I Need a Little Christmas...

I just got back from a run around all of Central Park. I'd left my camera at my friend's apartment last night (after drinking copious amounts of wine at her wonderful holiday party) so I retrieved it and continued on my run along the park's bordering roads: Central Park West, Central Park South then up Fifth. Along the way I snuck a few pictures in between heavy, steamy breaths, red stoplights and tourist-infested streets and crosswalks. The run on horse-drawn carriages was astounding, I spotted a resourcesful Santa Claus giving directions and I wished my sneakers turned into ice skates when I reached the upper rink in Central Park.

These are for my friends who aren't in New York this holiday season. And for those of you who are but are staying inside where it's warm and cozy. Enjoy and I hope you all have a great weekend.

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The Breslin

11:49 p.m.: "You need to write about this place and you need to write about it tomorrow," said Fashionista as she gobbled down her lamb burger.

"Mmm-hmmm..." I responded while chomping on a brick of a French fry (or chip, as they call it at The Breslin).

Every other phrase out of my mouth that evening prior to eating had been "so freaking."

So freaking cool. So freaking amazing. Just pure freaking awesomeness.

In The Breslin's case, and in most of Ken Friedman's other properties (The Spotted Pig, The Rusty Knot), these simple words convey all you need to know, along with GET THERE.

For this round of FTDC (Fat Tuesday Dinner Club), we took club members to our favorite restaurants. I lead the charge by bringing everyone to Balthazar. We had a tremendous meal, got the number to their bat phone (who knew?) from our lovely waitress and it still remains a top New York City restaurant in my book. TheDude brought us to Barrio Chino, which to me was a new discovery and it blew all our taste buds away. I'm still craving their habanero/jalapeno margaritas. They are so spicy they'll light your brain on fire. Fashionista brought us to her favorite Freemans. The wait was so long on a Tuesday at 7:30 we ended up chowing down at the bar and still having a great time. It's right up there with Balthazar.

Last but not least, J-Bait sent us an e-mail of his three favorites. I'd never heard of the first two: Sammy's Roumanian Steak House or Roberto's Restaurant. But the third, The Breslin, which he hadn't been to but snuck it on the list in case any of us wanted to brave it with him, was on my must-get-to radar.

I'd recently been shifted to later hours at work. No more 4:45 a.m. Clocky spasms for me. Normally we scheduled FTDC around 7:30 so we could get in and out and I could go home and crash in a food/drink coma. I informed the group of my new 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. hours and that I could make a later dinner. Obama's speech on Afghanistan was that night and I had to stick around until nine o'clock to make sure our Web site didn't implode from clicks.

J-Bait selflessly volunteered to get to The Breslin at around 7:30 to wait for a table. I felt bad having him wait for hours, but he insisted. Fashionista e-mailed me what time I realistically thought I'd make it to The Breslin because she had a long day of earnings the next day (and she knows my notorious tardiness). I told her I'd be there by 9:20, no problem, barring any national disasters/catastrophes (Obama's Afghan speech, though while it might have qualified as such, didn't count).

9:00:01: I shut my computer down and weighed the usual cab vs. subway dilemma. Without fail, no matter which I pick, it always ends up being the wrong option. I could hop on the subway to go two stops and something would break down and I'll kick myself for not getting in a cab. On the other hand, I could hail a cab in a second then be stuck in traffic for an hour in what would have taken 15 minutes on the subway. I can't win.

Moral of this story: the cab driver is always right. You may be the customer, but you're always wrong. As soon as I questioned my cab driver's decision to go route A instead of route B, he never took his foot off the brake. We followed buses, limos and tourists driving 20mph down Fifth Avenue. I certainly got a good glimpse of all the wondrous Christmas windows (the Hotel Pierre's being the runaway winner). We would wait for the light to turn green, he'd slowly accelerate through the intersection then we'd miraculously be stopped by the next block's red light. It was mind-boggling.

I worked myself into a frenzy and with every red light I could feel a vein in my neck popping and a brain cell dying. The cab driver was killing me. We reached 29th Street and I hopped out at the first chance I could. Half of me wanted to pull a stuntman's exit and just unlock, open and roll, but I didn't want to make a scene in front of one of the hottest new restaurants in New York.

9:23: Like an ant to fallen candy, I zeroed in on what I assumed (hoped) was The Breslin entrance and flew inside. Judging by the swarms of people and cathedral-like ceilings, I'd made the right choice. I hadn't read a thing about the entrance, but the lack of blaring signage seemed about right. It's a proven fact that a place without a sign has significantly greater chances of thriving in this city than one with.

