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Merry and Bright

It’s always an excellent idea to kick off an evening with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.  It’s especially so on Christmas Eve.

This stroke of genius came compliments of my friends Charlie and Mason, who had invited me to their cozy Greenpoint apartment for Christmas Eve dinner.  While I usually travel over the holidays, I’d found myself at home in NYC this year and was thrilled to spend the night with two of my best friends, their sweet daughter Ruby, and Charlie's brother Joss who was in town for the holidays.

"Veuve sweetie," Mason toasted in his best Ab Fab Patsy tone just as soon as I'd arrived.  "Ooo...Veuve sweetie," I said making a duck face and clinking his glass.  

Mason, who may or may not have had a few eggnogs before I arrived, ran through the menu and cooking timeline with us all.  In addition to always providing a warm welcome, Charlie and Mason are among the best cooks I know.  Tonight, they were preparing "a feast of the three fishes" and I couldn't wait to dig in. 

The feast began with Mason's shrimp cocktail, the cocktail sauce homemade.  After a spritz of fresh lemon, I dipped a plump shrimp into the cocktail sauce and declared it excellent.  Mason likes his cocktail sauce horseradish heavy, as do I. 

Next up were the clams casino, freshly shucked by Charlie and Joss.  With Elvis's "Here Comes Santa Claus" as our soundtrack, we downed the juicy clams, with their red pepper and bacon toppings, and euphemistically joked about clam shucking.  There was a child present after all.

We had each taken a turn stirring for the next course: seared scallops over risotto with peas, the risotto cooked with chicken stock, white wine and Parmesan cheese.  Mason had seared the scallops to perfection, and the risotto was savory and stick to your ribs good.

Rounding out the meal was panettone with a side of mint ice cream and plenty more sparkling beverages.

It was just beginning to snow lightly as Joss read "The Night Before Christmas" aloud to us before the boys tucked Ruby in for a long winter’s nap.  The evening had begun perfectly and this ending was nothing short of perfect as well.

After a Lyft ride through the twinkling snowy city, I, perfectly satisfied and only slighly buzzed, curled up with my sweet cat Bix all snug in my bed with visions of a delicious Christmas Eve dancing in my head.  It had been so merry and bright, and for all a good night!

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Falling for Wine

Fall had finally arrived in NYC, and only a month late.  With leaves still falling and daylight hours fading, it felt like the perfect time for some wine-savoring with my long-time friend and fellow publishing chick, Keeley.

We met, in serious need of post-work libations, at db bistro moderne and requested an audience with the sommelier as soon as we took our seats in a quiet nook in the dining room.  

The sommelier, a fresh faced young man, listened to our preferences and suggested the Chateau d'Angles La Clape Classique 2012, a Syrah, Grenache and Mourvedre blend.

While he was most enthused about the winemaker - Eric Fabre of Chateau Lafite Rothschild fame - we were sold on his descriptions of this vintage, which summoned visions of the South of France, of bright sunlight on the vines and warm, wild Mediterranean vistas.  In increasingly cold and dark NYC, a taste of the Languedoc was precisely what was needed.

Over pate and flank steak, we quickly became enamored of this wine.  A deep inky red with underlying purple, almost black, highlights, La Clape transported us to warmer climes with its ripe fruity aroma and delicate pepper taste.  It was so successful in easing us from a chilly and hardscrabble working day into a warm and mellow evening that we considered ordering another bottle.  

But we didn't.  A fact that I regretted terribly when logging on to wine.com at home later that night and finding that it was no longer available to the wider drinking public.  Quelle horreur!  A gentle reminder to always carpe the diem.  

And while La Clape Classique 2012 and I were unlikely to ever meet again, I went to bed dreaming of just such a rendezvous, of dark red wine swirling in a sunlit glass, the scent of black currant teasing my nose and the taste of leather and licorice sashaying over my tongue.  Sweet dreams.

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My Kind of Town: Beer, Burgers & Bye!

Four girls walked into a craft beer bistro.  It's not the start of a joke, but it was the start of a Saturday night in Chicago.  

