A typical New York evening

Maybe it was the result of lunchtime’s disappointment, but we were really looking forward to dinner. We’d eaten at Wallsé before, and the prospect of hearty Austrian cuisine on a cold night was so tempting that we turned up at the restaurant ten minutes before they opened and had to dance around to keep warm until they noticed us and charitably let us in.

The restaurant feels like a cozy neighborhood joint, albeit one in which one wall is dominated by an enormous Julian Schnabel portrait of chef Kurt Gutenbrunner, arms folded, scowling at the room as if challenging diners to complain about his food.

(It’s also largely underlit, so my best attempts to record the meal were foiled. Gutenbrunner!)

We started with cocktails: a bright, tart rye sour with blood-orange marmalade for me, and a blackberry sidecar for The Boy, the glass frosted with a thick rim of sugar, fresh berries floating within.

His app was a dish of indulgent, creamy spätzle with rabbit; I went for duck consommé, the clear broth soothing and nutritious and generously loaded with cubes of duck meat and asparagus spears. It felt as though it were exorcising the ghost of my lunchtime lentil lapse.

For my main, I had cod strudel with Riesling sauerkraut (the cod in thick, buttery, generous pieces); The Boy ordered steamed pheasant, which I’d considered but (foolishly) though might be bland (ha!). The meat was fragrant, succulent and moist, wrapped in cabbage leaves and served with lentils and tiny, crunchy dices of carrot and celery, with a dish of puréed potato on the side.

We were going to pass on dessert, but our lovely South African waitress did such a good job of teasing the Salzburger Nockerl with huckleberries that we caved under the pressure (and the accent). In this version of meringue, soft pillows of egg white and vanilla-infused crème anglaise are piled in a dish and baked until brown. The layer of intense berry sauce beneath was still bubbling hot when it reached our table. We ate the whole thing.

And then off to the evening’s entertainment: a reading of Songs of Songs with power couple Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson. The music was composed by creative all-rounder John Zorn; the first half of the show involved Zorn conducting (that is, sitting to one side and occasionally nodding at) harp, vibes, double bass and electric guitar through a selection of what I (in my cultural and musical ignorance) can only describe as experimental klezmer jazz. It was actually pretty cool.

The theater was tiny—maybe 300 seats in all. We were in the third row. Every now and again my eyes would stray from the stage, because LOU REED WAS, LIKE, SITTING IN THE FRONT ROW. I think everyone else was sneaking glances as well, but trying to pretend they weren’t. He and Laurie watched the first act, and then got up in interval and slipped through a side door.

Five minutes later, they were on stage, along with five young women in evening gowns. (Laurie was in a slim-fitting black pantsuit; Lou, a white guayabera and black pants and reading glasses). The women—the “daughters of Jerusalem”—sang all the musical accompaniment: high jarring notes, soft crooning tones, staccato shrieks, long harmonious chords. Zorn stood at audience-level, leaning on the stage, his score in front of him, and cued Lou and Laurie on their lines; the ladies more or less conducted themselves.



It was … well, it was certainly unlike anything we’d seen before. Musically, it was incredible—one of those moments that made me realize that while I could probably be a proficient guitarist or keyboardist or drummer with about six months’ practice, I’d never be able to equal that level of ability.

There was also a pleasantly rough edge to it, as though (on Lou and Laurie’s part) there’d been only a couple of hours of rehearsal before they went on stage (Lou stumbled over a couple of lines, and added an unintentionally percussive element when he opened his sparkling water bottle too closely to the microphone, creating a sudden hiss and causing the audience to giggle).

We came out, a little dazed, and decided to call it a night. And then we got back to the hotel and decided to have a call-it-a-nightcap at the Algonquin across the street. Their martini with lime and thyme strengthened my resolve to experiment with herbs in beverages this summer. And on the way out, we stopped to say hi to Matilda, who consented to a brief chin rub.

Yeah, that was a good evening.

Sparky's: "organic" doesn't mean "good"

Just so you don’t start thinking that either a) I never report bad news or b) we live a charmed, bad-dining-experience-free life, rest assured that Saturday’s lunch was really crappy.

We’d spent the cold, gray morning yomping around the southern tip of Manhattan, starting at Wall Street and heading north past City Hall and various Imposing Buildings of Government and Justice.