I spotted the two men and a lady of FTDC seated at the bar. Amidst hugs and hellos I kept looking all around me thinking, "My, oh my, what a place."

"You're the only one who walked in the right entrance!" exclaimed Fashionista.

"Seriously? It seemed so obvious to me..." I said brushing my shoulder off with a smile.

"Yeah we all walked through the hotel first."

The Breslin is part of 29th Street's new Ace Hotel.

"Ohhh."

TheDude took my coat and I flew off to use the lady's room so I could wipe the stress and beads of sweat off my face. I made it through the maze of people and bar tables to ask a hostess where the restroom was.

"Through the hotel to the back and take a right."

I've never been anywhere like The Breslin in the five years that I've lived in New York. It felt colonial yet industrial, old world but new world, country but city chic, massive yet intimate. I'm reading Mark Kurlansky's "The Big Oyster" and I'm picturing The Breslin like the old oyster houses downtown that he described. It feels like a super-sized speakeasy. For a moment I was going back in time to the city's Five Points and Bill "The Butcher" Cutting and his Bowery Boys were going to peak their heads from behind the argyle curtain at the booth in front of us.

I walked over the bar-hotel threshold and into a large room with a high density of couches and well-dressed people towards the back. I left one wintry Ralph Lauren ad and walked into another. It was fairly dark, and while I was hoping for anonymity, I felt eyes following me as I made my way to the WC, like the scene in "Gigi" where Gaston walks into Maxim's with a buxom blonde. "Please don't slip, please don't fall, please don't slip and fall." I spotted the bathrooms. My refuge from the wandering eyes. There were two and they were unisex. Fine.

When I returned J-Bait offered me his bar stool and TheDude offered me a sip of his Hendrick's gin, up, with a cucumber twist. I'd already ordered my typical dirty martini, following Fashionista's move and was sort of wishing I'd tried Hendrick's. I was impressed, despite how packed and crazy the whole place was, that the bartenders were so sweet and attentive without an ounce of 'tude or pretentiousness.

J-Bait checked back with the hostess to see if our table was ready and she would routinely tell him it'd be 25-45 more minutes each time. This was The Breslin's only tragic flaw. No matter how "early" you get there, unless it's before 6 and unless you're Mario Cantone (who we spotted that night sitting behind us), you'll be waiting for a table for at least two hours.

"So....?! How was Los Angeles?" TheDude asked.

"It was incredible. MaineMan and I had the most amazing time..."

I looked at my friends smiling and shaking their heads at me. Me the disbeliever, me who was once dubious of love.

"We surfed, we drank, we ate, visited a few friends that live out there, went to Disneyland..."

"Wow, that's awesome!" J-Bait chimed in.

"And... I think I'm moving out there to be with him."

J-Bait and Fashionista already knew this. TheDude, however, did not. J-Bait's been kind enough to send me job postings in L.A. The hunt is on for openings in anything, from local news to ESPN, from agency work to communications positions at universities. TheDude just looks on as a teacher would his student. About eight months ago I flipped when he told me he'd proposed to his girlfriend of six months. While I still think that's awfully quick to realize you're with the one, I finally get it. And I acknowledge how silly I'd been to question these feelings.

10:45-11:15p.m.: At some point between martinis number 2 and 3, we were seated. The place was still packed like the dinner hour had just begun.

We'd been staring at the menu for the past hour so we knew what we wanted, we were starving and we were ready to move onto wine. TheDude ordered a bottle and we went around ordering our meals. Our blonde, smiley Scottish waitress was quite cute and bubbly and was quick to tell us what they were out of. Unfortunately they were out of the one thing I'd planned on trying -- braised shin of beef -- so it was lamb burger for me. I've become a vegetarian, but you can't go to one of April Bloomfield's restaurants and eat vegetarian. It's sacreligious. I'm not allergic to meat, I've just recently decided to stop eating it by the herds. Trying the burger would not kill me, it just killed my will power.

For starters, I went with the Caesar salad and Fashionista, TheDude and J-Bait ordered the onion soup with bone marrow.

I eat a lot of Caesar salads. In fact, I'd just eaten one two nights before with my family at the Elms Tavern in Ridgefield. It was so fishy my dad and I almost wanted to send it back. The Breslin, however, did it just right. The dressing wasn't fishy, but the croutons were. And it was the perfect amount of anchovy that you could taste, but it didn't overwhelm the flavor. This Caesar was the best I've ever eaten anywhere. The dressing was a unique blend of bitter and sweet herbs and I wanted to lick my plate when it was over. It was the coldest salad I'd ever eaten too. It almost felt like it came out of the freezer which added to its crispness and freshness.