The girls - Alexandra, Erica, Veronica - and I were at Centennial Crafted Beer + Eatery, and completely amused by our server.  A whirl of tats and sass with Buddy Holly glasses, Vera, our server, had accused us of being basic bitches within seconds of our meeting.  We weren't offended, we understood it was her schtick.  Nonetheless, we proved her wrong by promptly ordering up some saisons.  

Not that I minded taking a ribbing with a platter of house made smoked kielbasa with warm German potato salad and sweet and sour cabbage before me.  Anyone who knows me knows that I love the sausage.  And that is not a euphemism.  I am literally talking about sausages, heavenly casings tightly filled with all matter of fatty meats.  So, in Chicago, home of Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, I, of course, indulged.  

By the end of dinner, we'd won Vera over and she'd invited us to drop by her other serving gig before we left Chi-Town.   

When we dropped by said gig, Kuma's Corner West Loop, the next night - our last in the Second City (this trip anyway!) - Vera had already left for the evening.  However, we stayed at this heavy metal burger bar where the tatted and pierced up service was sweet and the beer menu mega lengthy.  With Metallica blasting, Tropic Thunder on the large screens and tasty Kolsch on tap, we ordered up some monster burgers.  Take mine, for instance, the Black Sabbath slathered in chili with pepperjack cheese, red onions and blackening spices.  Our server turned out to be one of Vera's best friends, and before we walked out the door, we asked her to pass along a message to her BFF: tell her the basic bitches came in to see her.

And just like that our long weekend in Chicago came to a close.  But not before one last quintessential taste of the Windy City.  Our trip started with deep dish and it ended with deep dish like two doughy bookends slathered in tomato sauce with a whole lot of good sips and eats in between.  So it was at Giordano's Millennium Park that we downed some stuffed deep dish with sausage, peppers and mushrooms along with some basic beers for some basic bitches. 

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My Kind of Town: Day Drinking

Like Sheryl Crow, I like a good beer buzz early in the morning - and I like it even better when the buzz stays with me all afternoon (Sheryl may too for all I know).

The joys of day drinking!  That footloose and fancy free feeling of kicking back with a brewski (or twoski) with nothing further on the agenda.  It's always a highlight of my vacationing, and this girls' weekend in Chicago provided just the right scenario for afternoon boozing.  We were all on the same page about this activity, not surprisingly, and so in that gentle nook of time between sightseeing and freshening up for dinner, Alexandra, Erica, Veronica and I sipped away our late afternoons.

That first day, when we had a nice long saunter down by the Chicago River, there was no better place to stop for refreshment than at Tiny Tapp.  Right along the river, a few concrete stairs up from the Riverwalk - literally, the water was lapping up against the walkway - Tiny Tapp offered brew and a view.  We sampled a number of options on tap before committing to anything.  While I quite liked the oh so summery Revolution Brewing Rosa Hibiscus Ale, I opted for a pint of Tocayo Brewing Company's Hominy White Ale.  With a tableau of skyscrapers rising up before us, I relished each drop of my ale with its hints of coriander and sweet orange peel.

A lazy hour (or more) was spent the next day luxuriating under the shade of The Beer Bistro's awning.  At a sidewalk table on a quiet West Madison Street, I was wowed by their tall Spicy Bloody Mary - complete with an entire salad for garnish - served with an accompanying baby bottle of Miller High Life.  Bright, light and bubbly, in its petite bottle with the gently sloping shoulders, Miller High Life, it struck me, had become famous for a reason.  Listen to me now, beer snobs, when I say that it is so very drinkable.  I'd got the time and they'd totally got the beer!  I suppose I could've mixed it into the Bloody Mary for a makeshift Michelada, but I preferred to sip it on the side to offset the cocktail's pepper and horseradish bite.

It couldn't have been a more mellow, picturesque and perfect scene on that last day in Chi-Town.  Four girls wiling away the hours at Happy Camper.  The place was huge but somehow intimate, buzzing but somehow chill, and we saddled up to a high top in front of its wide open doors, the wrought iron Old Town arches just outside.  With the late afternoon sun hot on our shoulders and delicious cold beer on the table before us, we couldn't help but feel like life was damn good.  I put back a few cans of 21st Amendment Hell or High Watermelon.  It was still summer after all, and this beer, with its kiss of watermelon, was as close to summer in a can as a girl could get.

