Friday, November 6, 2009

So you think you're a foodie?

I'm always surprised by how many New Yorkers are self-proclaimed "foodies," especially the chopstick-thin chicks who look like they might fill up on a thimble's worth of broth.

Saying you're a "foodie" has become a euphemism for "I once trekked to the almost-ghetto in Chinatown for hand-pulled noodles." Daring? Not so much. It just means you're hungry.

So how do you know you're a real blue-blooded foodie? Take this test:

Go to Daniel Boulud's DBGB for head cheese from France.

Eat it and report back to HQ...or come to grips with the fact that you'll have to reserve the term for real foodies.

Hold the cheese, baby.

Justin Nozuka @ Webster Hall



Following the opening performances of Elizabeth and the Catapult and Sam Bradley, fresh-faced twentysomething Justin Nozuka melted a largely female crowd at Webster Hall with his soulful crooning and easy-on-the-eyes looks.

Born in New York but raised in Toronto, the music of this half-Japanese and half-American wunderkind is a veritable melting pot: sometimes neo-soul and bluesy, other times folky pop. Nozuka's knack for blending --not burying--these styles together creates an understated aesthetic that is all his own. While acoustic performances are his apparent strong suit, popular tracks from Nozuka's debut album, like "Golden Train," benefitted from his talented bandmates.

Distinct and expressive, Nozuka's vocals maintain the crisp integrity found on his debut album, "Holly." One soulful track titled "Supposed to Grow Old" highlights Nozuka's humane lyrics brought to life by an unexpected emotional tonality. Nozuka's sincerity makes his music that much more enjoyable for an audience whose sing-along tendencies boasted for the humble and talented musician.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Bia garden

Part of me doesn't want to talk about Bia because I know this place is going to get packed once people actually recognize the obscure down-below entrance to this delightful restaurant/beer garden.

Despite a clearly online-advertised location at 154 Orchard street in the LES, I walked past the joint a total of three times. On the third go-around, I finally found the rickety stairs that lead to a simple glass panel window; the perfect portal for Bia's employees to watch the struggle of finding their restaurant. Jumping on the speakeasy train CAN be fun.

Upon entering, I found myself in an ante room of sorts. "Here for brunch?!" asked a particularly chipper man who gestured to us that there was indeed a place to sit. Through the beer cooler-cum-hallway, patrons enter a covered "garden" with delightful wooden tables, a bench-lined perimeter, and empty cans of Cafe Du Monde chickory coffee doubling as utensil holders and centerpieces--hence his peppiness.

Turns out that New York brunch is an all-day event warranting a start time of "open to 4PM," at least at Bia. A spartan white cup of mahogany coffee sat on its saucer as I poured over a simple brunch menu: eggs in various styles, pancakes, steak and eggs, Etc. "Where's the rice?" asked my NYC-marathon friend. "I need the carbs!" He settled for a delightful omelette bedecked with Chinese sausage and a heaping side of yucca fries.

The meal was simple, delicious, and sunny (thanks to the translucent overhang). The only downside is that the place is cash only and while they'll tell you that the ATM across the street works, it doesn't. Turn left and walk to the corner falafel joint.

Have a Bia, baby.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Going Colonial: Rockin' Raw

Note to reader: "Going Colonial" will be a new section about Williamsburg. Other such names like "Hipstery Haven" and "Ironic Bangs-burg" struck no chords.

After a sunny but snoozy jaunt to Greenpoint for the Oktoberfest (cue: good excuse for beer outside), I strolled back into the Billyburg and passed Rockin' Raw, a cozy joint self-described as "live-vegan-raw-organic-peruvian-new-orleanian-creole-cuisine-with-soul-from-williamsburg-brooklyn-to-you." And it's true: not a single animal product will touch your puckered lips. Thrilling!

Sucked in by the promise of a backyard, I sauntered through the well-decorated dining area and out of the backdoor. You'll be pleased to know that Chef Mama Rosa keeps her word: the backyard is small and quaint with glass and mesh tables speckled about the off-kilter brick pavement. The daily specials looks delish and I had my heart set on the Lentil Chili but, sigh, they were out. So instead I got the house salad with fig-balsamic dressing and a "Maca-licious" Smoothie (Maca, Ginger, Apples).

The salad was a simple melange of celery, romaine bits, slivered tomatoes, and purple cabbage. It was tasty but not particularly mind-blowing. The fig-balsamic did give it a boost...or perhaps that was the effect of the Maca in my smoothie; a Peruvian herb whose compounds of macamides and macaenes make this a "libido-boosting" remedy. Heyyyyyyyy.......

