From Sea to Shining Sea

"I've been everywhere, man, I've been everywhere..." At least, that's what it feels like over the past few weeks.

From houseboats on the lakes of Seattle...


to a destination wedding on las playas de Mexico...


it's been a very busy month for me.

I start my new job Thursday, but before then, I promise to play blog catch up. I hope you're starting off 2007 with a bang.

-M

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Grape and Grain

Winette is always thinking. She made plans for us the day after Hawkeye returned to Seattle so I wouldn't be pining away in my apartment all day long. At the end of my first day of Hawkeye withdrawal, or "Blue Monday," we met at Grape and Grain.

We were to meet at 8:30, but after being so late for our last rendez-vous, I promised myself I would be early to this one. I walked into Grape and Grain and immediately felt right at home. It was dark and dimly lit by candles at each table. There was one couple sprawled out over the far corner of the bar and another tucked away at a table in the back. Not only was I taken by the warm, charming feel of Grape and Grain, but I could actually sit at the bar without fighting corks and glasses on the way. The romantic setting made me yearn for Hawkeye and I wished -

"Hey there! How's it going?" My daydream was thankfully interrupted.

"Fine, thanks," I responded as I watched the bartender polishing his glassware. My half-hearted smile turned into a full smile and I shoved my sad thoughts away for another time.

Despite being a fifth wheel, I felt relaxed and cozy at Grape and Grain. For the first ten minutes without Winette, all I could think was, "I'm so glad we decided to meet here. I'm so glad we decided to meet here." Brian, the happy bartender, poured me some water, handed me the menu, and asked if I was meeting anyone. He paid more attention to me in those first few minutes than any bartender has my entire two and a half years in the city. When I told him I was meeting someone, he said I must be waiting for Winette. I shrieked. How did he know that from our conversation? He pointed to the table behind me marked "Reserved" and said, "That's for you!" I felt like royalty. I could have sat and talked to Brian all night, with or without Winette, but I wanted to seem somewhat occupied so I started reading my new copy of The Great Gatsby, courtesy of Hawkeye.

Winette arrived and the wine-ordering, cheese-tasting feast began. We noticed a sous-chef painting a tray filled with pita crisps, and we knew that would be our first dish. The white, veggie-friendly, bean dip came with those very pita chips the chef was preparing. The spicy pita chips were good enough to stand on their own, but complimented the simple, light bean dip. Once again, Winette and I found ourselves duking it out over the last bites.

Winette informed me that Grape and Grain is a two-part operation. Next door to where we were is the beer guzzler's haven, the preferred side of Winette's husband. We were in the wine-sipper's side, and though wine was what I craved that night, it was nice to know I had an option. I didn't get a chance to look at the "grain," but hope to next time.

Our next adventure was a cheese plate. It was almost as fun listening to Brian describe their selection as it was eating it. We opted for a variety of California and Spanish cheeses to suit both our tastes. The cheese came with fresh bread and generous slices of three cheeses.

Don't think the fun stops there. Winette looked at me and asked if it was gross that she wanted something else. She should know better. Our last dish was the artichoke and tomato pizza. The dough was thick, almost like a Sicilian pizza, and chewy. It was perfectly cooked, to the point if they left it in a minute less the dough would have been too raw. I could actually taste the fresh artichokes because they weren't drowning in cheese or marinara.

Grape and Grain was the perfect means for me to ease out of la-la-land and into the real world. Having a long-distance relationship is challenging, and at times, I wish I could click my heels and be in Seattle; but with friends like Winette, and nights like the one we had at Grape and Grain, I know I can hack it. If I'm lucky, Hawkeye will come back, I will take him to Grape and Grain, and we will sprawl out over the far corner of the bar. I will notice a girl walking in alone and I will smile to myself, content that for that evening, I am with the man I love, and I am no longer the fifth wheel.

620 East 6th St, between Avenues B & C
212-420-0002

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Egg

It was Friday afternoon and I was in the middle of a Su Doku (or "So Duko" as EyeHawk, I mean Hawkeye calls it) duel with Hawkeye. He beat me twice during his stay and I was not going to let him win again. When my phone rang and I saw "Unknown" come up, I ignored it, as I usually do when "Unknown" calls. After I beat Hawkeye by two measly boxes, I checked my voicemail and was pleasantly surprised to hear my uncle's voice on the other end, inviting us to breakfast the next morning. What an unexpected treat!