I tried a big spoon of the soup and my eyes rolled to the back of my head. It was the richest, most potent spoon of onion soup I'd ever tasted. What Breslin's soup was lacking in gruyere it made up for it with the bone marrow. I watched around me as spoons dug against the bone and whipped up onions to go along with it.

You cannot go to The Breslin if you're not starving. And don't judge by its portions. Their portions are deceptively small but the flavors are so rich you'd die if they gave you any more.

"Is that April cooking?" asked Fashionista.

"Oh my god, it totally is..." I noticed her as well.

"How cool is that?"

"AH! She is so bada**. I can't believe she's here!" We all felt a little starstruck. I can count on one hand the chefs I've actually seen at work in their restaurants. I won't forget this.

"I think that's Ken Friedman too. I've seen him at The Rusty Knot and I swear that's him," I whispered as a large, domineering man with a seven o'clock shadow in a crisp, light blue button-up shirt swept by our table, ran over another employee to talk to one of the servers at the credit card machine.

Fashionista and I followed up the appetizers with two lamb burgers and thrice-cooked chips, while the gents ordered the smoked belly with pork mashed potatoes for two. I don't think I'm a huge fan of lamb burgers. It was a little overcooked and dry. I would have preferred a juicy beef burger. The thin white layer of feta seemed a bit lost and confused - it wasn't melted but was just resting sliced and uncooked on top. The worst part for me was the dry bun. As you can see by the picture there was no unity going on here with this burger. I like it when all components blend into one and this wasn't really happening with the lamb burger.


The highlight of the burger dish was the little cup of four to five "chips." These were not your mother's or father's chips, even if they are from the U.K. These things were like what a giant's order of French fries would look like. They were huge, dramatically elongated cubes. I felt I could throw one and probably wound someone with it. I bit into one and similar to my reaction to the onion soup, I followed it up with, "Oh my GOD!" A crisp outside with a soft, mush inside. Perfect. They were so rigid and stiff they reminded me of Yucca fries.

Unfortunately I didn't have the room to finish all of them, which ask Fashionista, is unheard of when it comes to me and fries. I was that stuffed.

The boys shared what looked like a gourmet version of the infamous bacon explosion, made famous this past Super Bowl. I stole a small bite and it was the juiciest, most tender, melt-in-your-mouth belly I'd ever tasted. The boys dug in and didn't look up until it disappeared.


I stole a few bites of the mashed potatoes and they tasted like dessert they were so smooth and delicious.

12:10 a.m.: Sadly we were so stuffed, the Scottish Shakira brought us the dessert menus and we couldn't even look at them. The place had finally emptied out and we were solo at The Breslin.

I reached my school night tolerance level. I was drunk and stuffed and all I could think about was getting home to my bed and saying goodnight to MaineMan.

He would ask me about my night, and I would tell him it was special and he would love this new mountain-lodge-meets-Manhattan restaurant. He would tease me for being so easy to succumb to eating meat. I would tease him for... nothing.

I am ready for a change, and I'm ready to move for someone I'm crazy about, but I don't know if I'll ever be ready to leave behind the great friends I've made in this city and the restaurants and evenings I've shared with them. I left The Breslin wearing "I HEART NY" on my sleeve. Will I ever find Ken Friedman's touch in Los Angeles? Don't answer that.

*no reservations, expect a long-ass wait*
16 W. 29th Street, between Broadway and 5th

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Let It Snow!

I love that my camera picked up the precise shape of the snowflakes. They aren't just wet globs after all! Penguin was happy to see some snow last night, as was I, though it made for a cold and wet walk home from my swim meet.

I'm closing down Twitter and locking myself in my bedroom until I finish today's blog post.

See you soon, friends. Sorry it's been so long since last I wrote.

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Little Buddy Biscuit Company

The Apple just turned four in August, and I think that's the amount of times I've accepted free gifts and promised to write about them.

The first was Snapple's equivalent to Vitamin Water. I think the overall consensus was, in the words of The New York Times' new restaurant critic Sam Sifton, "meh." Next up were several boxes of Lipton PureLeaf Iced Teas. I even helped Lipton host an event which was fun, though it didn't launch me into blogging stardom.