Chinatown was a busy blur of fresh-seafood markets, restaurants with duck-festooned windows, and knock-off accessory stores, outside which elderly ladies who should have been in a nice warm parlor playing Mahjong were instead standing, trying to attract customers with calls of “TiffanyTiffanyTiffanyTiffany” and “CoachCoachCoach” and “GucciGucciGucci.”

We passed through Little Italy (now a scant few streets of restaurants) and realized we were getting hungry. And the chill was seeping into our bones. So when a tiny place called Sparky’s American Food came into view, offering organic fast food, we ducked inside.

How tiny? This tiny. You’re looking at the whole place.



The majority of Sparky's menu is taken up with (organic) hotdogs with various toppings, burgers ditto, chicken sandwiches ditto. As we were again having an early dinner, we didn’t want to indulge too heartily at lunch, so The Boy ordered grilled-(artisan)cheese sandwich and (organic) greens, and I went for a bowl of homemade lentil soup—what could be better for a chilly winter’s day?

Credit where credit’s due: the sandwich was lovely, the cheese sharp and mature. But the salad's limp mixed greens were topped with chunks of taste-free tomato and thick slices of raw yellow onion. And my cup of soup was tiny, tepid and tasteless. (The green tea I had with it was scorchingly hot, so on average I was doing okay).

Also, this: the food was served on disposable plates with wax paper and plastic cutlery. Okay, perhaps the place was too small to have service-quality dishwashing facilities. But it’s a bit of a disconnect to play up the organic philosophy while throwing your forks into a landfill.

I looked around online for reviews of Sparky's, and found them falling into two categories: articles from professional publications, which extol the mission of the place (such as this one, praising Sparky's Williamsburg location, from New York Magazine) and reports from actual diners, who use phrases like "friendly but clueless" and "horrible consistency."

So today’s lesson, kids, is that one can understand the value of such terms as “organic” and “free-range” in relation to their ingredients and still not know what one is supposed to do with them when one brings them into the kitchen.

Adour-able!

Remember how I had a dream that we missed our Ardour reservation and all they could offer us was a cheese sandwich?

When we turned up last night, we found our reservation had been cancelled.

Oh, it all turned out okay; I think my look of horror must have been enough to convince them it was a terrible mistake, and they were lovely and apologetic. But still--spooky, no?

And remember how I'd expressed concern that the website's bad design was a reflection on the restaurant itself?

Completely unfounded. Every detail was perfect.

Let's start with the room, all high silver ceilings and tall wine cabinets, the whole thing enshrouded in frosted glass walls engraved with leaves and vines--warmth and light, with just a hint of sleek cool. The chairs have wooden platforms that slide out from under the seat. Why? So your purse has a little place to rest, of course--no dumping it at your feet in this place!

The service was friendly, unpretentious, accessible; the wine list included unexpected selections from Spain and Greece; the food ...

Oh, the food ...

I started with the foie gras and tapioca ravioli with a truffle foam; the pasta was like melty-in-the-mouth soft pillows stuffed with dark, complex pâté.



The Boy went for sweetbreads, served with a single, perfectly poached, strangely molded egg:



Extra points for providing an insanely light brioche to mop up the yolk.

Thence to the entrees: for The Boy, duck breast with roasted shallots and a creamy, buttery polenta:



Note to self: start roasting shallots at home. Immediately.

I went for the pork, mainly because the dish included boudin noir, at which they had me:



To the left of the three thick slices of moist pork: a baked lady-apple. To the right: a square of pork belly, with sweet fat that dissolves on the tongue. Above: the most insanely delicious boudin noir I've ever tasted. Not too peppery, though still with a deep bloodiness, but most remarkable was the texture: light, airy, as though whipped until fluffy.

We decided to skip the cheese course, lovely though it sounded, and go straight to dessert. It was a tough decision, but we settled on the pear clafoutis with honey-lavender ice-cream. It was an unusual take on the traditional fruit-and-batter pudding:



Here, actually, was the only thing that didn't quite work; the ice-cream had a strange, almost musty flavor. Maybe honey wasn't the best addition (lavender on its own would have been nicer).

The chocolates and meringue cookies were complementary; they were also lovingly made (the former intense and complex; the latter light and decadent at the same time).