One of the hazards of day drinking?  Being in need of a nap pre-dinner, of course.  The joys of napping before dinner!  That blissfully lazy and lethargic moment of giving in to your heavy eyelids and hazy head as evening begins to fall.  Needless to say, it was yet another vacation pleasure in which we happily indulged!

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My Kind of Town: Girls at the Goat

Move over, morning coffee.  There's a new sheriff in town and her name is Michelada.  This was my thought after I took a long and refreshing swig of this Michelada, which had all the tangy tomato getup and go of a Bloody Mary, my usual brunch tipple, while keeping the vibe fresh and chill with a tart beer fizz.  

It was the first AM of our girls' weekend in Chicago and we were saddled up at a tall communal table at my culinary girl crush Stephanie Izard's Little Goat Diner, just up the street from our sweet Airbnb.  Turns out the neighborhood in which we were staying, the West Loop, was the perfect spot for four girls with tasty eats on the brain.  West Randolph Street, the main drag, was a buzzing culinary thoroughfare, and though we didn't know it at time, we would keep returning to this stretch of pavement throughout our time in Chi-Town.  

A hopping spot on this late Friday morning, Little Goat had all the aesthetics of an old fashioned diner with all the pizzazz of a true foodie hot spot.  Over a mix of pints and breakfast cocktails, Alexandra, Erica, Veronica and I spent a considerable amount of time perusing our brunch options.  With dishes with names like This Little Piggy Went to China, the menu had us salivating with its delicious descriptions and clever word play.  

Since she'd just returned from China herself, Alexandra ultimately couldn't resist the lure of This Little Piggy, which was comprised of a sesame cheddar biscuit, sunny side eggs, Szechuan pork sausage and chili garlic chive sauce.  Veronica ordered up the Pork Belly Pancake, and Erica the Shrimp and Cheesy Grits (Erica is, quite frankly, a shrimp and grits aficionado).  

I opted for the Okonomiyaki, an Osaka street food featuring a savory pancake with pork belly, scallions, Japanese mayonnaise and a Worcestershire-like sauce, only thicker and sweeter.  The menu proclaimed that it was pronounced yum! and so did I.  After we'd all sampled from each other's plates, every bite beyond appetizing, it was declared that I'd won breakfast with this utterly delectable dish.

It was inching past one when we hopped down from our stools and stepped out into the afternoon.  We needed to work off this meal, and did just that with a long stroll on the Riverwalk.  Of course, because this is us that we're talking about, it wasn't long before we found ourselves stopping for a brewski down by the river and plotting out our eating and drinking itinerary for the rest of the trip.

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My Kind of Town: In Deep

It started with deep dish pizza.

We'd arrived in the late afternoon on the tail end of a thunderstorm, converging from opposite coasts - Alexandra and I from NYC, and our friends Erica and Veronica from Seattle - for a girls' weekend in Chicago.  

After arriving to a round of hugs at baggage claim at O'Hare, we headed to our Airbnb apartment, a loft-like space in a converted 19th century industrial building in the West Loop.  Being the girls we are, and it being the early evening, we dropped our bags and immediately focused on our first important decision of this Chi-Town visit: where to go for dinner.  

The rain still lingering and the humidity on the rise, we opted to stay in the neighborhood and start the trip off with a Chicago classic: deep dish pizza.  With our bellies beginning to rumble, we made our way posthaste to the West Loop location of Lou Malnati's for a taste of this quintessential Windy City dish.

Cozy in our booth, we caught up over a series of pints of beer as sun set over a slick and slippery wet West Randolph Street.  As large deep dish pizzas were delivered to the surrounding tables, I could feel the anticipation building from the pit of my stomach to the tip of my tongue.  

When our own personal deep dish pizzas arrived at our table, I felt a little underwhelmed.  The doughy orbs before us seemed so slight and unassuming.  Digging in to my sausage, mushroom and green pepper pie, with its Buttercrust casing and tangy tomato sauce, I realized I could not have been more wrong about this neat little round of deliciousness.  Not only was it tasty as all get out, it was also thoroughly satisfying.

