Cowgirl

BeanieBaby and I had plans to grab dinner for a long, long, long time. It is pathetic, on my part, how I fell so miserably out of touch with people when I worked the weekend shift. Since I started my amazingly wonderful, marvelous, euphoric, heavenly Monday through Friday schedule, I've been playing catch up with great friends who didn't forget about me even though I was out of sight for so long. BeanieBaby and I never gave up trying to meet up. We owed each other a celebration dinner for my new job and her acceptance into business school.

BeanieBaby and I have lived parallel lives for several years, but this trend will soon come to an end - I will not get into business school, nor will I ever apply. I met BeanieBaby when I moved to Boston for a summer to train with the Harvard swim team. My high school coach from Wilton, Conn., whom I was very close to, became the Harvard men's coach, and as it was expected for you to train all year as a college athlete, I chose to spend my summer with a coach I knew and loved. BeanieBaby and I met in the lanes at Harvard before we went on to be camp counselors at the Harvard swim camp. We taught more swimming technique that summer than we exercised in our thirty years combined in the pool.

Fast-forwarding five years, we ended up living a few blocks away from each other in Arlington, Va. We reconnected over many debauchery-filled nights in Ballston and Adam's Morgan. After Va., we moved to New York City at the same time, but for different reasons. Once again, our apartments were only a few walking blocks away from each other on the upper east side. This came in handy when we met up two Halloweens in a row to dress up in heinous costumes.

In a few short months, BeanieBaby will be headed north to her home city of Boston. Our plan is to go out and enjoy as many restaurants as we can before she leaves. The first night of our dining itinerary we saw the forgettable "Music and Lyrics" before heading to Cowgirl.

We went to the theater on 34th Street and for some reason I put no thought into where we would eat afterwards. We walked out of the toasty theater and into the cold and started walking briskly to stay warm. Nothing we passed in the first ten blocks inspired me. I kept asking BeanieBaby if she was okay to walk further. We were both willing to face the frost in order to find a great place to eat. As we started getting closer to her apartment in the village, we realized it was time to get serious about picking a restaurant or we'd be walking all the way to Battery Park.

"Have you been to Cowgirl?" asked BeanieBaby.

"No? Oh my god! I would love to try that place!" I freaked. She nailed it. I had no idea where it was but I knew my roommates just went to Cowgirl for a bachelorette party and they loved it. I saw pictures of the private room they rented and it looked cute and charming. From the photographs, it looked like they were hanging out in someone's living room rather than a bar.

"We're going!" I yelled with excitement. BeanieBaby started laughing and couldn't believe how my energy level shot up 110%.

A few minutes later, we stood in front of Cowgirl. What I didn't realize was I had seen Cowgirl several times without even knowing what it was. You can't miss its big windows with bright bandanas, stirrups and cowboy boots. In passing one day I thought it looked very curious, more like a set in Disney's Frontierland than a west village eatery. I thought it was something of a trendy Kemo Sabe.

We walked inside and greeted the hostess. She wrote our names down and told us our wait would be a half an hour. It seemed everyone else in New York had the same idea we did. When I looked at the long semi-circle of a bar in front of us, with plenty of seats open towards the end, I knew the time would fly by with good drinks and good company. BeanieBaby mentioned the margaritas at Cowgirl were excellent so I was looking forward to trying them.

The seats we thought were empty at the very end ended up being occupied. Thankfully, one bubbly man was kind enough to give up his seat when he informed us he was leaving shortly.

A couple rounds of margaritas later, we couldn't take the hunger anymore. BeanieBaby got up and asked if our table was almost ready and the hostess said it would be a few more minutes. I'm sure we were at the bar for a good 45 minutes before we sat down, and it seemed strange to be waiting so long for a table at such a casual place - it's not like we were in a newly-opened restaurant, or like we were up against the Graydon Carter Vanity Fair parade. If I had any doubts before, I knew we were in the "it" spot.