About a month ago I received a bag of goodies from Duane Reade's new line of DR delish snacks which I have managed to share with the entire third floor newsroom. Two (times 10) thumbs up for Duane Reade! I believe one coworker exclaimed, "Wow! This s*** is good!"

Last, but not least, I recently received an e-mail asking if I'd like some samples from the Little Buddy Biscuit Company in Brooklyn. Are you serious?! I had low hopes for this delivery -- I half expected to get a box of Keebler Sandies in the mail. I thought it was a great big hoax. No legitimate bakery or restaurant has ever sent me samples to date.

I was sitting at my desk when the phone rang and I could see "SECURITY" pop up on the screen. This meant one of two things: I was being stalked by some reader who didn't like my article about Michael Phelps, I was receiving a J. Crew wear package from mom or a surprise from the Little Buddy Biscuit Company. Thank god for surprises!

I ran upstairs in a flash (or rather I took the elevator jumping up and down and pressing the "close doors" button like a lunatic). I was so excited to share my booty with my co-workers.

"What'd you get?" Desk chairs were swiveling and heads kept popping up over the dividers.

I didn't respond and began furiously foraging for a pair of scissors to cut the ribbon off this adorable pink box that sat in front of me. I felt like Alice in Wonderland.

"I rec-fjsdflkj cook-sf;ljdl from Brook-fklsdjf!"

"Huh?"

"Cookies?"

"Did someone say cookies?"

My coworkers are worse than sharks in a feeding frenzy. Anytime anyone opens anything that crinkles and could be food the world stops, news stops and we go into attack mode.


"Wait. One. Second!" MomoManiac's hands were already messing up the bounty.

"You can't take an ENTIRE cookie. You have to take a piece and pass it around. I need to taste everyone of them," I said.

"But what is this for?!"

I then go on to explain that I'm kind of not a big deal, but once in a blue moon I get a package from a foodie who wants me to try his or her product.

Meanwhile I dug into the peanut butter chip one. I was worried when I saw them wrapped in plastic. I assumed they'd be crispy pieces of bark. Instead I bit into a moist, luscious, chewy cookie and my heart melted.

"WOW!" "MMMM!" "WOW!" "MMMMMM!" erupted from my neighbors.

Come on, @Nedpotterabc. I know you have a sweet tooth. Bite off a piece of this cookie chunk.

I barely had time to check off which one I was eating from the trusty paper they left me inside. I had about eight different kinds in front of me to try: from macadamia nut and peanut butter chocolate chunk to oatmeal and ginger cookies.

The box included the following: chocolate chunk, molasses spice with crystallized ginger chunks, double chocolate almond cherry, orange cardamom cocount with currants and macadamia nuts, peanut peanut butter with chocolate chunks (not a typo peanut times TWO), and deep chocolate chunk with ground chile and spice.

"Am I tasting some sort of Mexican spice in here?!" Somebody whined with a mouthful.

"Yes E-, that is correct."

Holy moly. If you live in Brooklyn you must must MUST get to Little Buddy's. They were some of the best store-bought cookies I've ever tasted. And the plastic coverings kept them fresh and chewy for a solid week. The chef and owner may as well have been making them in ovens in the control rooms behind my desk. They were so fresh and delicious I can't wait to order a box, or better yet, journey out to Brooklyn so I can meet the owner face to face and thank him for a special post-Yankees win treat.

635 5th Avenue, bt 17th & 18th Sts, Brooklyn
(718) 369-6355

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Au Pied de Cochon

I rarely post other people's reviews on my Site for fear of Mona's Apple turning into Yelp or Chowhound. Yet when I hear a great story about dining out, and think others could benefit from reading it, I encourage friends to send me reviews. They understand I will edit and I will probably take months to post their words, but in the end their experience will add a little bit of diversity and color to the Apple. SirDatesALot, Fashionista, JB, BYOWino and TheDude have all contributed their five cents' worth on dining spots. I have spent a large amount of time with each of them and know they have impeccable taste. Without further ado, here's a postcard from TheDude from Montreal.

TheDude writes:

A few months ago my boss got back from Montreal and spoke of a restaurant that sounded so perfect, I planned a surprise trip for my fiancé and I to go and see for ourselves. Having gone to school in upstate New York, Montreal was a place she used to visit for her and her friends’ birthdays before they turned 21. What can I say? The girl loves Super Sex.

We arrived at Au Pied De Cochon a little bit before our reservation. I knew it was going to be popular, but the place was jammed like I’ve never seen. The space between their interior and exterior door -- that should probably fit four people waiting for a table -- kept about 12 people dry from the rain. I hoped these were hopeful diners without reservations, because I wasn’t looking forward to joining them. I squeezed my way through to the hostess.

