Eat Me, NYC

Come!

2007-10-31T07:43:00.001-07:00

Crossing the Mason-Dixon On My Stomach

2006-11-20T05:53:00.000-08:00

I was born in Arkansas. Which means a couple things, 1) I'm contractually obligated to knifefight any Johnny Cash haters to the death, or I am electrocuted and 2) there is part of me that is somewhere, always, yearning for hash browns and fried chicken. It's just a fact.

But I haven't been there in years and now that I've been steeped in everything from Cali-Mex, to rustic Italian to Modern McGreasewad to Vegetarian Approche, we took the 80 m.p.h. route back to my roots when my apartmentmates and I hit the road (and a mechanical bull) on the way down to the good ol' state of Tennessee. Points of cuisine interest even for Yankees abound:

1) Pal's Fast Food. Declaring "Sudden Service!" on their public-toilet shaded buildings, Pal's dishes up its apparently famous sweet iced tea--bit too sweet for me-- and Sloppy Joes and seasoned fries, hitting some kind of weird amoeba memory of eating there before. Or at least eating a Sloppy Joe, which I believe came standard in my lunches at Doris French Elementary School. Definitely a design and kitch high point, but I don't want to be responsible for some distressed bowels later on, is all I'm saying. I escaped...but only just. Plus side though, it's cheaper than dirt.

2) The Mellow Mushroom, Asheville, North Carolina. We visited Asheville for but a few hours, and I instantly became enamored of its groovy crunchy hippie musicality, that somehow combined everyone into a well-rested and slightly muddy Eden. The Mellow Mushroom, which is set in a giant place reminiscent of yes, a cafeteria, has vegan and vegetarian options without the steel bars of separation normally seen in places. I ordered pepperoni on my Mega-veg mini pizza ($11, a New Yorky price for a little town) and the waiter didn't blink. He was kind of a douche though, but it general you could not really tell who was not stoned in that town.

3) Chocolate Fetish, Asheville. A little storefront that I bypassed along with an art supply store in order to run to the book shop (I told you Asheville is quaint) before it closed. But luckily my friends got me pieces which ended up in me sticking something in my mouth what I had no idea about. "Mmm..hmm? Mm!" It ended up being, I swear, Basil Creme. Which was good but for the surprise factor that comes from having sadistic company. There was also a Chai flavor that went over quite well but my favorite when I myself got to sidle into the shop was the more tame flavor of Champagne, which was dusted with sparkly gold and was like heaven in five, delicate, savory nibbles. About what you'd pay at Godiva, but so much less processed and packaged.

4) The Waffle House, various. I think we saw like one for every five miles in at least West Virginia, Virginia and Tennessee. We happened to stop at one that was rather dead and paid the price--we were ignored and the one line waiter moved haplessly slow on our "short orders". I got a chop steak (which I completely forgot the terminology of) which was basically a compressed meat patty of rubber texture and jalapeno hashbrowns and an eponymous waffle. The chop steak was horrible, as was the salad consisting of a prehistoric iceberg lettuce chunk liberally decorated with dry radishes, but the hash browns and the waffle were divine to the point of dying. Breakfast, it seems, always triumphs in the end. And cheaply too, had I not gotten the stupid meat. The vegetarians gloated.

So those were four highlights. Our other food outing was a solid, incredibly cliched chain: the Olive Garden where we were plied with stories by our overly chatty waiter as I gnawed on my knuckles from hunger. And one night we cooked a Vegan/Meatan Extravaganza which I may also document later with recipes (go stock up on your garlic Creme of Mushroom cans now!) And finally, a snack food discovery is Virginia Beef Jerky which is so fine and spicy it made my eyes tear as if eating wasabi peas. It came very highly recommended from a woman manning the mom and pop off I-81.

Is the South good for food? Oh yes. Is it good for your arteries?

...

A Fromage to Remember: A Review of Artisinal

2006-09-19T03:13:00.000-07:00

Nothing would demoralize a foodie like me quite like the neighborhood in which I work: Murray Hill/Gramercy, a virtual culinary dead end both with hours and taste. Oh, of course there's Shake Shack but that's an hour wait, and on the receiving end is after everything, not all that haute. So I was surprised to hear that there was a world-cass fromagerie tucked into the cold concrete environs of Park Avenue South and 32nd. But indeed there is.