The bar area is separate from the dining area and there seemed to be no bar - dining room cohesiveness. All the restaurant's personality was in the dining room. The bar, though comfortably large and spacious, was just ordinary. And I don't recall the bartender or the hostess being that particularly friendly. They seemed to want as little to do with us as possible. Funny because we were extremely low maintenance, ordering simple cocktails and being politely patient when the wait exceeded the half an hour the hostess had originally mentioned.

When we finally sat down at our table, I smiled upon seeing the red-checkered dining cloths. What is it about the Italian bistro or picnic table cloths, however you see them, that puts an instant smile on my face? Maybe it's just that - everyone has some memory or association with the red-checkered table cloth. I think my earliest memory of the table cloth is from one of my favorite childhood movies, "The Parent Trap." I love the scene where Hayley Mills (playing twins) serenades her separated parents, Maureen O'Hara and Brian Keith, in an effort to get them back together. I swear Mills set the table with these same table cloths.

Cowgirl was maxed out like both my credit cards. You'd think it was the only restaurant open that night. I looked around us and people were squeezed into every open square inch of tabletop available. One of the busboys dropped this creation at our table - the answer to our prayers.

It was a black-eyed pea salsa and it was delicious. I read on the menu that the first bowl is on them, and the second is on you, so look out. After I doused the chips in some salt we were good to go. The margaritas at Cowgirl were top notch, but I was afraid of drinking them through dinner. Margaritas and school nights don't mix very well, and either do mornings and margaritas. When I heard they had Blue Moon, I was psyched and ordered us a round of those. Blue Moon is one of my favorite beers, if not the favorite.

"You'll like it, I swear," I told BeanieBaby.

Next up was a round of cornmeal fried catfish fingers served with a jalapeno tartar sauce. There were a couple things on the menu that jumped out at us, but how often do you see fried catfish fingers? Surprisingly the little suckers weren't as good as I expected. I love cornmeal anything but the fried part was pretty bland, and since the fish itself is bland, it needed a heftier batter. The tartar sauce was great but I didn't feel like drowning each bite in tartar sauce to get some flavor.

For my main meal I ordered the chicken fajitas. BeanieBaby ordered the burger and fries. My chicken fajitas were great. I love making them up as I go. One with peppers, one with loads of cheese, one with guacamole, and maybe one with all of the above. BeanieBaby looked mighty happy with her hamburger so I made sure I went in for the killer bite sooner rather than later.
The burger was the size of a hockey puck and was juicy and pink. I'd go back, sit at the bar and order a Blue Moon and a burger.

Our waitress was a pleasant space cadet. She never came to our table without us flagging her down in need of something, whether it was menus, or drinks, or water, or our bill. This was frustrating, but at least we had an attentive busboy who kept us happy with chips. Too bad we weren't handing him the tip.

If you're looking for a fun atmosphere and service isn't that important to you, by all means stop by Cowgirl. If nothing else, you'll enjoy the kitschy dining room. If you haven't seen a good friend in a long time and are in the neighborhood, stop by the bar and order up a few margaritas, just skip the catfish fingers. Chances are you'll leave giddy as a cowgirl.

519 Hudson St., at West 10th St.
212-633-1133

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Day One in Chicago

February is the month of love. You either hate it or love it. Christmas decorations fade from storefront windows and doors, though some of my neighbors have yet to realize Christmas was over two months ago, and Valentine hearts go up in their places, along with chocolates and cupids, teddies, and anything else bleeding romance.

When I was younger, Valentine's Day was just another reason to envy the people in love and relationships. Sure, I had a date here and there, but it was never anything to call Mom about. I didn't actively participate in Valentine's Day until I started dating Swimster; unless you count exchanging some scribble on a pink piece of paper for a handmade sparkling broach from J.P. in Los Altos, California when I was four. My mom and I still believe J.P. stole the broach from his mother. I think it's sitting in a dusty shoebox, amid old clothes and rocking horses, in my attic in Connecticut, though the memory of the moment is not dusty.