“Name?”

“Bond."

No, just kidding, “Raymond..?”

“One moment.”

And just as quickly as she came, she was gone. She returned about eight seconds later and lead us directly to our table.

The restaurant's decor was not at all what we had expected. We expected white table clothes, candlelight and background sound representative of the rustle and bustle of a steakhouse combined with some unpretentious refinement. What we got was very casual, bare hardwood tables, busy servers and a hot kitchen open to the restaurant. It put Momofuku (all of them) to shame. I’m sorry, it did, and I truly LOVE Momofuku (all of them). There was quiet Euro lounge music in the background, everything from mild rocker to somewhat electronic groove, just light enough to hear under the voices of extremely happy diners. There wasn't a single sad face in the place. In the bathroom, a television set played a video on loop. The portion I was lucky enough to see documented l’arrivee du thon (the arrival of the tuna). It showed four or five manly Quebecois unloading a fish the size of a… 300 pound fish and carting it away into the resto. Amazing…


Back to dinner.

The menu was fantastic for a true appreciator of meat. So many options, but so little in the description of each. It was like we knew what everything was, but didn’t know what anything was. There were eight preparations of foie gras in a section of the menu titled “Foie Gras”! Heaven! Questions, questions, questions. Where is our waiter? Ah... the maitre d’ notices my look of despair and quickly approaches.

“How is everything tonight?”

“Everything is great, however, we are overwhelmed with excitement. We have so many questions and we’re not sure who our waiter is.”

“Well then, I will answer your questions,” said Gail (our evening’s heroine).

What is this? What is that? What are your favorites?

“Well, something very special... today we were brought a 300-pound thon from that man at the bar right there.”

Enter a man wearing a “Pied de Cochon” hockey jersey signed by each staff member in the restaurant happily drinking and chatting away at the bar with the head chef, Martin Picard (our evening’s hero, no, sadly this time it is not me…).

“The thon was caught just yesterday and it was brought directly to the restaurant. It is very, very fresh and we are trying some special things with it. One option is to have it as a tuna steak, just lightly seared, or you can have it as a tartar, both are fantastic.”

My fiancé and I would have been happy to have had a seared tuna steak from a tuna that fresh, but we had traveled all this way to see the amazing things this man does with meats.

“We’ll have the tartar.”

“Excellent. My favorite item on the menu is the Plogue a Champlain.” (one of the eight preparations of foie)

We were having difficulty deciding which foie gras we wanted so this made life much easier.

“We’ll have one of those then! I think we also wanted to have the lange de bison a l’estragon (bison tongue -- a very random choice of my fiancé's that I was very excited about) and the Pied De Cochon farci au foie gras.”

“No.”

“Wha..?”

“It is too much.”

“But it’s just four things! We wanted to get so much more!”

“Have you seen the portions!? Wait here.”

I don’t know where we would have gone to, we were seated at our table. Gail returns with a platter, about one foot by two feet with the entire leg of a pig stitched up with something stuffed inside (she described the stuffing and preparation, I wish I remembered, but alas, I forgot) and a huge piece of seared foie gras resting right on top! She disappeared again. She returns empty handed, but my stupid expression of shock is still all over my face.

“Get the Duck In A Can, it’s fantastic. Come back in the winter when it’s very cold outside and get the Cochon.”

The Duck In A Can is what my boss raved about when he returned earlier in the year. It sounded like a good recommendation, because I had no idea what to expect. N- looked at me in a way that said, “I trust these people.”

“We’ll have the Duck In A Can.” With that we order a fantastic bottle of wine that had the words "Premier Cru" in it. Cheers!

First, bison tongue and tuna sashimi. The bison tongue was amazing. It was very succulent, tender, not overly rich as tongue can be. It was great. The sashimi wasn't at all what we expected. It came in a giant stuffed sushi-style hand roll cone with rice and seaweed. The tuna was cut into cubes and topped with a quail egg and caviar with duck fat French fries tucked down the side. It was upright in a stand and wrapped in heavy butcher paper to make it badass (a nice touch). N- and I fought at length over it, grabbing it back and forth, screaming "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!" We bit at it simultaneously while it was pulled in four directions by all hands at the table until it was gone like Keyser Soze.

