Thanksgiving Eve

My late-night companion Pandora is open on my work computer and I'm listening to Dave Matthews' acoustic version of "Gravedigger," hoping the line editor sitting next to me, though separated by a divider, isn't bothered by the sound of his scratchy-sexy voice. I've already asked him a few times if he minds and he insists he can't hear a thing. It's a whole different ball game when it's Monday nights and "The Bachelor" is on. I can't sit through it at home for 90 minutes so I watch it from a distance on the flat screen, tuning in for the last fifteen to see who Brad chose or devastated. It's then, over rejected girls bawling with tear-smeared makeup down to their chests a la Amy Winehouse, that I'm sure the line editor minds. Lucky for him, those days are over.

As a new friend reminded me on the phone earlier this afternoon, in my late-induced sweaty dash from the gym to work, it's Thanksgiving Eve. Oh yeah. With no airline tickets booked and no worries of last-minute packing to keep me distracted, I often forget it's a holiday. That and I thought I was the only one who acknowledged every holiday, whether it's July 4 or Labor Day, has its "eve." His "Gobble, gobble! Happy Thanksgiving Eve!" message woke me out of my sorry stupor with a smile.

When you work in the news and consequently most holidays, it's easy to forget what's come and gone. And like many Thanksgivings past, I will be here in the office tomorrow, living vicariously through friends and family, spending their days in the warmth of their homes, stuffing and holiday cocktails.

I had a good chuckle tonight when a co-worker used one of her many suspicious breaks to fetch liquor at the local wine store. Over her cackling laughter, she blurted, "I'm not taking any chances. I have to be loaded to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family!"

Maybe that's what I miss most about celebrating Thanksgiving -- being "loaded" with family. Unlike Christmas, Halloween and Easter, Thanksgiving is a day-long event. From the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep post-turkey trauma I am high on family, food, tradition, being in the home I spent two-thirds of my life in and even the occasional busted oven or kitchen brawl.

I love it when Dad comes into my room and wakes me up like I'm still in high school and have somewhere to be.

I love following the parade, miles away from Conn., on our little 12" x 12" kitchen soapbox.

I love watching the bow-legged Old English bulldogs battle the Bernese mountain dogs and St. Bernards for the title of "Best in Show."

I love laughing through "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation" like it's my first time. Every year I think Clark's going to get those lights working somehow.

I love no matter how many years I attempt a homemade stuffing recipe, nothing, nothing, nothing ever beats Pepperidge Farm stuffing, and nobody's shy to tell me so.

I love waking up with a mimosa, switching to a Bloody Mary and taking a few hours off before busting out my vermouth, blue cheese-stuffed olives and Grey Goose for a dirty martini.

I love sampling the many desserts my mom either ordered (apple pie, pumpkin pie) or made (cookie cake, cheesecake) and the many pounds of turkey she purchased from Mario in Ridgefield. He says 20-lb. bird for six people. She says 26-lb. giant for four.

I love hearing my Uncle's analysis of my "love life" and other life choices I've made or should make.

While these are a few of the things I'll miss tomorrow, these are also some of the things I am thankful for.

Tonight I gear up to celebrate Thanksgiving Eve with friends who are sticking around the city for the holidays, for reasons similar to my own. And with 32 minutes to spare, let me be the last to wish you a very Happy Thanksgiving Eve and the first a Happy Thanksgiving!

(to be continued...)

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Petak's Appetizing-Delicatessen & Caterers

One of the benefits to starting work late in the afternoon is having the mornings to explore different neighborhoods in the city, that is, when I'm not swimming/running laps at NYAC. One shoulder-crunching, chin-tucking, hands-crammed-in-pockets morning I found myself in my old hood-- the upper east side. I walked slowly up Madison Avenue glancing and drooling at Hermes belts, David Yurman rings, Carolina Herrera dresses, Chloe purses and Ralph Lauren sweaters I can barely afford to look at let alone purchase. It's tortuous at times, but I enjoy seeing how the haute caste is living. It'd be fun to have a little Mona dress-up doll so I could pick and choose items and see how some of the gorgeous materials and cuts would look on me. I don't have half the nerve and guts my brother has to go into these stores and try things on so I just play the spectator.

One of my missions that morning was to try a new bakery. Much like I base someone's cooking on three basics: burgers, pasta and chocolate chip cookies, I base bakeries on their scones. If I try a bakery and their scones are dry and chalky, or taste like their dough was mistaken for a blueberry muffin batch, I will not return.

I don't know what drew me to Petak's. I saw the window of baked goods stacked high in basket shelves and a woman walking out with her steaming coffee and white goodie bag and I was consumed with breakfast envy.

Petak's was much more than a bakery. They had a small salad bar in the back and people surprisingly were already eating lunch at this point. The displays in the front had all sorts of take-away delights, and if you want, you can sit in the back at the scattered tables.

I placed my coffee order and had a minor panic attack when I didn't notice the scones right away, but after a few seconds of wide-eyed desperation, there they were on the very bottom shelf. They had chocolate chip scones and currant scones. I went for the traditional currant one. I took one bite of the scone as soon as I walked out the door and died of surprise. This was the best scone I'd tasted in the city. It had the perfect consistency-moist but flaky and I was having a blogging emergency-- my camera wasn't working and I didn't even see a name or sign anywhere.