Twenty-three years later, I am in a relationship with a grown man, but I think he would still give me his mother's broach as a sign of his affection. Hawkeye was the first one to suggest getting together for Valentine's Day. I was shocked. Since when does the guy beat me to the romantic punch? It's a nice change for me - not having to suggest every plan - and it's one of the reasons Hawkeye and I get on so well.

I could have headed to Seattle, but we felt it would be easier to meet ''halfway.'' This year's Valentine's destination was Chicago. Valentine's Day fell in the middle of the week so we opted to celebrate the weekend prior.

My dad couldn't believe we planned a trip to Chicago in February.

"Are you crazy?" he yelped.



I had to remind him that I am impervious to cold weather. It doesn't and never will bother me. I don't know how I inherited this characteristic. Both my parents are chemically dependent on sunshine. Just moments ago I spoke to my mom and she was baking outside in Carmel like a "raisin," according to my dad.

Hawkeye made reservations for us to stay at the Ambassador East Hotel. I highly recommend it. On more than one occasion, Hawkeye stopped to tell members of the staff how polite, amicable and helpful they were. He travels all over the world for his job, and sees all kind of awful service. We felt like we were royalty in this hotel. It slightly reminded me of the old Plaza that I miss so much. Ambassador East is a fraction of the size of Manhattan's favorite former landmark, but it has the same classic luxurious feel.

After we dumped our bags in our room, Hawkeye and I decided to go fill our bellies. We were flying all morning, avoiding airport and airplane food, and we were starving. The initial plan was to meet up with Hawkeye's friend from college CB. After some suggestive coaxing, CB was going to drive us around the city for a quick tour, since it was my maiden voyage to the Windy City.

Pump Room, 1301 N. State Street, 312-266-0360, Ambassador East Hotel,

Instead of venturing out in the cold, Hawkeye and I headed downstairs to our hotel's historic Pump Room. We ordered a couple beverages - me and my welcome martini and Hawkeye and his beer.

I complimented the bartender on my perfectly dirty martini, while Hawkeye enjoyed his local ale. Shortly after we ordered our first cocktail, CB showed up. Once Hawkeye asked him if he wanted a beer, I knew we were history. CB and Hawkeye hadn't seen each other in a long time and I knew there were many beers to be had and stories to be told.

"Have you seen ...?"

"God, that trip when you..."

They kept the conversation rated G at first, but I knew after an evening of vacation drinks, I would acquire some very valuable information.

As they gabbed I went ahead and ordered. I wanted something small but substantial so we would still have the room to eat dinner at a decent hour. I went for the pizza. It was a good choice, and I enjoyed my decision for the remainder of the trip. The leftovers sat in our mini bar and served as the perfect snack to my late night and early morning cravings. It was covered in onions, mushrooms, peppers and shredded pork. CB suggested there was a taste of truffle oil. The pizza was delicious, if you're a fan of cold pizza, which I am in the mornings, but I would have preferred to have at least a couple bites of blazing hot pizza. It must have been sitting in the window for a while.


John Hancock Center, 875 N. Michigan Avenue

After the Pump Room, we headed out on our next mission. CB wanted to take us to the John Hancock Center. I was thrilled because that was one of the places BigBlueBabe told me I had to go to. It's like New York's Rockefeller Center, as far as the view is concerned, and like the Rainbow Room, as far as food and drink are concerned, only you're about 30 stories higher in the Hancock's Signature Room.

If there's a long line to get up to the Signature Room when you visit, don't be discouraged. The line moves quickly, which is probably a result of the expensive drinks up top. People tend to shuffle in and out when they find they're paying more on a round of drinks than they are on a night's stay in one of the city's hotels. Expensive drinks aside, the view is definitely worth a stop. We were sitting in the infield at first, away from the windows, until CB spotted a group getting up from their window seat. He hopped up before I even knew he left and snagged the seat. I think I was talking to myself for a few minutes before I realized he'd gone.