I called him right back, and apologized for not answering. Uncle B informed me he and his friend were going to breakfast in Brooklyn at Egg. His friend's cousin (or nephew, I can't recall) is the chef and they were eager to go and introduce us. Not only that, but Uncle B told me New York Magazine would be shooting that morning, so who knows, maybe we'd end up as a restaurant centerfold.

Hawkeye and I hopped in a cab from the fabulous apartment we rented for the week (that's enough for another post) and I had a strange sense of deja vu. Our cab driver had no idea how to reach our desired destination. We may as well have said, "Kansas, please." Luckily he called one of his trusty colleagues who stayed in his ear giving directions. Nothing beats having a taxi with a personal GPS system.

We arrived at the correct street address, but I wasn't 100 percent certain we'd found our spot. The sign outside read "Sparky's all-American Food," not "Egg." This seemed odd. Perhaps it was a decoy, so the out-of-the-loopers would keep on walking. When I figured it must be the place, we poked our heads in and I spotted my Uncle. He later explained to me the spot has two personalities. In the mornings, it's the breakfast-serving Egg. In the evenings, it's taken over by a different team feeding all-natural hamburger and hot dogs to the masses. In other words, a goldmine.

When we safely arrived at Egg, Uncle B and his friend were seated at the table waiting for us. After hugs and introductions, we sat and let our eyes wander. Egg is simple in name and decor. The naked walls were a cloudy gray, and it felt like someone was supposed to paint them but never got around to it. The tables were covered in brown paper and there were some crayons lying around, which you were encouraged to use at your artistic discretion. The cold pavement at our feet gave the dining room an industrialistic feel. The tables resembled drafting tables, as if we were eating in an artist's studio. After breakfast, I learned this wasn't far from the truth.

A server came over to us as soon as we sat down and quietly asked if we'd like something to drink. This was the first of her many visits to the table as she took great care of us the rest of the morning. We both ordered coffee and I smiled when it came in a small French press. Nothing beats individual drink makers, whether it's for coffee, tea, or martinis. Uncle B instructed me to go gradual with the pushing, so not to use all the ground coffee in one pour. Uncle B then pointed to a few slices of cinnamon-baked apple slices on the table. In my typical "Oh, just a small bite" fashion I cut one in half, but that wasn't enough. I then cut it in quarters, but didn't stop there. After continuing to slice and dice, I ate not one but three slices.

I looked at the menu and my jaw dropped. An omelet for seven bucks? Pancakes for six? This place was too good to be true. Not only were the prices incredible, but by the end of our decision-making process, we had talked about the promise of each item. How were we supposed to decide between all these great things? My days as a "garbage disposal" and full-time college athlete paid off, and I came up with a plan to pile as much food on the table as possible. We agreed to order different dishes before we ordered a round of pancakes to split between the four of us. Yes, I said round like I was ordering shots of tequila. Not good.

I chose the Grafton cheddar omelet, with broiled tomatoes, shaved ham, and hash browns. My omelet was the lightest and fluffiest thing I'd ever tasted. And it wasn't overcooked. I like omelets with a little bit of wetness to them. It was perfect. I am not even a huge cheddar eater, but I will now be investing in the Grafton cheddar company. I tasted, I exclaimed how good it was, then tasted again, and went through this pattern until my plate was clean. I couldn't stop saying how great it was. Every couple of bites I would fork in some of the spicy soft tomatoes, while pretending to focus on the conversation around me. I went in for some of the shaved ham and it tasted like a lighter version of bacon-thin and crispy minus the fat. I could get used to this. When I thought it couldn't get any better, I put my fork into the hash brown ball and steam came out. That's one way to make potatoes stay warm on a breakfast plate. Fry 'em in a ball! The concept was just as good as the taste.

Hawkeye chose the biscuits and gravy, or homemade buttermilk biscuits in gravy with pork sausage. I tried a small bite of the concoction and would have gone for another if I wasn't completely and utterly in love with my dish. I wasn't willing to commit dining adultery. Uncle B ordered the country ham biscuit, or Kentucky ham served on a biscuit with homemade fig jam, Grafton cheddar, and a side of grits. I think it was a little much for him, but not for me. I tried the combination of sweet and salty and loved it. I even snuck a bite of plain biscuit and wish I stole the remains of the dough for a week's worth of breakfast. It sure beat the Mc-Scones I get by my office. The biscuit was buttery and compact - not too airy - which I really liked.

Uncle B's friend ordered eggs and bacon, and the piece de resistance: pancakes with Vermont maple syrup. Our pancake plate turned into a lazy Susan. We tugged and dipped and sliced and all enjoyed the soft and buttery pancakes. I am usually a fan of dry pancakes (hold the syrup, please), but had to go for the mini-container of Vermont maple syrup. I'm glad I did.