Artisinal is snooty. Given that my friends (and myself) trend to run on the pink hair/visible tattoos front, the nerves were somewhat expected, though nothing catastrophically Gallic happened. But glorious French food there was to behold: my companions dipped into a light delicious watermelo salad with feta straight from Mt. Olympus and I tidily nibble through six tender delicious escargot. And while the French onion soup does cost you ten bucks, it's also smothered stoutly in cheese-- if you want something light, that's not where to look. But it got cooed over a table of six and another was even ordered.

But Artinsal's main glory is its fondue, which comes in six flavors, or rather strengths. The house blend of six cheeses (I caught the waiter saying Guyere, Swiss and Brie at least) is thick and induces a stupor so fantastic and complete that only half sentences could be utterly after dipping in hunks of torn bread. Oh, on the subject of bread, special mention must be made of their butter. Slick and smooth past all reckoning, it's probably the best I've ever had, too silken to be called creamy, and I'd be remiss if I didnt mention the excellent wine list-- But the melting luscious cheese keeps the whole thing aloft cradling you gently in a--well, ahem Artinsal does provoke a lot of purple prose, which it ought given its cavernous cafeteria like surroundings and slightly uptight service. Approach the cheese counter at your own risk, but by that time you'll scarcely be able to feel your feet, your head or your pocketbook.

Now excuse me, I need to go into a reverie.

Eat Me NYC's Fast in the City 2006

2006-05-23T16:56:00.000-07:00

Summer is upon us, and a young woman's fancy turns to that of quarter pound burgers, foot log hot dogs and ice cold lemonade. So, for little other reason than all the cool kids are doing it -- mostly lists of great hamburgers, at last count I've seen four best-of lists clogging the arteries of the internet -- and because I almost want to keep track myself, my top five favorite fast eats in the city. These are roughly circumscribed by under fifteen minute preparation time (not wait time, that's very important), possible portability (not needing much more than a fork or straw) and of course old fashioned gut-stuffing greasy goodness, though I have to admit with only slight chagrin, there are places on here that serve healthier than average fare--hey, it's New York for a reason.

1. Gray's Papaya. It's practically a cliche now, the hot dog and fruit juice stand but somehow the formula survives, and quite cheaply too. Pull out a five, and get yourself two hot dogs doused in cooked onions or saurkraut and a serving of mango, pineapple, pina colada and yes, papaya juice on the side. Eat it standing up around the bustle of West Midtown (their 38th Street location is on 8th Ave) or go to its imitators all around the city-- Papaya Dog is one and I know I've seen another around 86th and Lex.

2. Dumpling Man. Tucked into a hole on St. Mark's bet. 1st and Avenue A, Dumpling man is everything you want but never can get from Asian fast food-- delicious food, clean surroundings (except for the bathroom--DO NOT ATTEMPT) and a possibility of friendly service. Anyways who cares about all that when you get a batch of a half dozen seared chicken dumplings, covered in the spicy "monster" sauce and are out in the street looking at bongs in less than a half an hour?

3. Godiva. Okay, I won't say this place is cheap and the neighborhoods are tony and far away for many a New York denizen but regardless this mid and uptown staple of high end chocolate still cannot be beat. Yes, the scenesters can have their Dylan's Candy bar, but just park me in that almost sterile cocoa labratory and watch my eyes roll back in my head. They've introduced a line of drinks, called Elixirs which do somehow magically seem to restore the spirit. Coming in white, milk and dark they are heavy enough to only want once a week and light enough to keep you out of a coma. Make eyes at their new logo, incidentally; they have traded their much stodgier prior logo to a squiggly rendition of our nude lady on a horse. Scandale!

4. Shake Shack. For all the reasons I have said earlier and more. The only pity here is that Madison Square Park, once a peaceful little oasis in the Flatiron District the unheralded gem of Manhattan Parks, has become basically standing room only. I like the burgers, I really do, but this is not worth it for discriminating chowhounds. I mean, the point is to eat quickly, isn't it? Regardless it still has among the most charming places to eat in the city, outdoors, under the strung fairy lights. With your burger.