Nice work, CB!

I'd never seen anything like it. The John Hancock Center dwarfs all other buildings in its vicinity. I felt like I was in a helicopter. I was barely paying attention to the conversation at the table the whole time because all I could do was stare out the window in awe at the frosted city below us.

After a couple drinks, we started chuckling at a curious phenomenon that kept occurring at our table. My back was to a wall and apparently there was a large mirror behind me. CB observed that people repeatedly came up to our table, expecting to find another annex of the restaurant, before they realized they were indeed looking at themselves in a mirror. The person would then try to play off his or her mistake, adjust a hair, a wrinkle or a piece of clothing, then be on their way. We started keeping tabs. I think we were at eight before we realized it was time for us to go. We took a few pictures of the view and chowed on some tender beef skewers before we said goodbye to the city from above.

Frontera Grill, 445 N. Clark Street, 312-661-1434


Our second to final stop of the evening was a chic Mexican restaurant called Frontera. On account of the noise in the restaurant and the several cocktails I'd consumed up to this point, I couldn't tell you what I ordered. But I do know we sat at the bar with a sassy but charismatic old bartender who barked at me like a German shepherd when I tried ordering tacos. He preached that I could get tacos at any dumpy Mexican place, why would I want to get them in Rick Bayless' place, when there were so many more exciting options?

"Fine!" I replied, "You pick then, Senor Maestro!"

And this was his choice for me. It was a plate of fresh fish, though I have to say it wasn't nearly as good as the cocktails they served. We each ordered fancy pink margaritas up and they upstaged everything else.

Here was Hawkeye's dinner. When in doubt, he orders chicken. Though, no fair, when he ordered, the waiter accepted his choice.

"And the lights...go off...in the city!"

And for me, they went off, anyway. Our last and final stop of the evening was a bar and forgive me, I suffer from drunk-nesia and cannot remember its name.

Where is CB when I need him?

To be continued...and hopefully before any more cocktails and before our second trip to Chicago in April.

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Absolute Bagels

My roommate LarchmontLass heard buzz that there was an excellent bagel place a few blocks from our apartment called Absolute Bagels. I couldn't believe we've lived in the area for almosts two years and this whole time there's been a city renowned bagelry within walking distance of our apartment. I've ordered one too many hard rock bagels from the bodegas nearby and I had all but given up on the chance of eating a fresh local bagel.

My roommates and I have been talking about Absolute Bagels for the past few weeks now, but each Saturday or Sunday morning, feeling exhausted and lazy, we end up settling on delivery. Absolute, to nobody's surprise, does not deliver, so we'd skip trying it. It's so pathetic, I know. Most weekends it's as though we suffer from severe weekend or morning agoraphobia.

I finally decided to end my weekends in sweats and captivity. I woke up one Saturday morning and ventured out on my own to try Absolute. The outside is completely bare of any signs or clear markings that you're about to enter a bagel place. The fogged up windows made it feel like my bathroom after I've taken a hot shower rather than a place to buy food.

I was enthralled by the man making the bagels right in front of me. This is how it's supposed to be done, yet it's so rare to find in the city anymore. I couldn't believe how empty the place was. I stepped right up to the counter and observed what kind of bagels were being served that morning, this while watching the bagel chef place rows and rows of raw bagel dough on the oven tray.


"Can I help you?" A loud voice came booming from behind the register. When I looked over the top of it I was stunned to find a petite Asian girl glaring at me wide-eyed. She sure had powerful and intimidating oratorical skills for someone so tiny. That or she'd eaten too many Absolute Bagels that morning.