Lou Malnati's sure knew how to make these girls feel welcome their first time in town.  He'd treated us just right.  Stopping at the Third Rail Tavern on our way back to our home away from home, we all predicted over one last pint for the night that we'd fall for Chicago fast - and deep.  

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A Room with a View

Hot and dusty from our travels, I'd thrown open the curtains to reveal our Florence view.  Like Miss Lucy Honeychurch, I'd hoped we would have one.  Stepping out onto the terrace, wreathed in flora and fauna and shielded from the strong Tuscan sun by a bamboo awning, I'd been rewarded with a view of the Basilica di Santa Croce, rising above the tile rooftops just down the narrow strada.  

Of all the gorgeous art and architecture, delicious wine and food, and stunning natural beauty and scenery we'd encountered, perhaps my favorite part of this mother-daughter holiday in Florence had been this: the terrace of our open and airy loft of an Airbnb.  Here we'd started each day with strong coffee and a hearty breakfast before heading off for our day's adventures, here we'd relaxed over a glass of wine and a snack after a day of sightseeing while deciding on where to go for dinner, and here we'd ended our evenings with Prosecco and sweets propped up with pillows.

Now, on our last night in Florence, returning from dinner earlier than usual, we sprawled out on the long cushioned bench on our terrace, and savored a bottle of Sangiovese along with a view that had become familiar but had not grown old.  We reviewed the highlights of our trip - seeing the smooth sculptured musculature of the David, the tension in his veined hands and his furrowed brow, escaping the tourist hordes in the hillside town of Fiesole where we had viewed Florence from a shady and breezy distance, and strolling along the Arno with our mid-afternoon gelato in hand - as the sun set on this Italian avventura. 

With an early rise facing us in the morning, mom retreated inside to pack and hit the sack while I lingered on the terrace as the the night closed in.  As I sipped the last sips of this last bottle of wine, I watched the purple sky fade until Santa Croce became a white beacon of light in the dark.  

I don't know what time it was when the chill of the evening forced me back through the terrace doors into the warmth of the apartment.  I do know that I stood before the windows admiring the view for quite some time before I reluctantly drew the curtains closed.

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A Florentine Vignette

Sinking my teeth into the thick and juicy cut of beef, I savored the pure meat flavor.  That straight-from-the-grill taste, that tender red and fleshy middle, this Bistecca Fiorentina was living up to the hype.  It didn't hurt that it was a beautiful summer night, and that we were sitting at an outdoor table in a quiet, cobblestone side street just off of the Piazza di Santa Croce. 

We had come across Casa Toscana, my mom and I, on our way to the Basilica di Santa Croce and we had decided that we would return later for dinner.  We'd also been hearing a lot about Bistecca Fiorentina since we'd arrived in Florence and felt that eating it needed to be as much of a priority as visiting the Duomo.  We have priorities, after all.

With its checkered tablecloths and house red wines served in old-school Chianti bottles, Casa Toscana perfectly set the stage for the main dining event.  The gorgeous slab of meat had arrived on a wooden tray, complete with bone, partially dissected with a lovely sprig of rosemary for flourish.  It was barely seasoned because it didn't need to be.  The taste of quality meat, plain, simple and properly cooked, was perfect in its purity. I will confess that after we finished the steak, I did, though filled to the brim, pick up the bone for one last nibble.  It would've been wrong to do any different.  Again, priorities.  

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Cantinetta con Aragosta

Leaving the beaten path behind, winding our way through streets hardly wider than most alleyways, we began to think that we had taken a wrong turn somewhere.  It's very easy to do just that in the less well-traveled parts of Florence.  Surely it could not be down this slip of a street?

But it was.  In the narrowest stretch of Via delle Terme, where perhaps only a fine sliver of sunlight finds its way between the ancient buildings each day, there it sat, and through its unassuming entryway we walked.

Cantinetta delle Terme had come recommended by my friend Alexandra.  Having lived in Florence for a few years, Alexandra had shared a list of her favorite haunts with me as I prepared for this mother-daughter trip to Italy.  I knew that she would steer us toward only the truest of Florentine dining experiences, far away from the hordes of tourists and their traps, and she most surely did.  