Next was the seared foie gras. Oh my god. I have to say on behalf of both of us, it was the best foie gras either of us have ever had, and we’ve had a lot of it, at some of the nicest restaurants all around the word. Foie is a favorite of both of ours. It’s almost sexual and I don’t care what PETA has to say about it. We’re with you David Chang. I never remember exactly how anything was prepared the day after I eat it, but I can say that it was lightly seared, placed delicately on a buckwheat pancake, topped with shredded potato, bacon and cheese (but the hard cheese that you’d find on the bottom of a fondue pot, I don’t know how they did it). Finally, it’s drizzled with maple syrup. I was shocked by the syrup, but it’s amazing. No joke. Go get some.

I don’t do it justice:



Once finished, we sipped wine and told each other how lucky we are and how much we love each other, we had a cigarette and eagerly anticipated the final dish to come. Duck In A Can, it’s here, and it’s… a can? The waiter comes with an over-sized soup can wrapped in a homemade label, “Canard en Conserve,” with the Pied de Cochon pig dancing on it.

Please watch this movie.

In the can was a breast of succulent duck in a stew-like cabbage broth (what you saw drizzled all over the bread in the clip), and oh yeah, another chunk of foie gras! They blew us away again. The best way I could describe our experience at this restaurant is to say that it was like being a child trying so many things for the first time. Au Pied de Cochon turned delicacies into beautifully crafted comfort food. What I also loved was that it made each dish local, adding maple syrup to the foie made my evening.

For dessert we had the pouding chomeur, which isn’t really a pudding as much as it is a piece of soft white cake with crème, maple syrup, and cheese in a ramekin that you’d normally see used for French onion soup. It was amazing as well. Sweet and savory.

Gail came back to our table and saw we were extremely happy. She told us we need to come back at the end of March when their Cabane a Sucre reopens for the Sugar Season in Quebec. Wondering where we should stay I asked, “Is there a cute little boutique hotel or a bed and breakfast nearby where we should stay!?”

“NO! You come and stay in a motel, get a real sense for Quebec!”

I can’t wait.

Neither can Mona. Thanks, TheDude!

APDC info:
514.281.1114
536 Duluth Est, Montréal
aupieddecochon@qc.aira.com

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Where to Watch the Yankees Tonight in New York

I'm so nervous, I can barely think. I'm so jittery, I can barely write. I'm so excited, I can barely talk. Must be the Yankees!

For the past five games of this very special World Series, I have watched the hits and steals from the comfort of my warm couch, flannel blanket, glass of wine and over-sized pillow. Cliff Lee's nine-inning pitching marathon stunned me, Chase Utley's home runs irked me, Johnny Damon earned his stripes and my jersey's namesake Hideki Matsui hit a home run in game two that made us Yanks fans and all of Japan proud.

In the end, my strategy worked. I am trying to save money and couldn't afford to go out for every single game. I wanted to save going out for when it got down to the wire. And tonight we are there. As I reached out to a few friends to see if they were interested in joining me for game 6, I started looking up sports bars with World Series specials. The results? "Your search did not match any documents."

Are you kidding me? Nothing on New York Mag. Yelp had a useless strand that only offered Blondies as an option. I thought Urban Daddy would come to my rescue, but when I called their recently-praised, new sports bar The Ainsworth they weren't having any World Series specials. Gotta love team spirit!

I've compiled my own list of a few favorite sports bars if you're organizing a late Yankees rally for tonight.

The Village Tavern - Whether it's college football or March Madness, there's always a rowdy crew at VT. It's a solid spot if you don't mind standing to watch the games. The best thing about VT is Daddy-O's across the street. VT doesn't serve food so you can order in pizza or go get the best darn sandwich in the world with tater tots from Daddy-O's.

Bleecker Heights Tavern - It's small, though never crowded and it has big TVs. Head into Five Guys and follow the chalkboard directing you up the stairs. BHT has friendly bartenders and seats and tables surrounding the bar area.

The Australian - This is hands down my favorite spot above all. You can't beat the openness, number of TVs and huge long bar with plenty of spots to plop down right in front of your favorite team. The bartenders always throw in shots when the local teams do well. They even have a signature World Series shot "The Bronx Bomber."

The Bravest - I will always have a soft spot for this little dumpy dive in Murray Hill. They have greasy food and New York pride that's hard to beat anywhere in the city.

Phebe's - This is kind of like your non-sports bar sports bar. It boasts a huge open area for piling in lots of standing room for fans, tons of tables if you want to eat and a couple of big TVs above the bar. This spot is best for big groups.

