of Manhattan's favorite girlie brunch locals this weekend-- Alice's Tea Cup.

We arrived in wind and rain, and happily settled into pink velvet banquettes to sip the famous 'birthday tea' with fluffy scones, tea-egg sandwiches, and pumpkin pancakes. We squealed like school girls at the butterfly tea stopper, the antique saucers, and the hand painted rabbit holes.

Amidst faerie wings and teacakes and swirls of glittered roses, our conversation inevitably turned from work and wedding plans to lighter topics like Betsy and Tacy, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and of course our own Eloise. We quoted Lewis Carroll as I snapped away at my gorgeous friends who dressed the part.

The charm of Alice's Tea Cup, however, isn't in the theme or the food or even that famous tea. The charm lies in the complete lack of polish. This isn't a glossy, fancy, perfect Upper East Side Sunday Brunch hot spot, as one might expect. It's shabby and low-budget, and very handmade. Like Magnolia Bakery was before it hit Midtown. It's as if the proverbial roses have been painted red by paintbrush-toting cards. It's thrown together and wonky, and--well-- curiouser and curiouser...

And doesn't our birthday girl Kelly make just the most darling Alice? Happy un-birthday, m'dear :)

Well, THIS is good news!

Looks like our little namesake resty is open for business! (Here, read this. Then this.) And it re-opened on my BIRTHDAY, no less. I am obviously taking this news as face value: New York clearly gave me a birthday gift, just when I needed it most.

What a lovely day this is turning out to be...

Wilfie & Nell

Does Wilfie and Nell in the West Village remind anyone else of Williamsburg? Not Hipster Williamsburg in Brooklyn, but the original, colonial style Williamsurg: Williamsburg, Virginia.

Low beamed ceilings, butcher block tables, mix-matched cloth napkins, juice glasses in place of stemware, armchairs in hidden corners, dark dark lighting, exposed brick on every wall... I kept waiting for a Martha Washington historical reenactor to come around the corner, chattering about the revolution before exiting onto a street of wooden carts and marching soldiers and sunburned Midwestern tourists.

Oh, I love Colonial Williamsburg! I might be the only 25 year old to admit that, but come on, its great! The pie alone is worth the trip. Lets all go for a fall road trip, wanna?

Until then... Wilfie & Nell is a nice substitute. (If only they served things like 'spoon bread' and 'rum cream pie' and 'venison stuffed Guinea hens'. Love me a good themed menu.) I went to Wilfie & Nell last Saturday night with one of those groups that expands and deflates and expands and deflates as the night goes on. I arrived with John and Alison around 10 and stayed until probably 3am as 4 different groups of people ebbed and flowed from our perfect corner table by that sneaky front window.

Katie and Maria came, as did Bruce and his killer stories. Katy and Val wandered in, making me scream with laughter as they always do. We made friends with the people around us, arguing over the masculinity of a gold watch or the correct pronunciation of 'Carolina Herrera.'

So it wasn't Virginia and it wasn't the 18th century but the sentiment was there. A long night in a cozy bar with 30 of my dearest friends and acquaintances. Let us all go back soon.

Cafe Vivaldi

Cafe Vivaldi is a small jazz bar tucked off Bleecker in the West Village. Alison and I came across it after getting pizza with Katy, Anna, and Val at the pizza place across the street from the best pizza place in New York (ha.) We were tired from a long day of painting in the August heat and were ready to go home to bed in Brooklyn. But for some reason we paused for a moment in front of this lovely brick lined cafe with an old wooden bar, candlelit tables, and a jazz quartet playing in the corner.

It all looked so Old New York that we cringed when we realized that the entire audience was what looked like a band member's enthusiastic girlfriend, the bartender, and the bus boys. No one else was there. We looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and decided to be the audience they needed.

The jazz was outstanding. Just gorgeous. We sat in a corner table surrounded by old photographs of 19th century composers with strong beards and high collars. The room was very dark save for the candles on our tables and the soft spotlights on the base and grand piano. It was cozy and warm and perfect. In fact, we were so taken up by the romance of it all that we decided to abandon our usual order of wine for me, beer for her, in favor of an after dinner drink. The conversation is as follows:

Me: (to Alison) I think I'll have the port. Do I like port? Yeah, I'm pretty sure its sweet, I think I like port.

Alison: Oh, I'm getting grappa, I always get grappa when we get after dinner drinks.

Me: Sick. I used to have to drink that sometimes after dinner in Florence with my host family. It takes like windex.

Alison: No, its super sweet! Way sweeter and better than port.

Me: Really?! It must be different in Italy, where its like really strong whiskey.

(Our waitress enters.)

Alison: Is grappa sweet? Or is port the sweet one?

Waitress: Well, I don't like either, but yeah, they are both sweet. Grappa is sweeter.

Me: The port, please.

Alison: I'll have the grappa.

Minutes pass and Alison and I enthusiastically clap for the band as we are STILL the only patrons at Cafe Vivaldi. The band introduces themselves but its very clear that while the audience is composed of two tired and clueless twenty five year olds and a handful of bus boys, they are pretending to headline at the Blue Note. They bow to a pretend audience, hold for a pretend applause, and look no one in the eye. Alrighty then!