Somewhere in this breakfast bonanza I forgot to mention the New York Magazine photographers. They were in and out of people's faces and plates like the paparazzi. It was amazing how comfortable everyone was pigging out for the cameras, except me. All my cool goes out the window with the slightest flinch of a camera. Just ask Hawkeye. Every time the camera came within an arm's length of me, I sat up straight, took a sip of coffee, looked for the smallest bite of omelet, and pretended with every ounce of my being not to look at the lens. The photographers never spoke a word, and nobody asked them to either. If I hadn't been in the know, I would have asked what they were shooting for. And there you have it-the difference between me and real New Yorkers. Real New Yorkers can't be bothered by such trivialities as a camera disrupting a favorite pastime. My curiosity (or nosiness, depending on how you look at it) always gets the best of me. You can see the picture they chose in last week's NYM issue. I had to look well and hard at the picture before I realized it wasn't our table. But that's no surprise. No shutter speed could have clicked fast enough to catch our plates filled with breakfast treats.

On a personal note, I switched jobs and starting February 1, I will be on a Monday through Friday schedule. Hooray for me! I haven't had weekends off in two and a half years, and one of the weekend pleasures I've missed most has been breakfast with friends. I told my roommate she better save the first Saturday in February for me. I know where we're headed.

*cash only*
135 North 5th St, between Bedford Avenue and Berry Street
Brooklyn
(888) 843-8399

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Corner Bistro

To all you Corner Bistro fans out there, I'm afraid I'm about to break some hearts.

I like J.G. Melon's burgers better than Corner Bistro burgers.

There. I said it.

Can we still be friends? Or is it like Mets verses Yankees fans, Virginia verses Tech fans, or Iowa verses State fans? They act civil on the surface, but when it comes down to it, there's a deep-seated, passionate rivalry that can't be forgotten with a smile or a handshake.

Hawkeye and I ventured to Corner Bistro because colleagues and friends recommended it. Since I started this blog, they've all been chiming in their opinions on Manhattan's best burger.

"Burger Joint!"

"No way, it's P.J. Clarke's."

"You can't beat Corner Bistro, M!"

"If you haven't been to Corner Bistro, you gotta go!"

"Nah, I prefer J.G. Melon's."

"Totally Corner Bistro. It's always packed."

I guess since so many people said Corner Bistro, I figured I would love it too. It was like the movie that everyone builds up and up and up, and then when you're not wallowing in emotion or overcome with laughter, you're disappointed. I was disappointed in the Corner Bistro burger.

Hawkeye and I walked in after a long day of playing tourists. I knew it would be busy, but we'd tough it out. There's no fun in eating a burger when you don't have to work for it. Despite it being on the corner and having large windows, Corner Bistro is a dark dive. Perhaps this is so you don't have to see the pile of grease on your paper plate once you've gnawed away at your burger.

There were several people hanging out at the long mahogany bar ordering pints of McSorley's, though not Corner Bistro's main attraction. The line to eat resembled a line to get into the women's bathroom at a crowded airport.

I asked the young frat brat in front of me, "Is this the line for dinner?"

"Eeeyupp," He responded. "It moves puh-retty quick, you'll see."

"Thanks."

Hawkeye and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and waited. It was only a few minutes before one after another, people in line started heading to their tables. The server came to us, grunted something and walked away. I guess we were supposed to follow.

Don't even bother with a menu at CB. And expect your server to take your order as soon as you sit down. I felt like I was in an old ship's cabin and our server was the grumpy steward. He came and threw stuff on our table left and right. First it was the menus, then it was the waters, then it was the beers, a second round of beers, then it was our burgers. I knew I wasn't eating at the Ritz but even just a friendly, "Hello," or, "Sorry, didn't mean to dump the water all over you," would have sufficed.

Once the burgers came out, we laughed and looked around to see if we could copy how someone else was eating theirs. How were we supposed to eat these? The buns were miniscule compared to the eight ounce snowball burger inside. It was globular, like no other burger I've ever seen. We ordered ours cooked to different temperatures and when I bit into mine it was too well done. I would have switched with Hawkeye, but his was worse. I imagine it's because the patty is so thick and monstrous, they worry about under-cooking them. The burger was dry and no amount of mayo or ketchup helped. Even the onions were dried out. It felt like I was eating straw on cement.

I really wanted to like Corner Bistro. If my burger had been juicy, nothing else would have mattered. I would have quickly forgotten our grumpy server and the dingy surroundings. I noticed scratchings on the tables of lovers and people who wanted their markings left behind in this New York institution. Sadly, I felt like writing, "Mona wuz here, but won't B rushing back."