5. White Castle. White Castle, I realize is multi-state (heck, Godiva is practically worldwide) and its appeal may actually lie more with those in the suburbs, as Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, attested. But regardless, nothing is quite like those little sliders, and the history behind them--scattered in black and white photos all over the joints' walls. They may be fake, I admit I never took a close look, but they still imbue the experience with a chipper retro sensibility as you try out their decidedly not retro jalapeno cheeseburgers. The fries always leave me cold (and I leave them, cold) but regardless, if you like feeling dainty while unbuckling your belt, eat a White Castle burger. Pinky up!

Burp. New York, it's been fun eating you and I have more plans for you soon...

-Sherry

Gastro-nostalgia: England

2006-05-12T02:04:00.000-07:00

There are three main components to humor about the English: the sex, the teeth and the food. Now the sex has been somewhat refuted by any number of parties, from the Beatles, to Eddie Izzard to the mass proliferation of mainstream sex shops Babes in Toyland can only dream of. And the food too, in all its varied forms, is not damn bad either. In fact I think on any given day when I lived on Mile End Road, studying at Queen Mary College, on the rough (and it really was, too) East end, I ate better than when I actually try and eat well here. On that road, in roughly three city blocks you had Japanese, Indian, Chinese, Thai, a roast chicken place, three or four traditional pubgrub places, and a fish and chip shop, the prescence of which still brings a tear to my eye and a drool to the corner of my mouth.

I had probably the opposite experience, as a child than most--most of my fish was raw, looking quite red and defeated on a plate or occasionally my mom would whip up something that looked at me as if accusing me with its cold dead eyes. Bless her, but seafood was not her fore; the fire alarm was more often than not our kitchen timer and our oven never really recovered from the Bass Charring of '99. And as far as Americana went in Vegas at the time, seafood meant something rather ominous and fried at Long John Silvers.

Now I'm not saying that the fish and chip shop on the East End was about to clear your arteries and save your blood pressure, but what it was, was utterly delicious. And reeking all over of tradition, too--all sorts of people, students like me, businessmen, geezers off the street would stop in and order up something that could in the best twist, be paid almost entirely with loose change from my pocket (ah the money has a bit of the Proustian in it too; pound coins are both convinient and just the right heft). And then you see your golden filet of whateveritwas get wrapped expertly end on end in butcher's paper and popped into a bag with french fries, all groaning with the mass weight of steam, grease and attitude. If you point quick enough the "chef" would douse the fish with liberal amounts of malt vinegar and salt and you would take the bag home and consume the thing til the paramedics intervened.

Here in New York there is no such ubiquity and though I like me a good slice (review of Ben's forthcoming except to really GET Ben's I realize you have to be pretty much drunk, which is why I don't know exactly where it's located in the Village) I still think fondly and very very hungrily in the middle of the night of London, and its vast array of food purposefully unhealthy, made for speed and drink, and horrible dentistry. What?

Ukranians get things done right...a review of Veselka

2006-03-15T17:14:00.000-08:00

Little Ukraine is a fair sized enclave in Manhattan (larger than say, Little Japan which I don't think exists) centered in the East Village notably 1st and 2nd Avenues between 7th and 11th. I was introduced to a little not-quite-dive bar called Kiev which served Ukranian food up until its near demise. Happily, Kiev still stands but is just basically your well and brew go-to ($4 drinks have been plentiful since its rental scare, and show no sign of going away) between Thursday through Saturday nights. But as for food, it's to Veselka, several blocks northward at 9th at Second (which I should really remember, because it seems without some drinks in me I can't find it at all).

Veselka has some notable things going for it before the food even arrives: It's 24 hours, well-lit and friendly. The space is airy and there's not much of a wait, but never outright abandoned (even at 3AM) Unlike Waverly's Soup and Burger, the drunkenness of the post-bar crowd never seems to be hostile-- just hungry. They came to the right place.