Our waitress comes back shortly thereafter with two tiny little flutes of our aperitifs. Lovely! I sip my port, its nice and sweet and syrupy. Alison looks at her crystal clear liquid, takes a big sip, and her head then proceeds to explode.

Alison: Oh my god! (cluthing heart) My heartburn! This is awful, I am going to die!

Me: (trying to muffle my laughter in fear of the poor band hearing. We can call this 'church giggles'.)

Alison: Try it!

Me: (like the idiot that I am) Okay!

I take a tiny little sip. The liquid hits my tongue, expands to every corner of my mouth and burns all the way up to my eye balls. It tastes, as I remembered, of windex, if windex were on fire. We had to ask our sweet little waitress for port instead, explaining that it ISN'T sweet, and they graciously gave her the exchange.

What did we learn from the experience? Other than the difference between port and grappa? That while we like to play the refined, knowledgeable New Yorkers, we aren't really that at all. We are still two Midwestern girls who are learning as we go along. Also-- that fun is always on the other side of a yes.

My Life in France

Julia Child is all a flutter these days. The new Meryl Streep/Amy Adams movie has everyone finally discovering how amazing Julia is after all of these years. Well, I have read the book "Julie and Julia" by Julie Powell and I HATED it. (How often do you hear me say that?) It was not well written, it wasn't interesting, and the author's voice and attitude bugged me. The entire book experience was extremely unpleasant. I won't say more than that because honestly it doesn't deserve the time. (I will see the movie though. Lets just hope that Amy Adams can spice up Julie Powell. Yeek. Fingers crossed for an enjoyable screening on Monday.)

A book I do love, however, is Julia Child’s memoir, “My Life in France,” written with Alex Prud’homme. It is honest-to-goodness one of my very favorite books I've ever read. I LOVE it. And I've obviously been telling all of you about it (you know who you are... Laura. Alison. Katie. Annie. Karen. Emily.) since I picked it up over a year ago but not a single one of you has given it a chance. It's magic, this book.

The book opens with Julia's move to Paris right after the Second World War. Standing 6’2” with red curly hair (hmmm, sound familiar?), she wandered the open-air food markets, cooked in a lovingly described kitchen with big copper pots, an old gas stove, and more butter and cream and aspic than you imagine. To boot, she didn’t learn how to cook until she was 36 which I find immensely inspiring.

Julia met her husband Paul Child in Sri Lanka while working for the U.S. government AS A SPY during the war. He was much older, much shorter, and her perfect companion in every way. Julia and Paul's marriage is a rarity in respect and generosity. They aren't mushy and they aren't obnoxious. They are partners in humor and in grace. I LOVE hearing her speak of their interactions and their life together. We should all be so lucky.

Paul was an artist and a foodie in his own right. He tasted everything Julia cooked, gained a million pounds, and loved every inch of her (all 74.) He created Valentine's cards to send each year in place of Christmas cards which are delightfully included in the book. Very few things make me as happy as looking at these darling Valentine's cards. Especially the one where they are both in the bathtub.

The book is of course about food as well, something that makes us greedily turn the pages. We learn about marrow and about fish markets, and about the PERFECT (and very secret) method of making beurre blanc (This is where Julia's spy training came in handy. Top secret food documents galore.) We can absolutely taste the food--especially that first meal they eat together in France. Oh, its just all so beautiful. In addition, we can also hear Julia's frustration-- her humanism-- dripping through the pages with each recipe she nails and eventually publishes in the great Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

Read this memoir. I am so serious, it will change your perspective on who you are and what you can accomplish. Julia proves wholeheartedly that we needn't fit into any box, and is someone who I think of often. In addition, she is hilarious, a character like no other, and one of my true heroes.

Olives

Have we talked about Olives yet? About my favorite sandwich place in all of the five boroughs that happens to be two blocks from my work?! Let's do so now.

They have a roasted chicken sandwich with pesto on focaccia that is so amazing that when I dropped a piece of roasted chicken on the sidewalk yesterday I honest-to-goodness considered picking it up and eating it before I remembered that I was in New York City where people are EVERYWHERE and those things aren't really appropriate to do anywhere but in the comfort of your own kitchen. So I didn't eat off the sidewalk. (But if you're interested in tasting the best chicken this side of Houston, its probably still sitting on the corner of Prince and Mercer. Go for it.)

Olives is open for take-away only, they don't have tables, and there is always a line. The food is fresh, the prices are somewhat reasonable (somewhat), and the service is excellent. Seriously, awesome manager lady with short hair and funky glasses, even if you're not very friendly, you rock at your job.

Get the sandwich of the day (especially on Thursdays and every other Wednesday), get a cowgirl cookie, and try the soups (but not until fall). And if you're in Soho during the lunch hour on a weekday, please call me and we can chat in line and happily eat our sandwiches together on the sidewalk. I can't wait.