J.G. Melon

It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving and all I really wanted to do was skip every meal for the next month. That was the only way I felt I would fit into my Speedo for my swim workouts. To my body's disappointment (or relief, however you look at it), my plan went out the window when my parents called me at work and they mentioned the word "burgers." My mom said she was getting "cabin fever" in Connecticut. I didn't think that was possible when you're a) not in the mountains and b) not in a cabin. Regardless, they were coming into the city and we were going to a place known for its burgers. Dad claimed they were Manhattan's best, or I should say he claims someone else claimed they were Manhattan's best. I thought since it wasn't Corner Bistro, the Burger Joint, or P.J. Clarke's, and I'd never heard of it, then how could it be?

Before dinner, I grabbed some much-needed drinks with the other weekend warriors (suckers) at my office. When I mentioned the word burgers to my friend she yelled, "Take them to J.G. Melon!" Well, what a coincidence. That's where we were headed. I knew my Dad would be proud someone else recommended the place he picked out all by his lonesome, with the help of his trusty mouse, keyboard and internet favorite Zagat's. Mom gets frustrated when she buys us guides and restaurant books and all my Dad and I ever want to do is surf the internet.

A couple dirty Goose martinis later, I showed up at J.G. Melon. I walked in and a smiley white-haired man in a baggy red sweater beelined for me. I jumped. I thought he was a patron at the bar and I invaded his personal space. Instead, he asked if I wanted a table and in the second after I said "Yes, for three pl-" he blurted, "Forty minutes!" I was impressed, and even more so when I didn't believe his rapid-fire table-waiting gauge, and the wait ended up being half his prediction.

Mom and Dad weren't there yet and the bar was crowded, but not so much you couldn't get a drink or a stool. I scored both. With my cold Stella in hand, I sat content. The Giants game (not that I need reminding) was on and everyone's eyes and focus were on the game and our lead. J.G. Melon's golden lighting, classic wooden bar, and whir of conversation warmed me up outside and in. It didn't take me long to realize J.G. Melon was a comfort destination, and servers came to expect smiles just like patrons came to expect great food. It seemed like most of the parties were twenty-somethings chomping on last chance holiday suppers with their parents. I was in the right place.

After ten or fifteen minutes in walked Mom and Dad. They had time to order a beer, look around, fall in love, and moments later our enthusiastic host returned. In another sneaky and startling attack he said, "Your table's ready." When I didn't respond within a millisecond, I heard it again. "Your table's ready!" This guy meant business, but not in an annoying way. He was trying to alleviate as much of the wait as he could and we appreciated it. His up-to-the-second alertness was lost on me at the end of my work week, but with a little prodding he led us off to our table in the corner.

The front of the house is a long narrow bar and I expected the dining area to be bigger. The room I thought was a portion of the sit-down space was actually the only sit-down space. Seating was tight. I had to do a little twist and suck in to get to my seat against the wall. This was a small price to pay for the dinner we were about to consume. My friend from work told me to get the spinach salad, a cheeseburger, and the cottage fries. I didn't deviate from this eating itinerary. I ordered the small spinach salad, a burger with Swiss cheese, and the three of us shared cottage fries, make that two orders. Dad's a sucker for cottage fries. His favorites are at the Palm, though Mom and I insist they are in fact cottage chips, like a homemade, bigger, warmer, and softer version of the Cape Cod chip. Mom and Dad also ordered burgers.

The spinach salad was simple and good. It was lots of spinach packed into a small bowl with a sweet vinaigrette, fresh crunchy bacon bits and mushrooms. I still had room for the main event. My favorite part of the burger was the melt-in-your-mouth bun. The bun was thin and the juices from the burger melded the three parts together into one big juicy concoction. The meat portion was the perfect size. It wasn't a flat pattie but it wasn't too big to bite into either. I debated adding ketchup and mayo but it was so juicy it didn't need any. Instead I mixed the dipping duo for my fries. The little wheels of potatoes were warm and soft and a cross between waffle fries and steak fries, though much thinner than steak fries. With a touch of salt and my dip I could have eaten them all night.

Our conversation stopped over the burgers. All you could hear from our table was "oooohs" and "aaaaahs" with each new bite. Our server came to the table a couple times and we could only nod at him smiling. I think our sole complaint about dinner was our server. He wasn't the friendliest chap to have ever walked the planet, but he wasn't the rudest either.