331 W. 4th St., at Jane St.
212-242-9502

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Artisanal

"What kind of cheeses do you like?" Swimster once asked me.

"I like them hard and aged," I answered, without a second thought.

There was a brief moment of silence, followed by laughter, followed by more laughter and streaming tears. In two years I never lived down that comment. I found out Swimster asked my cheese preference so he could prepare a cheese picnic for my birthday two years ago. Thus began my foray into the world of Artisanal.

There's no excuse why it took me so long to eat at Artisanal. I am a cheese freak. I eat about a dozen slices a day: fresh provolone, Emmenthal, Gruyere, goat cheese, mozzarella, and some whose names I don't even know but I try them at the cheese counter and I go home with them. Besides Murray's Cheese Shop, which I stumbled upon with Hawkeye, Artisanal is the other Mecca of cheese in the Big Apple and it was about time I made my pilgrimage there.



When Winette heard about Hawkeye coming to visit, we planned a dinner at Artisanal. Winette and her husband HefeWeisen were meeting us at 8:30. Surprise, surprise, I was running late and squirming in a cab again, leaving poor Winette to sit at the bar by her lonesome sipping on a great big chalice of red. Unfortunately, her husband was sick and couldn't join us. Fortunately for me, more cheese.

Artisanal's dining room is a large open space with high ceilings and typical bistro-esque windows from floor to ceiling looking out on 32nd Street. There is one main dining area and we sat in a smaller section with wooden dividers in between clusters of tables. Artisanal is the claustrophobe's alternative to Balthazar. At Balthazar you squeeze in and out of tables to get to your table, which isn't really your table at all. You end up sitting an arm's length from your neighbors. At Artisanal the tables are less packed and there is more room to have your own private dinner, though as Hawkeye pointed out, the noise level was very high.

Our server came immediately to the table and left us with the enormous menus: one for dinner and one for wine. I felt like a little kid holding them in my hands, because of their size and my excitement. Before our eyes even left the first batch of wines at the top of the wine list, our server came back to take our drink order. "Not even close to deciding, thank you," we said.

Besides the menus being daunting, it took us a while to focus on the reason we came to Artisanal: to feast. It was the first time Winette had ever met Hawkeye in person. She, like myself, works with him on occasion and they know each other through phone conversations and instant messaging. As it was fun for me, I know it was fun for them to finally have a face with the name. Funny how technology works these days.

Once we ordered our wines, Winette insisted we try the gougeres. I speak fractional French (it wasn't always like that, I swear) and I did not know what they were. With one bite I learned gougeres means pockets full of loveliness. Well, not literally, but servers kept bringing us cone after cone of these dainty, subtle cheese puffs. Cheese wasn't melting off them, or even melting inside them, but they smelt and tasted like the dough was rolled in fairy cheese dust. I didn't need to eat anything else for the rest of the night.

For an appetizer, I ordered the French onion soup. It reduced every French onion soup I'd eaten to that point to a mere soup, perhaps because Artisanal makes theirs with three onions and three cheeses. Next time I order French onion soup I'm in trouble. How am I going to ask a server to make mine the same way Artisanal does? The broth was dark brown and thick with onions and the cheese dribbled over the bowl like a witch's cauldron.



For the entree, Winette and I shared a pot of fondue with fingerling potatoes, kielbasa (for my mouth only), and crudites. All that was missing were the cowbells, our snow hats, a warm cozy fire and we were in a restaurant in Zermatt. The fondue was fabulous. The cheese was thick and gooey and held on to every piece of sausage or vegetable we dipped in. Hawkeye tried the chicken cooked under a brick (has a nice elegant ring to it) with root vegetables, pureed potatoes, and sweet garlic juice. I can't recall getting a bite of the chicken, but from what I didn't see on his plate when he finished, it was good.

I was stuffed. Winette was stuffed. Hawkeye was stuffed. We were all so stuffed we stuffed chocolate fondue in too. It was a first for Hawkeye and I enjoyed watching him decipher that the little white and pink cubes were homemade marshmallows. I did a little fondue relay putting together every combination I could of the marshmallows, strawberries, and madeleines.

I was like a turophile in a cheese shop at Artisanal, from start to finish. At the end of the night it was hard to tell if our perma-grins were from the wine, the food, or the company, but regardless, it was a fabulous night. I can't wait to bring my parents to Artisanal. I can't wait for another warm gougere. I can't wait for another dip in the fondue tub. But most of all, I can't wait to see Hawkeye and Winette again.