So my fears about missed meals and dismissive detailing were unfounded by a long shot. We'd go back in a heartbeat, though I suspect tables will quickly become harder to come by; we were lucky to snag a 5:30 slot on a Friday.

On our way out, the maitre d' apologized for the cancellation mix-up again, and we chatted briefly about how Adour has been doing in its first month. He mentioned that it's an attempt to broaden the Ducasse brand to a younger, hipper clientele, which explains the coolness of the room (as well as the bar with iPhone-like menus embedded in the counter and the just-louder-than-necessary techno-jazz-lounge Muzak).

It will be interesting to see how Adour does on that front; our fellow diners were mostly moneyed-casual and older than us. And most definitely unlikely to end the evening as we did: at a hipster bar on the Lower East Side, cheering on my friend J's band Rotary Club and staying on for the next act, Gram Rabbit, a grunge-electronic-disco act fronted by a singer who channeled Grace Slick, Stevie Nicks and Siouxsie Sioux.

What a way to end the night.

Membership has its privileges

We spent most of yesterday at MoMA, taking as much advantage of our membership as we could. We (along with the non-member proles) got to watch the installation of part of the Color Chart exhibit. It opens March 2, which means the museum staff still have time to finish gluing stripes to the floor:



It's gonna be pretty cool.

.

We stopped for lunch (10% off for members!) at the café on the second floor. The Boy had a fantastic duck prosciutto salad with Humboldt Fog cheese, pears and spiced walnuts:



and I had a Gorgonzola, bacon and pear panini, which was great (though not as pretty).

I'd been looking forward to seeing the new exhibit Design and the Elastic Mind, but it turned out not to be opening until Sunday. Boo! But then we discovered that members got a sneak preview. Huzzah!

It's a fabulous selection of fantastical ideas, futuristic inventions and stuff that's happening right now involving nanotechnology and engineering and design, as well as graphical representations of things like real-time global Internet use and continental air traffic. I have video of the latter that I'll post soon.

Among the other cool ideas: a doggy-tail-wagging translator (you need to see it as a larger image) and this example of how today's scientists are spending their time: stapling DNA to make smiley faces:



Futuristically freaked out yet?

Why it's called the Great White Way

We're in New York and it's snowing. It's not quite as bad as snow in Texas, but an inch or so on the sidewalk (apparently removable by broom) has people gently freaking out.

As it's not a day for long walks, we'll be heading to MoMA this morning, probably to spend most of the day there. Dinner is sorted, of course, and I just got a call from a friend who's coming in from Boston to play a show in Soho tonight, so if the timing works out we might check that out.

And tomorrow night we're going to see John Zorn's version of the book Song of Songs from the Bible, narrated by Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson. I never thought I'd write that sentence.

Speaking of dinner, last night I dreamed we overslept and woke up at 7:30 pm, thus missing our dinner reservation; when we got to Adour, we discovered the whole thing was their fault, somehow, but all they could do was apologetically offer us a cheese sandwich, at which point I burst into tears. And then I woke up.

I'll be checking my watch all day.

Ten years of love and food

Ten years ago today, I stood before family and friends and promised to spend the rest of my life with this man.



He has seen me at my worst, my crankiest, my lowest, and he's been there with patience, strength and hot tea. He's also seen me at my best, my happiest, my most content--and more often than not, he's been the reason.

In our decade together, we figured out our career paths, bought a house and started a family (in a sense). We've celebrated joyful moments and helped each other through devastatingly sad ones. And everything has been so much better for being able to share it with him.

And of course, there's been eating. Plenty of eating. Together, we've:

• scarfed down poutine at midnight in Montreal


• spent our last Euros on stinky cheese at the gourmet store at Charles de Gaulle airport (and eaten it like refugees, cramming it into our mouths at the gate)


• grown our own tiny, candy-sweet cherry tomatoes


• shared roast suckling pig in Puerto Rico; barbecued pork in Texas; pork pies in England


• ordered frog, ostrich, kangaroo, eel, cricket, and snake-infused absinthe

Happy anniversary, sweetie. Here's to ten more years of sharing laughter, adventure and fabulous food.

Restaurant website design: bad, but oh so beautiful

I hate to bring up another example of bad restaurant website design (no, really, I do), but I couldn't let this go unnoted.