When we left J.G. Melon we were already talking about who we would share this new find with and when we would be back. Before I made it to the door someone yelled, "Good night, M-! Thank you!" Again, he managed to surprise me. I wasn't surprised that he found me to say goodbye with all the commotion at the entranceway, but that he remembered my name after hearing it once. I only wish I had asked for his to thank him for our memorable burger adventure.

*cash only and menu is a la carte*
1291 Third Ave. at 74th St.,
212-744-0585

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Friendsgiving Feast

By now you're waking up to a beautiful Saturday morning and you're wondering what to have for breakfast that doesn't involve turkey, ham or potatoes. Or maybe you're making an omelette with all of the above. I'm at work and finding it very hard to focus. I just put my turkey salad in the fridge and am debating where I should go get a warm coffee.

I shared my apple crisp recipe with you from friendsgiving and I hope some of you will try it and someday let me know how it turns out. Until then, here are some more pictures of friendsgiving, courtesy of Fashionista.



To start the meal off, Architetto walked in with bags and bags from Whole Foods of warm bread, salami, bruschetta and cheese. Fashionista's friend from home was traveling all weekend and out of guilt for not being able to make anything, she nearly bought out the deli section of a local grocery store. She had bottomless bags she unpacked like Mary Poppins. Just when you thought she had pulled out the last case of cheese, out came another and another.

We had every kind of potatoes you can imagine: sweet potatoes, some under-cooked potatoes courtesy of Michigan who had a wee bit of a hangover, some of the best mashers I've ever had from NoVa (recipe tbd), and a potato, cheddar cheese and bacon combo from Boston Market. We had homemade corn bread, rolls, stuffing, ham, turkey from Boston Market that was the most moist bird I've ever had. Not only did we have the typical Thanksgiving fare, but SoCal and his girlfriend brought over an enormous cooler with vegetarian lasagna. But sadly, the oven was full and they couldn't serve it until an hour after we'd all gorged ourselves on round one. What's even funnier is I think Fashionista accidentally turned the oven off at one point. SoCal walked in with a box o' wine and I thought it was a lark. Turns out he blew us all away and heated up a spiced wine on the stove. After the amazing main course, hardly anyone had room for my apple crisp, or any dessert for that matter. All I know is we all left with full bellies and smiles from Fashionista's friendsgiving feast. Thank you to all the amazing contributions, and to Fashionista for her apartment and for kicking off Thanksgiving weekend with a bang.

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Barefoot Mon-tessa

Tonight was a night of baking. Fashionista is having a "Friendsgiving" party tomorrow night, and since I'm working tomorrow, I devoted tonight to baking my contribution to the festivities. With apron and newly purchased toys from Williams Sonoma, I became Moni Crocker for the evening.

I am sitting here in my apron, I am actually barefoot, Ina, and I'm smelling the beautiful apple crisp in the kitchen. Thank you for this recipe!

If you haven't tried the Barefoot Contessa's apple crisp, you must. Every Thanksgiving my family tries to add a new recipe to our "repertoire" so it's never too late for you to add this to yours. Apple pies, crumbles and crisps are some of my favorite desserts. I'm picky when it comes to apple anything, so I would not endorse this recipe lightly. It is by far the best apple crisp my family has ever encountered.

Old-Fashioned Apple Crisp, from Barefoot Contessa's Parties! by Ina Garten

5 pounds McIntosh or Macoun apples (My local grocery store did not have a scale and to my amazement, when I got to the cashier, she weighed my apples in at 4.99 pounds. Some things are meant to be!!)
Grated zest of 1 orange
Grated zest of 1 lemon
2 tbl freshly squeezed orange juice
2 tbl freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/2 c granulated sugar
2 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp ground nutmeg

For the topping:

1 1/2 cups flour
3/4 cup granulated sugar
3/4 cup light brown sugar, packed
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup oatmeal (feel free to be generous with the oatmeal, and butter, for that matter, for that is the best part, after all)
1/2 pound cold unsalted butter, diced

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a 9 x 14 x 2 inch oval baking dish.

Peel, core, and cut the apples into large wedges. Combine the apples with the zests, juices, sugar, and spices. Pour into the dish.

To make the topping, combine the flour, sugars, salt, oatmeal, and cold butter in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Mix on low speed until the mixture is crumbly and the butter is the size of peas. Scatter evenly over the apples. (I do not have an electric mixer and my makeshift hands-on approach with plastic bags over my hands so not to get greasy worked swell.)