I couldn't decide if I wanted to try one of the fancy cream cheeses in the display or go with a sandwich. The cream cheeses looked like Italian gelato because they topped each cream cheese container with its flavored ingredient. There were cream cheeses covered with fresh layers of apples, strawberries and chopped jalapenos. I decided to go with the turkey sandwich. Sadly they don't do bacon at Absolute but a plain turkey sandwich with mayo would suffice.


And this is what I took home with me. You can see from the picture, the bagel looks very flat. I really enjoyed that it wasn't a super fluffy bagel. Instead it was warm and doughy and the soft bagel dough flattened nicely into an edible sandwich. The bagel was soft and chewy and didn't have to be toasted it was so fresh. And look how they packed the turkey so nice and high.

My Absolute bagel made my Saturday. I couldn't wait to tell my roommates I finally tried Absolute. The next time we're suffering from a bout of agoraphobia, I'll offer to hold my roommates hands while we walk to Absolute. I'm pretty sure if we make it, the bagels will change their weekend breakfast routine for good.

2788 Broadway, between 107 and 108th Streets
212) 932-2052

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I Trulli

January is FoxyLady's birthday month, which means time to celebrate. The last time the three lush-keteers (FoxyLady, BermudaBabe and myself) got together for a birthday dinner, this happened.

FoxyLady recently turned 27, but I was in Puerto Vallarta for a friend's wedding. I felt bad I was missing the festivities until she told me her mom, a flight attendant, was flying her first class to Buenos Aires for some pampering. A two hour massage in Buenos Aires costs a mere $35. I didn't know how BermudaBabe and I would compete with a first class ticket to Buenos Aires, or a two hour massage, but we were up to the challenge.

When I discovered it was restaurant week, I shuddered with dread. Restaurant week means one of two things. First, the restaurant vampires, or New Yorkers who don't eat out regularly, come out in droves for the weeklong affair, crowd the city's tables and usually demand more attention with their prix fixe meals than the Queen does at Buckingham Palace teatime. Second, it is my experience that the prix fixe is misleading and you're better off finding more quantity and quality at a non-participating restaurant. I have had one truly memorable restaurant week meal at Eleven Madison Park with Swimster. But I also remember his eyes popping out of his sockets when he looked at the bill. Yes, restaurant week food can be quite good, if not excellent, but don't expect to walk away saving enough money to put away for that Aspen ski vacation. Chances are you'll leave feeling a lot poorer and tempted to get a cone of fries at Pommes Frites.

I looked at the list of participating restaurants and none jumped out at me, until I noticed i Trulli. I Trulli is the restaurant of the Italian wine bar Enoteca i Trulli that I went to once with Winette. I didn't see what the restaurant looked like, but I loved what I tried at Enoteca and figured we would enjoy a full meal there. BermudaBabe loved the idea, especially since she had to make a train at Grand Central a few blocks away.

I was the first one to arrive at i Trulli, having just hopped off a train from Connecticut. I may be 27, but that doesn't mean I've outgrown heading home to do laundry. There were almost too many hostesses at the front of i Trulli; they had a hard time deciding who was in charge of what. One asked me if I had reservations, one asked me if I was meeting anyone, one asked me if I wanted to check my coat, and in my case, luggage, and still another asked me if I had reservations. I handed my heavy bag to one of the women and made my escape to Enoteca, where I would wait until my friends arrived.

Luckily the bar wasn't crowded and I found a seat very easily. Unfortunately, the luck stopped there. I sat for several minutes with no drink. I looked around, tried getting the bartender's attention, and looked around some more. Finally, when the bartender did notice me, I couldn't order because I didn't have a wine menu. At any other place, I would have asked for a glass of cab, but with hundreds of choices at Enoteca, I wanted to look at the menu.

There was an elderly lady sitting at the end of the bar by herself. She had a weathered Italian look, and her hair was elegantly swept up on her head. There weren't a lot of people sitting at the bar and she could sense my frustration with the bartender. She nodded at me and smiled. She placed her order and I whispered in her direction, "You might as well order two at the rate he's going."