On Friday night, we're eating at Adour, the newest restaurant in Alain Ducasse's empire.

This guy is at the top of the league. Has multiple Michelin stars. Knows his stuff.

And yet the site for Adour ... well ... c'est pas bon.

Oh, it's gorgeous, for sure. Check out the eight time-lapse movies: iconic images, all movement and light, they're New York in a nutshell.

And now (after turning off the intrusive lounge-jazz soundtrack), I want to find a menu.



Hmm ... my choices are "Reservations," "Map," "Facts" and "About"; I can probably dismiss the first two, but what's the difference between the last two?

Oh, and there's a typo on the map.



Am I being picky? Should I learn to back off? Frankly, no. While I don't pay too much mind to prices (especially for special occasions), it's worth noting that Adour's least expensive app is $19. The cheapest main (olive oil-poached cod) is $32.

Adour is intended for diners who expect impeccable service, excellent ingredients, flawless presentation. And yet the message I get from the site is: lovely to look at, but don't expect us to be too concerned about the details.

I guess I'll just have to hope that the kitchen staff pay more attention to their work than the site designers did ...

Reconsidering lovin' the oven

I've long regarded my oven with the same wary suspicion as Charlie Brown views the kite-eating tree; nothing good comes of messing with it. While generally a benevolent dictator when it comes to roasting, the oven has consistently and heartlessly laughed at my attempts to bake.

Essentially, my oven is a liar. It claims to be hot enough when it's still 100 degrees away. It pretends to maintain consistent temperature while quietly cooling down. It beeps at me for no good reason.

The incident that led to my loss of baking confidence occurred two years ago: a Christmas cake recipe that promised moist, fruity richness manifested itself as a dense, impenetrable slab of concrete.

After that, I installed a stand-alone thermometer (aka lie detector), which helps a little. But I'd already been betrayed, and it was hard to believe I could ever really trust it again.

And then, through my enlistment in the Foodie BlogRoll, I discovered Baking for Britain's recipe for Cornish saffron cake.

Sure, I could probably have started slowly, maybe with cupcakes or oatmeal cookies. But the cake was so wonderfully yellow, and the recipe was allegedly devised by a 6-year-old, so I figured I was safe.

It starts with saffron in warm milk.



The dough has butter, flour, sugar, yeast, the saffron-infused milk, and dried fruit.



Once baked, the loaves are--

Wait, let me rephrase that.



I baked something! And it worked!!



Oven: pwned. For now.

Restaurant website design: it's easy to be bad

Rest easy, my peoples: we have found our restaurant for Saturday evening in NYC. We'll be making a return trip to Wallsé, the rather lovely one-Michelin-starred Austrian place in the West Village. Thanks for your suggestions; they may come in handy for lunch!

It took a while for us to make a decision; OpenTable had 500+ restaurants in Manhattan alone with availability for next Saturday night, and even after dismissing a few categories whole-cloth (no steakhouse, no seafood, not French for a change), that still left a couple of hundred options.

So we started exploring. And we quickly realized there are a lot of bad restaurant websites out there.

One great (or terrible) example is the all-Flash Morimoto New York. First you have to click to launch the site. Then there's the ten-second delay while it loads. Then--like it or not--you get mood-setting music (hunt for the five-pixel-wide speaker icon to turn it off).

It looks like this (I added a hint so you can find the nav):



Click an option, and giant crab claws and Ginsu knives bum-rush the screen. The type size remains defiantly small.

While crafting this slick choreography of image and music, did anyone check, you know, the text?



At The Water Club, we find not so much a poorly designed restaurant website as a subtly strange choice of functionality. Say you're looking for a menu. Where are you most likely to click?



The item in the "Site Features" section won't help--nothing there is clickable, even though it's in the most eye-catching part of the page. For some reason, only the top nav is active. Stuff like this makes me wonder: if they don't know how to communicate with customers online, what will service be like tableside?

Oh, also, the FAQ section is "under construction." Is this because no one ever asks any questions?

But the prize for bad restaurant website design goes to AZZA Restaurant and Lounge, and not only because the reviews in the press-clippings section skip away before you can finish reading them. No, this site goes above and beyond.