Place the crisp on a sheet pan and bake for one hour (it always ends up being more than an hour, let's say an hour and fifteen minutes) until the top is brown and the apples are bubbly. Serve warm.

I took these pictures with my two-year-old Sony Ericsson, so please excuse the graininess. I think you can still get the idea.

Happy Thanksgiving!!

And don't worry, you will get the play-by-play of tomorrow night's "Friendsgiving" party. I can't wait to see the feast it turns into. I told Fashionista, like a friend's wedding where Polaroids were taken of all guests arriving at the reception, we should take pictures of each item of food as it arrives at her apartment.

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Katz's Deli

photo courtesy of www.katzdeli.com

I know, I know. How behind the times am I? Katz's delicatessen opened in 1888 and it's taken me 118 years to eat there. I've only been in New York for two of those 118 years, but that's still no excuse to have never bitten into a mega-sandwich from one of the Jewish deli institutions. It was a tough call. Carnegie's or Katz's? Katz's or Carnegie's? In the end, because of its place in Manhattan's cultural make up, Katz's won. Oh Katz's pastrami sandwich, where have you been all my life?

It was a miserable rainy day and I ran into Katz's in my water gear, like I had just stepped off Maid of the Mist at Niagara Falls. It took me a few minutes to shake off the drips, and I caught a few of the workers behind the counter laughing. But I knew it wouldn't be long before they'd be staring at me in silence and wonder, at how much food I would inhale.

You walk into Katz's and it's lit up like a dentist's office. There are a lot of signs yelling at you that say what to do and where to go but it's all part of the sensory overload. Like I can't walk and chew gum at the same time, I can't smell pastrami and potatoes and read at the same time. Katz's looks like an oversized and overstaffed cafeteria. There's a small "toll booth" to your left when you walk in, which I learned is where you pay after stuffing your face. Someone told me ahead of time, thank goodness, that the ticket you pick up when you walk in is your ticket to freedom from the deli, and freedom from paying the $50 fine if you lose it. I lose movie tickets from the cashier to the attendant so I made sure to glue it to my pocket.

I looked at the far wall and decided to start with the beer first, so I could sip on beer while the guys made my sandwich. The young beer-ista grabbed my ticket and scribbled something on it and gave it back to me. Aha! I get it now. It's my "tab." And the next guy will scratch it out and add to it with each of my orders.

Next stop was sandwich man. A little old man behind the counter stared at me blankly. I turned around to see if he was looking at someone else, but no, I was the one who was holding up his operation. I blurted out, "Pastrami with sauerkraut, mustard and cheese, please." With no questions asked, he turned around and went to work diligently on my sandwich. I thought he was preparing a Thanksgiving feast. He meticulously got his area ready and grabbed for his knife, meat and condiments. I tried not to watch with impatience and wandered off. I read they had potato latkes so I went to discover them. It took me about five minutes to figure out which counter to order them from. Finally, after being directed a few times to the "next" counter, I found my man.

As if I hadn't made enough Katz's bloopers already, after I got all my food I placed my tray down on one of the tables against the wall. MAYDAY! MAYDAY! The server who had remained incognito until that very second came flying out of hiding and into my face. "This is only for waiter service, waiter service. Only waiter service." Ok, ok, ok. You'd think I had picked up my sandwich and smashed it against the picture of Ben Stiller and his family with the owner of Katz's. I moved gracefully and quietly to the tables in the middle, hoping not too many people had picked up on my mistake.

I stared at my sandwich for a few seconds, figuring out how I was going to eat it. In a last ditch effort, I looked around to see if I could copy somebody else's method but there was no one. With my fingertips outstretched I could barely pick up one of the halves, let alone fit it in my mouth. I tried squishing it down a bit, and some of the pastrami snuck out, but at least I could bite into it. The pastrami reuben is now one of my favorite sandwiches of all time. The pastrami was warm and sliced thick and rimmed with pepper. The cheese, sauerkraut and mustard meshed together and oozed out over the pastrami. I went through a whole packet of napkins and ended up using a fork to eat half of the sandwich, but I was very impressed. The latkes were warm and crispy, but I saw a woman with a plate of fries and I immediately had potato envy.

You must go to Katz.

Why are you still sitting at your computer?

Just don't forget your Katz etiquette (and wallet). Keep your ticket close. Be fast and furious when you order. Don't sit in the "table service only" zone, unless of course you plan on ordering from the incognito server. Go with an empty stomach. Eat. K'velen.

205 East Houston, at Ludlow Street
212-254-2246

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