She looked at me blankly with a forced smile, and I thought, "Oh God, it's her son." Open mouth, insert foot. Once again my big mouth gets the better of me. I put my fingers to my hair and swiveled on my stool so I didn't have to face her unamused reaction to my comment. Though I ordered my glass of wine, I had yet to receive my glass.

A few minutes later, the maitre d' walked in and went straight to the corner where the lady was sitting. She whispered something to him, he turned and looked at me and asked me where my drink was.

"Scott! Have you helped this nice young lady?" he yelled.

I died. I wanted to crawl into a hole of mortification.

"Yah, I'm right on it," the bartender replied.

The elderly woman winked at me, "You mentioned something to the right person," she said. It appeared she was friendly with the host.

FoxyLady came in and we decided to go to our table, hoping BermudaBabe would find us. I had no idea how big i Trulli was. I thought there was only one dining room. Turns out there are two large dining rooms and a third room in the back that appears to be open in the summertime. The back room was covered in white lights dangling from the ceiling, giving it a very festive feel perfect for our celebrating purposes.

Once BermudaBabe arrived, the triangle was complete and it was time for some food and wine. BermudaBabe and I wanted to hear all about Buenos Aires, while FoxyLady and I wanted to discuss BermudaBabe's upcoming wedding in June. There was a lot to talk about, but a lot to eat.
I saw cavatelli on the menu and had to order it. It's my favorite pasta, besides the other pasta on the menu, pappardelle, which BermudaBabe ordered as an entree. The cavatelli was an appetizer served with broccoli rabe and crushed, roasted almonds.

The cavatelli was so thick and doughy it tasted more like gnocchi. I love gnocchi but this dish was a lot heavier than what I expected. It was extremely rich for an appetizer. After I saw my entree I wish I had ordered the two dishes in reverse.

FoxyLady and BermudaBabe ordered the chick pea fritter with goat cheese over a mixed salad of organic greens. I've never had chick pea fritters and I stole a bite of FoxyLady's. They were delicious, almost like a warm, soft, fried green tomato. I loved this salad and hope I can order it on i Trulli's normal menu.


BermudaBabe ordered the hand-cut pappardelle with tomato, roasted eggplant and ricotta. Hers looked delicious but FoxyLady and I were embarrassed at how small her portion was. We kept trying to spoon-feed her parts of our own meal so she would actually feel like she ate a meal.


I ordered the mahi mahi sauteed with capers, lemon and white wine with swiss chard. The fish was hot and tender, but it felt like they cut the portion in half before they put it on my plate. The swiss chard was warm and a little crunchy and I enjoyed it with the mild fish. The lemon sautee was perfect for dipping in the bread they kept refilling for us. The fresh focaccia was the hit of the bread basket.


FoxyLady ordered the marinated and roasted skirt steak served with peperonata. Hers was the heartiest meal on the table and we all wished we ordered it ourselves.


For dessert, we tried each of the three choices: a dark chocolate pudding flavored with pepperoncino, ricotta cheesecake with citrus, and coconut pannacotta with aglianico wine reduction.

We were thrilled with each dessert option. The sweet coconut, the bitter chocolate, and the smooth and creamy cheesecake made the perfect dessert medley. The final course definitely made up for the rather small main course, which felt more like a tease than a main meal.

The service was excellent at i Trulli. Our server took excellent care of us. Our water and wine glasses were constantly refilled, nobody had to get their elbows in dirty plates, and we enjoyed a round of coffee to top it off.

Despite its mouse-like portions, we all enjoyed the dinner and company at i Trulli.

Moral of the post: restaurant week, while it may provide you with a good sense of a restaurant's offerings, is all about tight rationing. The real deal of the day remains in Buenos Aires at the massage parlor.

122 E. 27th St., between Lexington and Park Ave.
212-481-7372

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