But don't take my word for it. Go check it out, and take a look at the menu for yourself.

I'll wait here.

Is this the world's cutest cheese?

Awwww, bless!



These diminutive dairy delights are Hannahbells, locally made by the handsome siblings at the Shy Brothers Farm in Westport, Massachusetts.

They have a fabulously buttery texture, firm and creamy and yielding, with a gentle pungency that's bold and Brie-like. And they come in different flavors, including shallot, lavender and chipotle. The Boy brought home the rosemary variety, in which the herb adds a subtle, summery note and was a lovely addition to a roasted beet and arugula salad.

And did I mention that they're frickin' cute? Look at them! Hardly bigger than grapes!

Awww ... (goes off to eat another handful).

The Boy reports from Truck Day

(LimeyG: The Boy has requested permission to recount his Truck Day experience. The management of this publication assumes no responsibility for the content that follows. Viewer discrection is advised.)

One way New England differs from the rest of the country is the annual event known as Truck Day. Every February, after the region has endured three months of increasingly depressing weather, our local media provides the first sign of better times to come. They cover the departure of the Red Sox baseball equipment, which is hauled by 18-wheeler from Fenway Park to Fort Myers, Florida, for the start of spring training. It's the first, hopeful step toward Red Sox Home Opening Day in April--the true start of spring in the region.

But what is Truck Day really like? It's as much of a contrived media event as you would think. There were maybe 75 people on Yawkey Way yesterday morning, split into three roughly equally sized groups: Sox employees, fans--and media, who seemed to be interviewing everyone they could find. I felt afraid I'd be cornered by one of the news outlets for my opinion on the moving abilities on display.

To add to the festivities, a second bunting-lined flatbed vehicle carrying Sox employees, most notably Wally the Green Monster, follows the truck on its way out of the city. Presumably, they don't drive Wally all the way to Florida. Though it's amusing to think they might.

To show real baseball equipment is being transported, a few items are packed at the last minute. Spectators may then wonder if this box contains the actual bat Doug Mirabelli will use to flail wildly at a slider in the dirt in March.


The prominent display of this next label suggests a Sox player has let themselves go this offseason. I think we'll be shocked at seeing the no-longer-speedy 280-pound Jacoby Ellsbury.


To show the diversity of the crowd, here are the inevitable pug and baby photos (the pug is the first one, I think.)





Finally, all the photography, interviewing and video is done. The truck is ready to start its trip.


As it turns left into Yawkey Way (without signaling, I may add) the flatbed follows, blasting the thoroughly overplayed opening notes of "Centerfield," while Wally and his pals fling squishy baseballs to the crowd.

And it does feel just a little warmer.

Is there anywhere to eat in New York?

Oh, the problems we have.

In two weeks, we celebrate our tenth (!) wedding anniversary, which seems like a perfectly acceptable excuse to go to New York and spend a couple of days on our favorite activities: running around MoMA, shopping, eating. Especially eating. We do a lot of that.

But here's the dilemma: where do we go for our celebratory dinner? I mean, this is a milestone, right? What restaurant would be the Only Possible Choice to mark the occasion?

I already checked Per Se and Nobu. With two weeks' notice? Yeah, right. But otherwise, the city is our oyster, fresh and glistening, served with a champagne mignonette.

Thoughts?

Update: Friday is sorted. We still have to figure out Saturday ...

I'm a Foodie BlogRoller

Check out the new site addition in the right-hand column (you may need to scroll a little). It's the Foodie Blogroll, a constantly evolving list of sites on my favorite topic. The roll is managed by The Leftover Queen, and is open to anyone whose blog content is at least 80% nosh-related.

I've already discovered a bunch of new favorites and have two projects to try this weekend: oatmeal pancakes, courtesy of Two Novice Chefs, One Tiny Kitchen; and Baking for Britain's vivid Cornish saffron cake, which might be as close as we get to seeing anything sunshiney-yellow for a while.

It's gonna take me some time to explore the whole 'Roll, so if you uncover anything particularly appropriate, feel free to point and wave and go "Hey! OVER HERE!!"

You know what I like ...

It's flipping Pancake Day! Duck!

Doesn't it seem as though there's always some food-related holiday happening?