Bar 108 - I laughed when my friend told me he was going here because their tagline is: "A sports bar for those who appreciate a good Pinot." Not really feeling a glass of Pinot when I'm watching sports, but hey, there's something for everyone on this list. And their Web site is pretty cool.

George Keeley's - For those Upper Westers, GK has great beers and great burgers to boot.

123 Burger Shot Beer is where I'm headed tonight. It doesn't really get better than this. $1 for a great sloppy slider, $2 for shots and you guessed it, $3 for beer that's not Schlitz. For a girl on a tight budget? Sign me up, please. And the owner's a riot. He will try to hook you up with anything and everything in the bar.

Warren 77 is a newly discovered favorite and the food is tremendous. My only concern going there on a night like tonight is it is small and if you're claustrophobic and need your room for screaming and throwing your arms up in the air, you may get a few raised eyebrows.

For a little swankier vibe, The Blue Seats is a Lower East Side hot spot. The private room upstairs is hard to beat, though you probably have to reserve it months in advance. The cool thing about this place is no matter what booth you're sitting at downstairs, there's a TV not three feet from you.

And for the un-creative or the old dog who doesn't like new tricks, there are always the Blondies or Brother Jimmy's options throughout the city. Nothing goes together like buckets of wings and a baseball game.

Got a favorite that's not here? Send it along.

I'm not jinxing tonight's game with cockiness. Anything can happen. If Joe Girardi is the great manager I think he is, though not without his flaws, he reminded the team that the score tonight is 0-0. The defending champions, as we saw on Monday, are not going down without a fight. There were talks of an MVP nod going to A.J. Burnett -- and we all saw what happens when we get ahead of ourselves. The game wasn't lost solely because of Burnett's pitching, however, and tonight's game won't be won or lost with Andy Pettitte. We are the Yankees, not the Yankee. In the words of Herb Brooks, "This is your time." Let's get it done, boys. End this like Mo.

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Lupa Osteria Romana

I had two things on my mind that night: MaineMan and Miami. I was headed to Miami for the weekend with seven of my closest girlfriends for the big 30th birthday blowout celebration. Meanwhile, I was crushing hard on MaineMan -- a surprising, sweet, adorable boy I met at my friend Warrior's wedding a week and a half prior in Aspen.

Winette wanted to squeeze in a meal and one of our infamous lush and gush sessions before I flew south for the weekend and as it was my birthday week, Winette generously offered to take me wherever I wanted. She knows I love Mario Batali so Lupa was a surefire yes.

I walked in, flustered and out of breath from the workout-to-subway routine, and found her sitting comfortably at the bar. She had successfully snagged our favorite spot at any bar -- the corner posts. We were wining and dining early, but the dining room was surprisingly packed and there wasn't a lot of room to meander in the small, compact Roman trattoria.

"We have a reservation to sit at a table. We can do whatever you want. Do you want to sit at the bar?" She asked, waving one arm and wielding a glass of wine in the other. If the glass spoke it would have been screaming, "Put me down! Put me down!"

"Bar sounds great! Let's do it."

"Are you sure? We can do whatever you want. Do you want to sit at a table? The bar? It's YOUR birthday!"

"Let's do the bar! You know I love the bar just as much as you do."

"Well they have a table. I want you to do what you want to do!?"

"Girl, you're hilarious! I'm fine. Sit! We are barring it!"

She spoke with the hostess and minutes later I was ordering an individually-sized carafe of wine from a good-looking bartender.

I've been so distracted lately I can barely function. My day-to-day routine has evaporated into thin air, along with my head. Is this how it feels? How do people carry on with their lives as usual when they're starting out in new relationships? I'm so excited I can barely sleep at night. I'm so giddy I can barely talk in full English sentences. I'm so happy my face is now a permanent, blinking, smiley emoticon.

A friend of mine at work today asked me how I was doing.

"Gooo-hoood?" I said, transforming the one-syllable word into a two-syllable word and answering as if it was a question. She took the bait.

"Well, why the hell are you so gooo-hoood?" She imitated my exact delivery and I was smiling like an idiot.

"I know why. It's MaineMan, isn't it? God, I knew that's why you've been so smiley lately. Sheesh." I guess this means normally I'm a frowning, angry sourpuss.

Ever since he left me in Aspen, he's been all I think about. Wake up, check to see if he texted, e-mailed or called. Usually he's done all three. Go to work, wait for him to sign on AOL IM and wish me, "Good morning, beautiful." Call him when I leave work. He tucks me in at night. It's all amazing. If I've made any mistakes over the past few weeks -- whether it's crossing the street too early, spilling water or missing a breaking news alert -- it's because I'm under the influence. Viable excuse in a court of law? Probably not. But it should be.