The central focus of the menu is on their platters which come vegetarian friendly (but watch out! The Alien Monkey once discovered meat lurking in hers) and carnivorous. Usually including a piregoie, a cabbage roll, kielbasa and numerous sides, the whole place is comfort food personified. The portions are just the right size too; nothing's too tiny or indeed, too much. You neither need a doggie bag or a snack for the trip home. As this has been a much debated topic of late, give the winter season just now passed (hopefully), their chicken soup is bar none the best I've tasted in the city. I like to add a dash of pepper to it, but it does just as well without.

As for drinks, I'd recommend going for the cheap 21 ounce Ukranian beer, the name of which eludes me right now. Oh, Slavtich! I never know quite how to pronounce it to the cute but surly waiters, but there you have it. Mild and gigantic, it's a nice downer to a hard night of pounding Jack Daniels. They have other bottle beers too, including the much sought after Stella. And if you have room for dessert, they have a very appealing selection. Their raspberry blintzes are more than enough to be a meal on their own, perfect little wrapped packages of cheesy love and I just had their baked chocolate custard which was neither as cloyingly sweet as you'd think or easy to finish. It was a slow, painstaking process that I'd like to replicate again on a slightly less full stomach.

The prices are reasonable for New York City and you really can't beat it for making you feel all cuddly and Eastern European inside. I'd say I'd go again, but I already know I am.

Love me tender

2005-10-26T17:02:00.000-07:00

I made some Irish lamb stew, more or less from scratch (the more: fresh veg all around, the less: canned beef stock) and more or less without consulting a cookbook, so the results were surprisingly nummy, everything managed to be cooked evenly from meat to potato and the soup was nicely thickened. It doesn't quite taste like stew, if that means anything, but it tastes nice.

The major failing in this endeavor has to be visual- the whole thing is very pale between the flour and milk. I figure this is what "browning sauce" is for, but I can't justify that kind of random purchase. Even if I have some extra lamb yet.

My love affair with chicken appears to be over. In just about every dining experience that would have me choose between the twain, it is the toothsome Biblical flesh I reach for. Go hard or go home, I think. Or the opposite, really.

I miss Sunday roast in England. It was reliably delicious (my kingdom for those little pastry things whose name eludes me right now) and a terrific way to feed a hangover. I was thinking last night I never dined better, more diversely or happily as I did in the East End. I went broke doing it, granted, but what a terrific way to go.

Come Hungry, Leave, um, Hungry. A Zen Palate review

2005-09-23T05:42:00.000-07:00

A Zen Palate haiku, because I am nothing if not embracing of the concept, if not the execution:

vegetarian
meals cooked lukewarm if at all
nosh pizza after

I've been to Zen Palate twice now, at the encouragement of the Alien Monkey, who contrary to her charming blood-thirstyness, is a vegetarian. Once at the bar, once at a very charming table, I suffered through what I have to say is at least an admirable experiment.

Zen Palate is a completely vegetarian restaurant. It enjoys a primo location in Union Square at 16th Street, with ample views of the street but a peaceful, knockabout vibe on the inside, keeping you safe from aggressive foot and wheel traffic. To hear devotees tell it, it is the mecca of all veg-friendly dining. So it would be a knockout on a restuarant scale if they served anything remotely resembling food, instead of reconstituted bamboo.

Yes, Zen Palate is the gourmand equivilant of Ikea: hip, popular, and utterly useless. Both times, perhaps because it is downtown and a schlep for me to get to, I have been starving upon arrival. Seated quickly and politely, served quickly, I was still starving when I paid my bill. Admittedly not an expensive restuarant, though the point rapidly becomes mute when you hit the streets and your stomach still growls.

They do know their way around a light, airy dumpling, and it is a small mercy that though they steam most of their offerings, they do fry others, and provide a delectable soy-based sauce in which to dip them. The crunch of the careful blend of veggies inside provides the tantalizing sensation of actual eating, but even after six, it boggles the mind and stomach that you are still full and have been suffering somewhat pale versions of the famed Dumpling Man (another Alien Monkey favorite, and mine as well).

Of course this is in no way meant as a screed against vegetarian dining. I am not so dedicated a carnivore that I cannot admit a well-fed belly after a dinner of wagonwheel pasta with spring veggies or a large bowl of potato leek soup. Zen Palate however has reduced so much from its food, particularly in the area of balancing starches with protein that you feel as if you are at one point chewing on roughly ground vitamins lovingly flavored with pond scum. Not a charitable conclusion from such a noble experiment, particularly one so beloved, I realize but I believe that to give yourself over to this place for actual nourishment is doomed to failure.