Cheese, anyone?

2 Park Ave., entrance on 32nd Street between Park and Madison
212-725-8585

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Fraunce's Tavern

Hawkeye and I spent our first day in New York together in search of a little history downtown. We hopped in a cab at the airport terminal, I mean, the Hilton Hotel, and told the cab driver, "We're headed to Bowling Green."

When he hesitated with a look of dread and confusion, we looked at each other, wondering if I said the putting green instead of a known Manhattan destination, and repeated myself, "Bowling Green?"

He replied, "You got directions?"

Neither of us had directions. I had a New York City book my mom gave me that I kept while playing uber tour guide, but having been downtown only twice, no, I did not have directions.

The cab driver motioned to the bellhop and asked in broken English, "You know how to get Bowling Green?" The bellhop answered and told him to hop on the FDR and it should be no problem. I laughed, thinking to myself, "No problem? Ha!" As we pulled away from the building I reached out the window with fingers on both hands crossed and the bellhop mimicked my gesture as he yelled, "Good luck!" There's a first for everything.

Our Civil War tour began at 1:15 at Bowling Green and the ticket said we were to be there by one o'clock. As the minutes ran away from us, I started squirming with panic inside the cab. Hawkeye kept his cool, held me down, and reminded me it was not the end of the world. We could re-schedule the tour for later that week. Good point. We made our way slowly downtown and I could smell the lack of confidence in the cab driver. When my watch tolled 1:15, I turned away from Hawkeye to find we were driving across the Brooklyn Bridge. It was all over.

"Umm, why are we driving to Brooklyn?" I asked.

The cabbie quickly answered, "Miss, I miss exit. I sorry. Meter turn off already. Doan worry."

Had he not been so nice and apologetic, things would have been different. But the most I could do was laugh and sit back and enjoy the view with Hawkeye.

When we finally got back to Manhattan it was about 1:30. I started following our route with my map and noticed we were already several blocks north of Bowling Green. Hawkeye had faith the cabbie would redeem himself; I insisted we get out. If we stayed in I am confident we would have had a superb tour of the five boroughs.

We walked east a few blocks and I noticed an old brick building that looked like part of colonial Williamsburg. As we got closer I made out "Fraunce's Tavern" on the sign. When I asked my dad a few weeks earlier for some historical spots to hit with Hawkeye, this was the first place he recommended. Fraunce's Tavern was built in 1719 and it's one of the oldest restaurants in the U.S. and the second oldest building in Manhattan. Samuel Fraunce purchased Fraunce's Tavern in 1762 and it became a hot spot for the Sons of Liberty. It was from the museum's Long Room that George Washington made his farewell address to his officers in 1793.

When I read this in my guide book, I half expected to see the ghost of the great Washington come down the stairs to meet us. Hawkeye and I walked in, and to my disappointment, a hostess asked us if we'd like to sit in the Tavern or the Tallmadge Room. Where was the General? We were both casually dressed for what was supposed to be a long day of walking so we opted for the Tavern. The Tavern was spacious and empty, despite it being lunch time. The bar glowed to your right with the inviting taps and there were a few tables against the far walls with a lot of empty space in between. I felt like bursting out in song, "Empty chairs at empty tables..."

I have to admit, it wasn't what I imagined. Minus a large mural on the far wall of the "Battle of Brooklyn," a colonial flag, and the entrance which had a couple displays of museum bits, I didn't feel the history like I hoped I would. After looking at the other dining options on their website, it seems we picked the room with the least amount of charm. For an encounter with General Washington's aura, head to the other rooms.

Hawkeye ordered the beef stew and I ordered a turkey club. Hawkeye's beef stew looked a tad boring and watery. He insisted it was just right. I'm picky with my turkey clubs and there was something wrong with mine but I couldn't put my finger on it. The bread was toasted and buttery and perfect. The bacon was crunchy. It had just the right amount of mayo, but the turkey, oh, the turkey. The turkey meat was sliced too thick. I like my turkey lean and mean, not thick like a slice of honey ham. The french fries were large and crispy, as you can barely make out with my lousy camera picture, so I focused most of my time and stomach on them.

Despite the lackluster food, our server was extremely friendly and gracious. Everything came on time, though this would have been more of a feat if there were people in the Tavern besides us. I am very glad we tried Fraunce's. The curiosity was killing me. But perhaps the dinner in the Nichols Room is more of a thrill. I hope so, or General Washington will have to come back again for a rather different farewell address.

54 Pearl Street
212-269-0144

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