The smoothie was the most memorable and I plan on replicating the deliciously libidinous qualities at home.

...in the blender, ya dir'y devil.

Maca, baby, Maca.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Tilda Swinton on 'Making work'

I'm not going to lie.

I felt culturally snooty in my seat at City Winery, waiting for Tilda Swinton to begin her parlay with Hilton Als, theatre critic and contributor to The New Yorker's "Talk of the Town" section. The event? The New Yorker Festival's personal chat with Tilda about her career, which she repeatedly preferred to call "making work"--suggestive of the idea that she is not her work and that work is not her life. Sassy, no? Jealous? Oui.

If it were not for my gleaming glass of rose and particularly erudite friends, this event would've sunk my battleship in full. Mister Als opened with an air of false humility, commenting that neither Tilda nor himself enjoyed being on display for everyone else thus they "did not know why they agreed to do this." Really? REALLY? That's how you start an event for which a full house paid hard-earned recession dollars to attend? Oh Hilton....That's NOT hot.

Between defibrillator-like clips of "Orlando" and "Female Perversions," Swinton and Als went tete-a-tete. The crowd occasionally laughed when a quippy whip lashed from their tongues, but the room shuddered, silent otherwise. A faint snore emanated from stage right.

Or was that me?

Either way, I think I do regret not buying the ticket for James Franco's chat instead.

Make work, baby, make work.


Wednesday, October 14, 2009

The Japanese Smorgasbord @ Ichi Umi



The Japanese have done for the smorgasbord what they've done for everything else: Take notes then make it a million times better. Such is true of the all-you-can-eat buffet at
Ichi Umi, a popular spot for double-decker tour buses of old Asian people as well as famished foodies. Though misplaced in the Asian nation that is K-Town, this Japanese joint faces no identity crisis with 50 made-to-order fresh items and a buffet the length of a million paper cranes strung together.

The experience is glutinous yet prim as oval serving plates sit side by side with tapas-portions just asking to be plucked from the stage. With my dinner plate in hand, I began at one end of the buffet and piled on morsels of crab cake, popcorn shrimp, teriyaki salmon, rincon chips, vegetable tempura, a baked clam, shrimp tempura, baby bok choy and mushrooms, a bacon-wrapped scallop, okonomiyaki, and the mental affirmation that I'd be back for another round. After all, I barely made it half-way through the buffet!

The food is delicious and freshly prepared since turn-over is high. After the first round, I skipped back to the buffet and started at the fry station at the middle. I picked up a thin slice of fried veggies, bypassed the noodle bar featuring 6 different types of made-to-order ramen, and sashayed through tray upon tray of sushi, sashimi, and other assorted rolls. Perfect bed-fellows, I placed the Dragon Roll next to the New York roll next to the other roll whose name escapes me but not the memory of its wakame-infused rice and decadent chunk of tuna. I waddled back to my table, grabbing a piece of tuna tataki on the way.

If the price of a flight to Japan cuts too deep, take the moolah you save to Ichi Umi and indulge. Strolling down the endless catwalk of delectables will send you on a trip.

Oishii, baby, oishii.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

In my 'hood: You mean that wasn't the entree?

For a long time, all I knew about Yemen Cafe was that its workers enjoyed catcalling while on their cigarette breaks. Day after day, I'd walk to my apartment (a hop-skip from this culinary curiosity) and peer into the large glass window. Patrons always appeared well-fed, steeped in conversation, and mostly male. "Come! It is warm inside. We can warm you up," a bus-boy once yelled at me. I turned my head and mentally reassured myself that I preferred the cold when all I really wanted was whatever mound of deliciousness sat in those shiny metal bowls.

Though I moved out of that particular apartment, my desire to dine at Yemen Cafe remained. Thanks to the willingness of a Manhattanite friend, I finally trekked back to that alcove on Atlantic Avenue. On our way there, I explained to my friend that his presence made this whole adventure possible because I always felt it inappropriate for me to dine there alone as a single female. As we walked up the steps, I had to laugh as he proceeded with caution, "Are you sure we're gonna be allowed to eat here?" Then we spotted a white chick with her father and all was well. Phew! Good thing we could throw the stereotypes out the window!

We sat down and a friendly waiter took our order of Fassolia to start, Massloug Lamb, and Chicken Curry. Before anything, we were served lamb soup: a flavorful broth with small chunks of onion scattered about. The Fassolia arrived as a brick-red colored mound atop an oval dish with a large tray of flatbread--light and fluffy in some spots, perfectly burnished on the others. We tore off chunks of the stuff and dug into the white bean stew of cilantro, garlic, tomato paste, pepper, and other transportive spices. Our conversation became as colorful as our Fassolia.