We were warmly welcomed with a table for two in the upstairs dining area - there is also a cave-like dining room below ground - where we quickly ordered a carafe of the house white wine, and opened the menu with gusto.  Our day had largely been spent at the Uffizi Gallery.  From Giotto to Caravaggio, my mother and I had slowly meandered our way through the Renaissance, savoring each of our favorite works of art.  Mom took her time with Fra Angelico and Fra Filippo Lippi, and I lingered over Botticelli and Titian.  It turns out that a walk through centuries of Italian art history makes some girls thirsty and hungry.

The wine tumbled delightfully into our glasses, and the first sip of the light, crisp white had us feeling immediately refreshed.  Deliberating over the menu, which was abundant with delicious-sounding dishes, we kept returning to one item: fettuccine with lobster.  Sensing that one of us would have dinner-envy if we didn't listen to our hearts on this one, we both ordered it.

Our plates arrived at our table with an audible "ooo" out of both of us.  Set before us was a beautiful tangle of pasta, topped with colorful fresh tomatoes and basil, accompanied by a half-lobster.  "We ordered correctly," I observed to my mother.  "If I hadn't ordered this and you had, I would definitely have been jealous!"

With uneven stone floors beneath our feet, and awash in rustic charm, I twirled the fettuccine around my fork and raised it to my lips in anticipation.  The pasta, so incredibly light, was a taste of fresh and perfectly cooked carbohydrate heaven.  Pulling the lobster meat from its shell, I swirled a small piece through the delicate white sauce, added a tomato to the prong of my fork, and took another spin with the fettuccine.  That bite, and every succeeding one, was better than the last.

As I cleaned the plate before me, I thought, how will we ever thank Alexandra for giving us the gift of Cantinetta delle Terme?  

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Venice Spritz

As dusk fell on Campo San Polo, the waning sun further washing the fading grandeur from the square, I sipped in the warm and beautiful evening along with an Aperol Spritz.  

I was sitting outside at Birraria La Corte.  With me was my mother, mia madre, who had inspired this Venetian vacation, with her own spritz in hand.  It was our last night in Venice, and mamma, always one to wax poetic over cocktails, couldn't help but smile and sigh as she surveyed the campo.  Like mother like daughter.

It was a gorgeous moment, to be sure: a lovely ancient square for a backdrop, being with one so special, savoring the ideal tipple for that particular space and time.  The Aperol Spritz is rightfully the national apertif of Italy, I thought, as I held up my glass, watching the world go by through the deep orange tint of my drink.  This tastes like Italy looks and feels, it struck me, as I sat in the heart of La Serenissima, with its sun bleached whites and bright pinks, cradled between the blue green Adriatic waters.  

This long weekend in Venice had been filled with other similarly perfect scenes.  Daily coffee and breakfast on the terrace of our cozy Airbnb apartment was a reliably relaxing way to start each day. In a building with hints of Moorish architecture along a traditional canal near Basilica dei Frari, the apartment came complete with a roaming cat who lived in the apartment downstairs and visited us regularly.  Pizza al fresco after an afternoon at the Palazzo Ducale, fritto misto post-Gallerie dell'Accademia, spaghetti alle vongole on the way back from the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, and sweets from the famous Pasticceria Tonolo on the way to the baroque wedding cake of a church that is Santa Maria della Salute - this had been our Venice experience.

Back in the campo, the zesty bitter and sweet orange notes from my glass mirrored the burnt orange facade of the building adjacent to the Chiesa di San Polo across the square.  The herbal and woody root flavors - is that a hint of rhubarb? - welled up in a bittersweet swirl on my tongue and left me with a pang.  

I would have been devastatingly heartbroken had Florence not been up next on our grand tour.  With that thought seemingly in both our minds, mamma and I clinked glasses and watched night fall on Venice.

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Soho Bacaro

Pulling back the thick, heavy curtains encircling the entryway, I slipped into another time and place.  I felt myself in a charming wine bar in the ancient backstreets of Venice. Only I was in present day London, just off a bustling Covent Garden, at Polpo.

I had tickets that evening for Don Juan in Soho starring my lover David Tennant, and I was in need of a quick pre-theatre bite.  A self-described bacaro, a Venetian word for a small restaurant that serves cicchetti (Venetian bar snacks), Polpo, my stomach told me, would fit the bill.  Nibbling on the big, juicy green olive in my Campari Spritz with prosecco in a setting that evoked a Venice fading in elegance, yet still glorious in its waning, I thought, wow, I could not have been more right. This is the perfect pre-Don Juan spot and fare.