Winette and I drank several swigs of our wine before we placed our order. I caught her up on everything, from beginning to end, about Warrior's wedding, NavyHawaii, MaineMan, in the words of Yul Brynner from "The King and I" et cetera, et ceteraaaaa.

Winette was excited for me. Incredulous, maybe, but she didn't show it. No matter how many guys I throw at her, how many stories I dump on her, how many times we stack up the SCU then shred it to start over, no matter how spastic and ephemeral my loves in life are, Winette always grins and bears it.

"Soooooo?! When is he coming here?"

"Well, he has a wedding in October. Friend's getting married in Greenwich. His parents said he could stay with me. He'll be here in a month! AH!"

"He's so cute, Winette. I don't know, it's crazy."

"Wowowowowow! How perfect!! He sounds guh-RATE!"

"Ha. That IS correct. He is great. He is..."

The bartender placed some napkins down as placemats and we got excited for the food about to come to our laps. The first was warm, light and airy focaccia with olive oil. I couldn't stop eating it.


SMACK!

"Oh. My. God. Winette. It's Mario. He's here. He's here. Behind you."

"Whaaat?!"

We both huddled closer to the top of the bar like we were hiding from him. Childish. We just didn't want him to hear us freaking out in his presence.

I whipped around to watch him depart in his signature orange crocs with two gangly, young boys in tow. I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve who'd just seen Santa.

"I can't believe it. How perfect for your birthday! Mario was here? What are the chances?!" Winette shrieked.

I was speechless.

"Hold on... one... " and she was out the door. What the heck was she doing? Please tell me she wasn't getting him to come back inside. That was not like Winette. She's awfully shy and not one to go stalk a celebrity, except if it was Jane Gooddall, Shamu or Jack Hanna.

Oh my freaking God. Don't tell me.

Fifty-five seconds later she flew back into Lupa.

She thumped her hand on the bar counter. "Here!" She said, with a big grin on her face. If I was the girl who saw Santa she was the one who just kissed him.

"What is THIS?!"

In my hands was the Lupa business card and in orange-markered, chicken scratch Batali wished me a happy birthday.


"I told him to sign this for you."

"You WHAT?!" I was dying. Truly dying.

She stopped him and told him she didn't normally do this to which he replied, "Yeah, sure you don't." She then told him about me and that it was my 30th birthday and that I was a huge fan and if he could sign the card, it'd be great.

"But I don't know this Mona person," he said.

"It doesn't matter."

Now hanging on my wall, along with U2 and Bill Cosby tickets, is my Batali birthday card. What a month to remember!

There were too many items on the menu that looked good. We ordered a hodgepodge of items and to Winette's surprise, I wanted only veggie options. I've become a vegetarian. I don't eat meat anymore on a daily basis, unless I'm invited to a famous steakhouse (Peter Luger's with the 'rents) or I'm craving a hamburger. Before I considered a meal incomplete if I didn't have some huge portion of protein. Now I don't even miss it.

The first course was a trio of Lupa's antipasti. We ordered the beets with pistachios, broccoli rabe with ricotta and sweet corn. I felt like I was eating vegetables that had just been picked in a garden out back. Each bowl was simple and bright with flavor. My favorite was the mouth-watering broccoli rabe. I am normally a fan of less is better with the bitter-tasting rabe, but paired with the ricotta I forgot what I was eating. The rabe was drenched in the warm soft cheese and every bite was better than the first.


Winette and I also shared a sweet corn ravioli-type pasta and gnocchi with marinara sauce. I checked the handy Lupa glossary to see if I could find the technical term, but could not. The pasta was clean and light. There was no extraneous sauce or toppings. It was as if the pasta was built in a coating of each accompanying sauce. The dishes weren't as rich and heavy as the creations at Babbo. The sweet corn reminded me of Batali's love letters. The gnocchi were like little puffy, diced cubes. The fork sank in and almost bounced right back out. Mmm.

Winette and I go overboard on wine and bread-dipping so we are always keen on small portions. If you're starving and looking for big plates, you may want to reconsider. We barely put a dent in the selections at Lupa and I have since read great reviews about their fish and pork shoulder. Lupa didn't amaze me or tear my belt like dell'anima did, but I enjoyed Winette's company, that of the friendly bartender who incessantly wished me happy birthday and the broccoli rabe so much, I hope to return for another helping of all three.

170 Thompson St., near Houston St.
212-982-5089

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