When the waiter brought the lamb and curry entrees, I looked back at the Fassolia and said, "You mean that wasn't the entree?" Though we certainly could've ended our Yemeni sojourn with the Fassolia, we got to work on the succulent lamb chunks and the perfectly seasoned chicken curry; both came with a side of delicate white rice. A once-upon-a-time vegetarian, I was a bit jarred by the hunks of lamb before me. Yet with each row of my knife, the meat fell like a blossom from a stem. No gamey taste, just bliss.

I shall return very soon...even if just for the Fassolia.

Yemeni love, baby, Yemeni love.







Lebowski Fest 2009: The Dude Abides


Like a beautiful rug that ties the room together, Lebowski Fest 2009 forged a bond between fans from all walks of life. I got a message on my machine telling me that they were showing the picture on the big screen at Terminal 5 so I got on the subway because those damn kids took my car for a joyride then soiled it before they left it who-knows-where. I hear they have some promising leads. Anyway, I got to Terminal 5 but they wouldn't let me in. The tough guy at the door took one look at my poncho-slipper combo--a fine look if I may say so--and told me that I was out of my element! He even asked me to pay 25 bones or clams or whatever you call them. He couldn't be serious! So I looked him in the eye and said, "I'm the Dude, man!" It seemed to work because we didn't split anymore hairs on the issue. Then I walked into Terminal 5 and I realized that I was late because the places was darker than a steer's tookus on a moonless prairie night and I could barely see anything except for picture on the big screen and two giant bars glowing like amber oases. I got myself a beverage and took a seat in the second tier of the VIP floor. I'll tell ya, Terminal 5 is huge, man! There's no way I'd pay the rent on time for this place--it must be big enough for at least 1,000 rugs. I will say this though: the big screen was pretty righteous and it was a chill experience overall except when some folks would say all the lines before the picture could say 'em or laugh before anyone else. I guess that's the way the whole darn human comedy keeps perpetuating itself.

The next day, I woke up in the middle of my living room and I found a message on my machine about going bowling at some ten-pin joint. I called Walter to come along and he said he couldn't come because he had to walk Cynthia's rat-dog. I don't know why he didn't just bring that thing along like he did the last time. So I went by myself to place and I said, "Hey man, is this the ten-pin joint for the festival?" He looked at me and said, "'Ten-pin joint' is not the preferred nomenclature. Lucky Strike, please." I threw my hands up in the air and said, "Okay, man, Lucky Strike." I strolled in and was immediately confronted by, well, me.

Lucky Strike was lit all posh and swanky and there was a holy glow around my doppleganger. I wasn't sure if he was real or if I was having the occasional acid flashback. I looked at him and he looked at me and he said, "I'm not Lebowski, man, I'm the Dude!" I squinted twice thinking that might clear the noggin but then I looked behind The Dude and I saw another Dude. Then I saw Maude, and then two more Maudes: one dressed as a saucy viking and the other wearing that dark green robe she wears when she's not throwing paint around. Then I saw the Nihilist running towards me with those damn big scissors and I yelled, "I need my johnson, man!" Then a really nice woman looked at me and said, "Welcome to Lebowski Fest 2009! Would you like to bowl?" I told her I didn't rent any shoes but the nice lady gave 'em to me anyway so I strapped up, grabbed a ball, and went golfing. Pretty sharp--the other folks at the festival. Some were dressed up as me, Duderino, some as Maude, some as the Nihilists, I saw Walter walking around, and I even saw the marmot. Jerk.

I shimmied past while the marmot watched me with those beady little eyes and I sat myself next to some upstanding bowlers starting a new round. When I got up to bat, I couldn't figure out how I was supposed to mark the boards but the young man wearing Larry's homework on his teeshirt told me everything at Lucky Strike is, as they say in the parlance of our times, "high-tech and automated." Larry's Homework assured me that the balls were glowing because of the fancy black lighting system and not because of any funny stuff slipped into my Caucasian. Relieved, I tossed that globe down the lane and struck luck. I went drink for drink and strike for strike and I noticed the fellow wearing Jackie Treehorn's notepad on his chest was getting a little y'know and he whispered, "If you throw the rest of this game I will compensate you to the tune of eighteen dollars." I thought about what the money could do; how many more bits of rolling paper that could get me. But no, man! This isn't 'Nam! It's bowling! There are rules! I ignored the candy-man, marched ahead, and threw whole turkeys down the gullet; taking out all ten hens so everyone at the festival could feast while We (yes, the Royal 'We') celebrated Lebowski Fest 2009. I dedicated my perfect game to Donny, in the great alley in the sky, and I wept sweet tears because strong men also cry...Strong men also cry.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Fashion Week Summer 2009: Vivienne Tam