A steady stream of savory bites soon graced the bar before me, delivered by an honest to goodness Venetian bartender.  There were arancini, appetizing bundles of rice in crispy casings; creamy potato and parmesan crocchette that simply oozed when fork met food; fried olives stuffed with anchovies that exploded on the palate with a pop; and Venetian meatballs, generous in size and flavor, with polenta crusting.

Since another Campari Spritz or two may have been imbibed also, I stepped back out into modern day London, which was buzzing just as much as I was.  Extremely appropriate for a theatre date with that dashing, devilish, downwardly spiraling Don Juan, I thought, heady and heading in the direction of Soho.

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Good Morrow

I’m not a morning person.  I don’t rise and shine.  This is true at home in NYC, and it was just as true at the Z Hotel Gloucester Place in London.  It was not surprising, then, that I’d been spending my vacation mornings luxuriating in my very comfortable bed with coffee and the best in bad SKY TV programming before heading out each day.

This day was different.  I can’t explain why.  Maybe it was because it was the tail end of my holiday and I felt the need to fit ever more into my day.  Maybe it was some scrap of jet lag finally catching up with me.  Maybe it was because I woke up super hungry with breakfast on the brain.

After minimal in-bed basking, I strolled the few blocks from my hotel to a spot that I’d been longing to try: The Monocle Café.  Located on the very quaint Chiltern Street, The Monocle Café is the brainchild of the publishers of Monocle magazine and the Monocle travel guides.  Small and charming, with its Scandinavian meets Japanese-inspired design and menu, The Monocle is nothing if not warm and serene.

Feeling a bit like I was back in Copenhagen, I ordered the Scandinavian breakfast and took a seat at one of the counters toward the rear of the café.  Had I felt a taste for Tokyo, where the original Monocle Café is located, I would’ve ordered the Japanese breakfast (I hear it is quite authentic).

Strong and piping hot coffee arrived almost as soon as I settled in to the peaceful vibe of the place, which took no time at all.  Even as a line of patrons in search of their mid-morning coffee descended on the café, The Monocle continued to feel calm and even-keeled.  

The sun streaming in through the window just behind me, I tucked into a beautiful plate of smoked salmon, hard-boiled eggs, shrimp salad and dark, grainy bread.  Improvising various smorrebrod combinations from the contents before me, I found this morning meal abundant in its heartiness, its taste and its ability to satisfy both my physical hunger and my craving for comfort foods.

In every way, The Monocle Café was the perfect spot from which to start the day – particularly for one as morning-averse as I am.

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Buns on the Run

Turning onto Earlham Street, I pulled out my phone to check the time.  It was almost 5pm, and I, feeling a bit like a pensioner out for her early bird special, was in search of a pre-theatre treat.

It was ridiculously early for the excessively hip spot I’d chosen, but I had tickets for Twelfth Night at the National Theatre that evening and a long list of restaurants I wanted to hit while in London, Flesh & Buns being one of the most intriguing among them.

Located in the Seven Dials, an atmospheric network of streets linking Covent Garden and Soho, Flesh & Buns boasts Japanese drinking food in a dimly lit basement lair.  Descending the stairs into the cool and dark of this dining and drinking den, I swung open the door and found myself – not surprisingly – the only patron in the place.

Though they were just opening shop, the tatted up, flannel wearing staff were kindly toward an old broad and quickly set me up with a Frozen Yuzu Margarita, which went down so fast that I experienced brain freeze (and it was worth it).  

I wasted no time in getting messy with the Korean Fried Wings in a spicy sour sauce with sesame, and with the old school rock soundtrack in the background egging me on.  Yes, KISS, I totally want to rock and roll all night, especially if chicken wings are involved.

As the Beastie Boys asked So What’cha Want, I started in on a pint of Asahi, the softshell crab with jalapeno mayo and the crispy piglet belly bun with mustard miso and apple pickles.  The Asahi, which arrived as ice-cold as a refreshing and crisp beer like Asahi should, was the perfect back for the crunchy, salty fried crab and the juicy, fatty pork belly.  