A Good-Looking, Parlous Failure

2005-08-29T23:16:00.000-07:00

The step by step assasination of scallops on rice with white asparagus and portobello mushrooms. Can you see where I went wrong? Me neither.

At left, the suspects, white asparagus, lemon juice, portobello mushrooms, Lipton FiestaSides Spanish Rice, Montauk scallops, wooden spoon. Not pictured: me, the culprit, dancing to house music and peeling garlic. (helpful tip: if it doesn't matter, just chop the fucker in half, makes the flakes flake right off)

So here are the sides, looking delicious. White asparagus, as it happens, is cheaper on Fresh Direct than its green bretheren. I don't know why, as it lends an air of holier-than-thou monocromity (monochromism? minimalist, anyway) to a meal and tastes...exactly the same. Portobella mushrooms, as always, are unimpeachably delicious and should be used over all other mushrooms at all times. Yes, even at the Burning Man Festival.

I'm not used to a gas stove, being a West Coast electric style girl, so there are only two settings on the range as far as I'm concerned: Nuclear Fires of Hell, and, Off. Above: a closeup of the vampiric vegetable friends. Note clove of garlic desperately trying to blend in. "Nobody suspects a thing!"

The Lipton rice a-boiling. No, I don't know how I have it in my pantry, or how it got there, but Spanish rice must be used and I thought it a reasonable substitute for paella. Oh how I was wrong.

Now the scallops were set to go for seven minutes sauteeing and I thought I more or less timed the rice with the portobello and asparagus, the rice took longer than I thought and instead of turning OFF the burner like a normal person, I just shook the little bastards baby-in-a-basinet while waiting. Let us name that Tactical Error #2. (Assuming the Lipton rice was #1 which we will cause EUCH.)

The finished product. It looks lovely, and I was quite happy when I sat down but y'all knows what's coming, I already pre-figured it all the way through. The Spanish rice was odd and soggy...and yet crunchy (damn the lack of rice cooker in my apartment! damn it to oblivion!) and altogether overwhelming in terms of "spice" or "flavor". I think it just tried to bludgeon me with its idea of Spanish with the orange color.

The scallops were also poor, they shriveled up, tiny things they were and a bit rubbery texture wise. The overcooking sapped them of the succelent morsels they should have been and I think all that aside, Fresh Direct gave me somewhat fish ingredients to start with. I'm sure I've skipped a crucial step, like steeping them in lemon or something, but I didn't like them.

The portobello turned out great and I managed to somehow char the asparagus, but it was still yummy, not quite al dente but close enough second. I did take pictures throughout and wrestling with my digital camera may have taken the timing off, but I think the whole enterprise may have been doomed from the start. I ate about half, half is now in my fridge, waiting, and then I made Paul Newman popcorn.

Now that, is a real success.

Memories... far from the pavement

2005-08-15T18:27:00.000-07:00

So there was me, in a decidedly un-city like setting, Sarah Lawrence College, but less than 15 miles from where I live today. I'm outside one of the worst places you could ever find cuisine, the campus pub.

And what better place to start than where you began, particularly with autonomous cooking. I did my fair share of grandma's helper back in Vegas. She is Dutch, and therefore is ace with all things baked goods. Chocolate chip cookies, English trifle with ladyfingers, molasses cookies, homemade biscotti, ginger snaps, butter cakes: that is all her domain. What there is of dinner meals are simple, hearty things that she passed onto her son's tastes, my father, then me.

So while I was at college, at least for the first two years, if I wasn't having greasy pizza or flat little wan patties of meat (both of which I weaned myself off of forcibly), I was cooking up plain pasta in olive oil (De Cecco rotelle, or wagonwheels, still my favorite) or grilling up chicken on my George Forman (far and away the most versitile kitchen appliance for cheap). For lunch, I attempted to shun the fat by creating plump tuna sandwiches on whole wheat.