I don't consider myself to be fashionable at all. A tee and jeans are alright by me. Yet when your French friend invites you to Vivienne Tam's Fall show at Bryant Park, you go--you do your hair, you put together a badass outfit, you wear those 4-inch death heels, you glam up, and you storm the scene like you know the difference between tulle and chiffon.

The Fashion Week tents enveloped Bryant Park which looked like an austere airplane hangar from the outside. Inside was another story. As we stepped up the stairs, I looked back and saw a bunch of people crowded around; seemingly expectant and  hopeful that entry would be granted. Nothing is ever worth waiting for hours, my friends, I said to myself as the pulsating music and cicada-like buzz of conversation drew me into the tent.

The scene was straight out of Sex & the City (a referential guide to NY for most of my young adult life): freakishly tall models, the paparazzi, and the fashion cognoscenti expertly dressed in whatever the eff they felt like wearing because HELL(!) this is fashion, baby. I enjoyed the visual array; like MOMA come to life.

What I didn't enjoy was the poor event production. Instead of separating high traffic areas, somehow the gratis booze bar and Check-In were right next to each other. The result? A mish-mash of glam'd up individuals becoming more and more intoxicated and thus more and more perturbed that security wasn't aware that "I'm on the list!" Thanks to my heels, I was able to see the reception table and so I herded my petite friend through the crowd, pushing our way through and saying in an affected tone, "Isn't this just madness! My goodness!" We skated through, signed in, received a piece of paper with a "ST" written in big black markers, and then got herded into another voluminous line.

After confirming that "ST" stood for "Standing," I knew I had to find a seat. My 2-hr death shoes were FIERCE but deadly. I sat next to the fountain revamped with floral drippings and expertly placed spotlights. We people-watched for a good 45 minutes before the show tent opened to let patrons in. Those lucky folks who got to sit went in first and then the rest of us shuffled our well-heeled feet, clutching our "ST," and flooding all other available pockets of space inside the show tent. 

Vivienne's show was a flowy, flirty, floral array of clothing--err, um--art pieces that I could actually see myself wanting to wear. Hair and make-up consisted of long, "natural" hair and easy make-up that brought the focus to the eyes. To be honest, I was more interested in the faithful fashion following that made up the audience. I look around and thought that all those seeking egg-donors should've posted up outside because smushed in this tent was one helluva aesthetic demographic....but back to the fashion.

Actually no. What I thought was pretty clever was the incorporation of Tam's edition of the HP Mini (pictured) as the perfect accessory: a clutch. My inner nerd mentally applauded this unique incorporation of electronics and, as if the fashion hadn't already done so, I became a VTF: Vivienne Tam Fan.




If given a chance to sit, I would certainly go to another fashion show. All the waiting and foreplay of the pre-show made me weary and just as the actual fashion show started it was instantly over like a most beautiful quickie. It was a great experience and I'm very glad to have seen the scene of Fashion Week.

After enduring the glares that come with being overdressed on the subway, I got home and changed into a tee and a pair of jeans. 

The perfect fashion statement, baby.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Riding the Elevator Into the Sky


I got an email with this poem enclosed. A poem about NYC. It's a suitable poem for my latest sentiments about NYC:



Riding the Elevator Into the Sky
By Anne Sexton (1975)


As the fireman said:
Don't book a room over the fifth floor
in any hotel in New York.
They have ladders that will reach further
but no one will climb them.
As the New York Times said:
The elevator always seeks out
the floor of the fire
and automatically opens
and won't shut.
These are the warnings
that you must forget
if you're climbing out of yourself.
If you're going to smash into the sky.


Many times I've gone past
the fifth floor,
cranking upward,
but only once
have I gone all the way up.
Sixtieth floor:
small plants and swans bending
into their grave.
Floor two hundred:
mountains with the patience of a cat,
silence wearing its sneakers.
Floor five hundred:
messages and letters centuries old,
birds to drink,
a kitchen of clouds.
Floor six thousand:
the stars,
skeletons on fire,
their arms singing.
And a key,
a very large key,
that opens something —
some useful door —
somewhere —
up there.