It was just starting to get rowdy, or at least working up to it, as I left.  Though it was hard to walk away from Flesh & Buns – I was so full of pork belly that I literally did have a hard time walking, or, more accurately, waddling, away – I was happy to have the stroll to Southbank ahead of me.  It also helped that I had some bubbly on the terrace at the National Theatre and an evening with Tamsin Greig as the best Malvolio/a ever awaiting me just over Waterloo Bridge.

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London to Bombay

After gazing, quite entranced, for some time at the Rubens paintings on the ceiling of the Banqueting House – site of the beheading of Charles I of England – I turned toward the sunlight streaming through the tall windows overlooking Whitehall. The day was warm, the sky was blue, and I was in one of my favorite cities in the world.

It was late in the afternoon of my first full day in London. I’d already stopped at the National Portrait Gallery and joined, impromptu, an anti-Brexit march from Trafalgar Square to Parliament.  As much as I was relishing the majesty of the House and its legendary artwork, relaxing on one of the massive beanbag chairs that Historic Royal Palaces so smartly provides to make for more comfortable ceiling viewing, I was starting to feel the pull of the beautiful day and my rumbling stomach.

With the recommendations of two of my most trusted foodie friends in mind, I headed in the direction of Covent Garden with Dishoom as my destination. An extremely popular restaurant dedicated to bringing Bombay bites to London, Dishoom dining, I’d been warned, involved a substantial wait. While I usually object to queuing for food, the early hour and the warm weather swayed me, and, indeed, there were only a few people in line when I arrived.

The wait outside, which admittedly was short, was made infinitely better by the cups of chai made readily available to us waiting patrons. Though the day had been quite sunny, in the shade of Upper St. Martin’s Lane I was happy to wrap my hands around a cup of hot tea and inhale its spicy scent.  It’s the small things that help keep this girl satisfied.

It also helps that Dishoom runs a tight ship.  The waiting process is managed in a most smooth and effortless manner.  As soon as room opens up at the bar, a twenty-minute wait for me on this early Saturday evening, one is escorted to the basement bar, which is a cozy and dimly lit old Raj club-room dream.  With décor evoking Indian Summers, I appropriately sipped on a Viceroy’s Old-Fashioned.  Described as “The sort of drink in which Lord Mountbatten may have found welcome repose,” the VOF featured a bottle-aged muddle of Woodford Reserve bourbon, bay leaf reduction and green tea.  Truly, I did feel transported to another time and place as I sipped in the drink and soaked in the atmosphere.

My table was ready before I knew it – funny how delicious cocktails and daydreams do make the time pass.  I took my seat facing the dining room, which though bustling somehow still maintained a sense of calm and quiet, and quickly made friends with my ponytailed waiter. In addition to the Keema Pau – spiced minced lamb and peas with a toasted, buttered pau bun – I ordered a Taj Mahal. When asked by the waiter if I wanted mine large or small I asked back with a wink, “What do you think?” His response was, “The small beer is on the kids’ menu.”  I liked the way this guy did business.

After debating whether to continue on a lamb track – their Spicy Lamb Chops sounded enticing – I landed on the Prawn Moilee.  Inspired by the cuisine of the Malabar Coast, the plump prawns arrived in a golden broth of onions, mustard seeds, garlic, ginger, chilli and coconut milk.  It was so savory that I unabashedly drank the broth by the spoonful until the bowl was empty.

As I finished my beer, full and happy, I watched the next wave of patrons being shown to the bar or to their tables and glimpsed the ever-expanding queue through the wall of windows onto the street.  Lucky people, I thought, to have their Dishoom experience still ahead of them.

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Anticipating Spring

Thoreau once wrote, “We loiter in winter while it is already spring.”  Mother Nature apparently hadn’t read Walden because New Yorkers found themselves shivering their way into April.

On one of the last truly cold nights in March, I found myself at the Atlantic Grill near Lincoln Center pre-gaming a New York Philharmonic concert with my friend Mason.  We’ve been subscribers for the past few years, and this year I was especially appreciating the diversion since a lion of a month was not quite going out like a lamb.