I don't really have much of a sweet tooth, grandmother nonwithstanding (both really, for my maternal grandmother was notoriously sticky pocketed with toffees) so the thing I still reach for is the occasionally pint of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia. Ah, glorious.

Not much has changed, honestly with my home cooking except that around senior year I leaned to supplement what is plain, filling and wholesome with little delights, a cup of olives here, some marzipan, slices of munster and fresh mozerella. The small luxuries that in larger quantites would make even the most decadent bellies run wobbling for the vomitoreum. So it's not filet mignon every day, and thank goodness cause I can't afford it.

So a salute to trial by fire and good example by family. If I ever start baking, I know who to thank.

Re-post: Shake Shack Review

2005-08-13T08:42:00.000-07:00

from my livejournal, about three weeks ago:

After running through a buttload of epicurious NYC website, I twice ran across ecstatic reviews of this place called Shake Shack in Madison Square Park, which is where I happened to run into yesterday coming from work. Damn is that a sweet park. People are chill, there's a refreshing non-profusion of attitude, and the middle fountain lines up perfectly with the Empire State Building if you're a dork like me, and taking a picture with your cellphone camera.

Anyway.

People. I come from the West Coast. We got In and Out and Sonic and Fatburger, y'all, and I have in my day consumed many a White Castle. There's this place called Oasis in the East End of London that makes 16 ounce behemouths of burgers that not only moo when you bite them but writhe in your mouth, Douglas Adams-style. I mean, not like he writhes--it was in his book--never mind. And I just ordered what seemed like an obscenely expensive plain burger, no trimmings.

My. God. In Heaven. It's no exagerration to say that is the best burger and damn near the best red meat I've ever EVER had in my life. It pretty much grabbed my taste buds, ripped them out, and took them to Paris while I sat there on the seats, surrounded by birds, thwacked into food bliss so wide and so deep, you could have hit me with a hammer and I wouldn't have noticed. Lemme put it this way; if God transubstantiates, I'd take a good bet he would turn into this and not some dry cracker.

That said, the bun's pretty good too. It was soft and an inoffensive orange, and the texture overall reminded me of challah bread. I am a big believer in toppings on burgers, especially onions but it's a strong testament to say just the bread and just the glorious meat with some lavish swipes of ketchup are all one needs. BABY. I can't even like, go there again for awhile. This, despite its seeming bargain (against say, mainlining heroin) is something I need to save for when I've been a very very good girl. Or a very naughty one. So next time? It's their hot dogs.

*

I took a lap around the park after that, went into a comic book shop in a daze, picked up and put down Watchman (I dunno, I feel like with me a principle component of me reading comic books has to be some visual brio, despite being a writer, and I didn't see it there. Looked like matrix print Archie dots to me, and...feh.) and then walked up Madison Avenue to burn off the energy from having a spiritual experience with a piece of dead cow. Then I passed a fairly nice church, Madison Baptist or something and I glanced at the sign, expecting some well trodden platitudes about faith. Instead it said:

God needs spiritual fruit,
not religious nuts.

HA. MADISON BAPTIST PWNSU. What the hell? It's like dissing your audience before they even come in. This is religion, not Cheech and Chong! Or is it? Hee. I almost went in, drawn by the snark, but though one of my goals (and I do mean this seriously) is to sample different religions in the city (a beautiful mosque is right by my house, in fact, though I have little to no information on how to attend), I know I don't want a sarcastic church. A knowledgable and wise one sure, I don't want buckets of sap or electrodes put on my nuts, but in my experience, the more hip a church presents itself, the more facile and transparent the whole facade gets. Let's not keep it real okay? Put the electric guitar away, Father Brogan and tell me about sin sans power ballad.

*

Just as I was approaching the 6, I pass an animal shop with little birds hopping all around. Then I hear, up ahead of me- "COO." I look around; other people seem to have heard it too but are being cool about it. I walk on, thinking either there's another pet store or there was an exodus and I hear again- "COO." A man appears, white t-shirt, black jeans and a fedora with two remarkably huge feathers, a foot tall waving through the air. He cups his hands and yells up at the pigeons on the ledges- "COO." I'm thinking one day, he'll be their god. Or their bitch.