Today, in the UK at least, it's Pancake Day, otherwise known as Shrove Tuesday, from the Middle English word meaning "to gorge on large quantities of carbs":

"For lyke the sowe that stoppe not to tayste,
He shrove the pan-queques inn hys fayce"
--Geoffrey Chaucer

Okay, maybe not. Wikipedia has the truth about Shrove Tuesday (the day after Collop Monday).

But this time-honored tradition may be on its way out, according to two recent stories from the British media.

A pancake race in Ripon, North Yorkshire, has been canceled because organizers were asked to provide insurance and employ medical staff in case of injury.

Really! How ridiculous is that? It's not as though anyone could get hurt ...



(Oh. Never mind.)

According to another report in the UK Guardian, fewer people are inspired to cook up a stack of pancakes:

One of the problems may be a lack of basic pancake-making skills. Only one in three people say they are "very confident" about what goes into pancake batter and only one in five say they are confident pancake flippers.

I'm starting to see a pattern here.

Why does the Ripon race need danger money? Fear of flipping.

What puts people off making their own? Fear of flipping.

People, don't be afraid! It's not as though you even need to flip. That's like setting food on fire; it's done for show.

Which reminds me: I'm thinking of making crêpes Suzette for dessert tonight.

What's the number for 911 again?

Oh, UBurger, you!

After our literal pig-out earlier in the week, I should have taken a break from the carnivore lifestyle. But then my former work buddies invited me to Friday lunch at UBurger, and I could hardly say no, could I? That would have been most impolite.

The atmosphere at UBurger is burger-joint-modern: bright colors and corrugated steels walls, bus-'em-yourself tables, chalkboard menu.



When we turned up at noon, the place was buzzing with BU students, office workers and the occasional state cop. Though the busy lunch rush meant we had to hover for a table that would fit all eight of us, it also meant the line was long enough that I had time to check out the options and change my mind a dozen times before it was my turn.

There are the straightforward burgers with lettuce-cheese-pickles-onions (or the Cowboy, with bacon and BBQ sauce, or the Stunt Double cheeseburger with spicy Jack, jalapeños and banana peppers, ow ow ow). And then there are the build-your-own options, which include everything from guacamole to sautéed mushrooms. And that's if you ignore the left side of the menu, where the healthier choices (chicken sandwiches and salads and, um, hot dogs) live.

With the clock ticking and the cashier staring expectantly, I settled on tomato--no, wait--onion--no, wait--okay, definitely cheddar and roasted peppers.



Bun: soft and fresh.
Cheese: well, coulda been a thicker slice--it wasn't quite a generous enough serving to stand up to the other ingredients--but still pretty flavorful and slightly sharp.
Peppers: red and yellow, sweet with a gently vinegary bite.
Meat:

(reverent pause)

Mmmmeeeaaattt. Just right, in the Goldilocks sense. Not too McThin, not too macho-mouthful thick. Lightly seasoned so that the fundamental flavor was good and beefy, cooked to a medium-well that stayed juicy without being greasy. For $4.50, it was a satisfying and tasty deal.

Of course, it would have been remiss of me not to try a little of everyone else's food--you know, for reference.

Onion-ring perfection means different things to different people; The Boy likes his thick-sliced and generously battered. My preference is for thin, delicate rings in a lighter, crispier coating. And presto, that's how they do 'em at UBurger. Sweet onions, too.



The fries at UBurger are hand-cut, skin-on, lightly salted, not too greasy, not too crispy--they actually taste like potato (no, really!).



And then there are the frappes. I was tempted to get my own, but they're enormous (maybe 16oz). And given that they're composed largely of locally made farm-fresh ice-cream, it seemed wise to turn away from temptation.

So I just stole from other people. Which was the right decision, because they are so insanely good that I would have chugged a whole one myself. The strawberry frappe was velvety, not cloying, but with just enough citric-tart-sweetness that you want to keep feeling it hitting your tastebuds.



I also tried the mint Oreo which can only be described as, well, creamy-smooth liquid mint Oreo.

Did I roll out of there in a post-meatal daze? Of course. Was I marginally less productive for the rest of the afternoon? Sure. Am I likely to return (following a surfeit of vegetable-based dishes and power-walking)? Absolutely.

For more, check out the Boston Globe's review of UBurger.