Finding Mason already at our table, I slowly unwound the layers of cold weather clothing as he laughed, “This was supposed to be our welcome to spring date!”

Martinis had become our signature pre-Philharmonic drink, and Mason was already sipping on his.  “I’m so sorry.  I should know how you take your martini by now.  But I did order some oysters – the briniest they had - and some shrimp!”  This was our tradition too, oysters before dinner no matter what.  We played a quick game of how does Kate take her martini until our server arrived and Mason got the answer – vodka, extremely dry, up, with olives.

My martini – icy cold perfection! – arrived with the shellfish.  While our lovely server did point out the varieties of the oysters, I could not tell you anything more than that they were East Coast.  It’s hard for me to control myself when there’s a tray of oysters – luscious, glistening – sitting before me.  I get distracted, miss whole conversations, lose track of everything except the impulse to reach for the saltwater succulence.

Grabbing a lemon wedge and spraying the oysters, I somehow gained control of myself enough to pause and give Mason as questioning look.  “Of course, spray away!” was his reply.  How can good friends not remember each other’s food and drink preferences like this?

We bumped our oyster shells together in a toast then gulped them down. It may still have been frosty out that evening, and I may still have quivered from the cold as I waited for the M66 bus after the concert, but with that moment – a lemon spritz, a swig of salty sea creature, and another sip of a martini – I personally stopped loitering in winter and turned to face the spring.  

[forkingspooning]

Tell Me, Ilili

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year…” I hummed to myself as I walked up Fifth Avenue.  It was not December and I was not out Christmas shopping.  No, I was about to indulge in that magical time of year that is Winter Restaurant Week with my friend Charlie.

Walking out of the misty evening and into Ilili, the Flatiron Lebanese restaurant that boasts “inspired Mediterranean cuisine”, I spotted Charlie at the bar, exactly where I would’ve expected him, and joined him in a cocktail. Charlie’s selection, From Beirut with Love, Ilili’s version of a Manhattan, was pretty much the best cocktail I’d sipped in quite some time.  My Spiced Pumpkin, their spin on a whiskey sour, was not too shabby either. 

Once seated in the dining room, its warm tones and relaxed feel enveloping us, Charlie and I quickly got to coordinating our appetizer course.  With two mezze each to be selected and shared, it was important work and we were rewarded by our choices.

While Charlie and I are avid meat-eaters who will down kidneys, ears and practically any cut from snout to tail, our vegetarian mezze – Moussaka and Falafel – were our favorites. Not that the Kibbeh Naye Beirutieh – steak tartare with burghul (aka bulgar), onion, mint and jalapeno – and Chicken Livers with pomegranate molasses, lemon and sumac weren’t tasty too.  Both were rich and delicious.

We both ordered the Lamb Makloubeh for our main course.  This lamb shank with dirty rice, fried eggplant, mixed nuts and cucumber yogurt on the side was hearty and flavorful fare.  

Though I am not generally big on dessert, I thoroughly enjoyed the sweets that rounded out our meal.  The ashta – traditional Lebanese clotted cream with rose water syrup and seasonal fruit – was aromatic and ever so slightly decadent, and the coconut panna cotta was light and delicate.

Ilili means “tell me” in colloquial Lebanese, and I will tell you that Ilili is the perfect spot to cozy up with friends for flavorsome bites, delightful drinks and charming conversation, Restaurant Week or no.  

[forkingspooning]

Tis the Season

I’m not a cold weather girl.  I hate wearing multiple layers and battling the bitter winds of the New York winter.  With the days shortening and the temperatures plummeting, I often start to despair right about this time of year.  

The one saving grace of the coming season?  Whisky.  We are entering prime whisky drinking weather, my friends.  While the chill outside sets me a’ shivering, I find solace in warming my innards with uisge beatha, acqua vitae, water of life, hooch. So it was on the first truly cold evening of the late fall that I popped into one of my favorite watering holes, Lillie’s in Union Square, for a dram of Bowmore 12-year-old single malt.  With a hint of pepper and a host of fruit and smoke, Bowmore took the nip out of the night and warmed my soul as well.  

Gazing down into my glass of golden Islay brew, the burn still lingering in my chest, I was reminded that, yes, thanks to whisky I will get through this winter just fine.