I have noticed a new male trend, and I think maybe I should encourage it, but let me run it past you. I would loosely call this trend Utter Fop. To wit: This ...man came on the subway. I can't even say for sure he's in business, but I'm pretty sure the giant PDA and briefcase gave him away. But. He was wearing, a cream colored pinstriped seersucker suit. Say that three times fast. Cream colored pinstriped seersucker suit. Extra long, with two vents in the back, like a tuxedo. It was riotously ugly, as if he had decided to dress as a sugar cone.

Then he had a pastel checked shirt underneath that and a green and blue paisley necktie and white sunglasses. If he had only had an ivory walking stick, the whole British Tourist In Africa, Old Chap look would have been complete. Hemingway underground, and all that. He's not alone either; he just seems to be the apex so far. But I think it's a good thing, I guess, overall, seeing men with a bit of dash. Shall ascots be far behind? Pocketwatches? Monocles? I do hope so. Just uh, if I laugh, I'm merely appreciating the full effect.

On the other hand, I got my eyebrows threaded today and the sweet Indian lady was utterly horrified by my catipillars. So I'm not exactly couture here, lessay.

You'll go broke here for sure...

2005-08-10T20:03:00.000-07:00

I went to Rice to Riches in Soho yesterday, pre-double bill of 2046 and Howl's Moving Castle. I realize I may never quite be so hipster in my life, so I tried to savour the sticky, gooey flavor for as long as it lasted. (Until I got to a water fountain, basically)

I guess I'm just not a fan of rice pudding, but that wasn't all that put me off the experience. It is a queer thing, on Houston, and I mean queer in the Victorian context because I must say all I ran into were beleagured straight people with the hollow eyes of the damnably fashionable.

Rice to Riches, I swear, exists in some kind of universe where Ipods have eaten all major appliances. The surfaces are all smooth white, there is a computer installed for god-knows-what reasons, the workers all wear walkie talkies despite working feet from each other. It is big, it is bad, it is minimalist IN YOUR FACE. They take it super serious there. But not really. Except they do.

And seriously dude, it's pudding. Lots of flavors (some of which that don't taste like colored Elmer's paste), lots of different plastic units in which to "download" your selection. It was like the noodle shops in Blade Runner without the tetanus-y charm. There was badly executed irony on all text in the store as well, they threatened prosecution if you took more than one flyer, there were faux-cheery-yet-mildly-threatening stances on worker treatment on the wall ("If you have time to lean, you have time to mop", etc) and I generally got the willikins really bad.

The whole area is not of the Lord. One could walk for blocks and not see a soul amongst the high end designer stores by adacent scummy lots. There is an older, more cynical feeling there than amongst the miscreants at Union Square or St. Mark's. A jaded optimism in which you hope everyone watches while you scoop up your gruel and pay six fuckin' dollars for it. Yeah, six. You know, the Red Cross probably cooks better stuff down the block.

Howl's Moving Castle, though, it must be said, makes for an excellent palate cleanser.

I little cartoon New York

2005-08-08T11:22:00.000-07:00

When I walked out of my building today, wrestling with about a month's worth of back laundry, I noticed a little man near my stoop. This little man was not real, but chalk, with an upside down smiley face on a round squat body. There was an artists clean siganture next to it. I smiled at the twee little graffiti and was on my way. Afterwards, I took the 6 down to my bank, which is a somewhat horrifying twenty blocks away. But after a deposit I was (relatively) flush, and thus walked my way back up, seeing the sights and sounds of 3rd Ave.

On a whim, and since I needed speciality groceries anyway (I'm a FreshDirect devotee even at this tender age, though mostly just for staples) I stopped in at Zabar's grocery outlet, Eli's. It was a strangely set up grocery store indeed; first you go downstairs to produce, wend your way through meats and cheese, then upstairs to bakery and checkout. I made a few circuits before I understood intuitively where to shop next.

It is a very nice store however, well stocked with fresh produce. Nearly all the fruits were unblemished and pungent with summer smells, though my favorite, the golden cherries were squishy and sad. They sold potted herbs there as well, though the prohibitive prices kept me waiting for the Saturday where I could go down to Union Square and buy another 2 dollar basil plant. The fish was predictably astronomically expensive; I skittered, frightened, when the monger asked if I needed help, away from the $14.99 scrod.

Pre-mixed things also seemed to be the order of the day, bringing back memories from London's major food stores such as Marks and Spencers, the likes of which neither New York or the vast suburban sprawl of Vegas has quite gotten yet. There was a full wall dedicated to homemade soups of infinite stripes: from New York clam chowder to cream of mushroom, matzah ball to Chinse egg drop. I picked up and put down at least three flavors, choosig instead to walk down the line and get fresh made vodka sauce, since I like to save my vodka for swilling not cooking.

The cheese counter too, was lavish. There was a small section for goat cheese and other, mysterious French concotions, and there was very reasonably priced peppered Brie, which I picked up along with some smoked salmon to quel my whining fish hunger. Heady with luxury food, I would have picked up some pate, but either the signs were willfully misleading or I was so intoxicated by the surroundings that I missed it completely. So no cruelly made delicious guilt-inducing meatstuffs for me today, which was just as well. With that, the classic Water crackers, easily located on a shelf nearby.

I picked up the now-rapidly-endangered plastic lemons full of lemon juice (why would such a staple of the kitchen be virtually nonexistant in supermarkets these days? Even Freshdirect shuns them, deciding instead on the far less aesthetically pleasing glass bottle. Pucker up!), a box of De Cecco penne, and some fresh cut pineapple, a box of sushi for lunch and was on my way. Fifty dollars. Whew. Glad I deposited that check. My poordom is still unruffled but my inner gastronome, misguided through she is, thinks that my method is best: Cheap, convinient bulk food spiced up by slim applications of little niceties.

On the way back, I was shocked to see the same little cartoon man, twenty blocks from where I had first seen him. Walking up 3rd, I saw him no less than five times, sometime's shorter with a triangular head, sometimes with a lollipop in his hand, all signed by the artist which I made out as DeLuella. Then he tapered out approaching my street, then appeared thrice more. I think this cartoonist lives on my block. It's rather nice, it's like I had a shopping companion all the way home.

Saw on the way back, while noshing on my sushi and walking: A papya stand (though not Gray's, my favorite), A Krispy Kreme (hoorah! A Manhattan location? Who forgot to tell me this!), a very large video store called Champagne's (worth a looksee, definitely) and an Irish pub with very reasonable fish and chips. We'll have to be hitting that soon indeed.

The sushi was somewhat old and tasteless, nothing to the same little tray I got from my very very near Gourmet Garage. Save it for the places that make it twice a day, I guess. Regardless, my experience at Eli's was quite nice, for something I'd have to save for once a month, tops.

Ground control to Major Tom

2005-08-06T17:52:00.000-07:00

I think I'm gonna go in on some kind of cross posting spree between here and my Livejournal. My Livejournal is, as per its name, more of a personal journal with myriad articles of fan-related activities that I think most hardcore blogger types would get the vapours and need a nap about, I'm gonna keep this place a little more uncluttered: anecdotes, ailments, musings and celebratory drunkness about my new home, New York City.

So here's a little something. I happen to be lucky enough to work in the Flatiron District (okay, one of those phrases desperately aches for ironic quotation marks but I demur), mere steps from Manhattan's first 7-11. Now that means nothing to the vast majority of you, and indeed it doesn't me, but apparently New Yorkers are hog wild for Slurpees--and ought to be in this type of weather.

It was very briefly closed down because, as I found one night as I strolled in for a nacho soujourn, the open fridge broke down, followed quickly by its long time love, the air conditioner. I strode briskly out, and the next day, closure for repairs.

I was more than a little tickled to see on the Great Blogs of the Manhattanverse (to my mind, Gawker, Curbed and Gothamist) wild speculation and mourning. I guess not only are Manhattanites greatly attached to their Slurpees, they are thrown by the mildest hint of construction, begging for cell phone released photographs as to the status of a place that, frankly, isn't all that hard to get to. Take the 6, people, the 6.

Right, I guess that defeats the titular "convinience" aspect to the store.

But it's open again, never fear, right on the corner, just waiting for me to walk in and demolish their faux cheese resources. Blessed Velveeta, calcium enriched pap for the poor.