Fast-forward a week or so, and I conveniently found myself on the east side once again in pursuit of my favorite scone. On my second trip to Petak's, I gushed to the lady behind the counter about their scones and she showered me with smiles and laughter. I decided to mix it up and tried the lemon poppy scone with frosting. And as you see, I saved my receipt so I could share the name with you. Petak's lemon poppy scone is now my No. 2 favorite, behind the currant variety, and Balthazar's scones are No. 3 on the list, just in case you were wondering. If you ever find yourself on a morning Madison stroll, stop by Petak and tell them Mona sent you. And if you're not as satisfied as I am, I'll treat you to breakfast and coffee at the bakery of your choice.


1246 Madison Ave.

212-722-7711

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Frankies Spuntino

BeanieBaby made the announcement. She had barely left us for Boston and she was already coming back to town for a long weekend. I guess she just couldn't live without us. We were headed to dinner at Frankies Spuntino, and I was honored to be included in the small group of her closest college friends.

It took me a few trials on Google to figure out just where we were headed.

"Frank what?"

"Frank-EEZ Spun-TEE-no," she said.

It initially sounded to me like a hot dog joint a la Swanky Franks in Norwalk, Conn. BeanieBaby's a closet foodie, however, and I doubted her idea of a special dinner in New York involved hot weiners. I owe a few of my restaurant discoveries to BB, including one of my new favorites, Freemans. If it weren't for her I would never have heard of the place. And now I can add the Frankies chain to my "been there, done that" list thanks to BeanieBaby.

The Frankies feast turned out to be one of the last dinners I consumed during the week with friends. R.I.P. week night dinners. I was bumped from my cushy 8a.m. to 5p.m. shift and thrown onto the later evening shift which ends at the bewitching hour of 11:30p.m. Every night I'm rushing out of work for fear of turning into a pumpkin if I'm there until midnight. For some reason, that half an hour makes all the difference.

I live for spending time with friends and family, and with these odd new hours I'm getting used to the overabundance of "alone time with Mona." The worst part is I only have two nights a week to go out with friends. While as before I had seven. Whether I was going out for parties or a happy hour or a dinner, my weekdays were strategically booked to break up the Monday through Friday monotony. After a month and a half of being on this schedule, I have yet to go out after work.

A sympathetic co-worker told me Blue Ribbon is a popular late night hangout but I'm too inhibited to show up by myself. If you know people who know people who go out late on school nights, please tell them Mona's always up for a good time. Most of my friends are tuckered out and/or cocktail-happy from their after-work libations by the time I make it onto the scene. If I was in their shoes, I would be too.


We arrived at Frankies at around seven o'clock. It reminded me of 'ino, but it had about half the amount of table space and it was much darker inside. There is a single row of tables against the charming exposed brick holding shelves of wine. Past the tables are the bar/kitchen on the left and the bathrooms in the back. At the end of dinner I barely made it from the bathroom at the end of the hallway to our table-- I was dodging waitresses and hungry Frankies fans waiting for their takeout food.

As we were leaving, there were loads of people lingering outside looking in the window like kids peering into a toy store before Christmas. The window table for two is definitely the best seat in the house as it sits a few feet away from the other tables, where as we were so jam-packed it felt like we were eating at communal tables. But the window table is like a fishbowl. Passers-by were constantly putting their noses and hands up to the window to glance inside. Had I been eating there I would have felt obligated to perform tricks for treats like I was a caged animal at the zoo.

Our waitress came over a few times before we had actually decided on what to eat. The menu was small, we were just catching up in quicktime. After some debating, we decided to share a trio of crostini. We tried the ricotta and aged provolone, avocado and pesto, and cremini mushroom and truffle oil. It was challenging to share. Each crostini serving was super-sized. It was more like toppings with a side of crostini. Most of the toppings fell off the bread and we were eating them with forks like a salad. Once this happened, all the flavors blended into one. The avocado and pesto tasted like flavorless guacamole. The mushroom was my second favorite, but was a bit heavy on the salt. The best by far was the ricotta and parmesan --simple but delicious.


For my main dish I ordered the house-made gnocchi marinara and fresh ricotta. The gnocchi was excellent--soft but not too doughy-- while the marinara sauce was bland and watery, as you can see below. I already knew I loved the ricotta and would have preferred it without the marinara sauce all together. Gnocchi is so rich it's tough to make a sauce that stands up to it and this definitely did not.


After trying my neighbor's dish, I wished I had ordered the same. Dumb. Dumb. Cavatelli is my all-time favorite pasta, but I just wanted to order a variety of plates. Curses. She ordered the homemade cavatelli with hot sausage and browned sage butter. Once she was full I kept reaching over to share. If she had wanted leftovers, there was no chance of it now. The pasta was al dente and it had just the right amount of butter and well-cooked sausage.


We shared meatballs for the table and they lacked that umph I was hoping for. Meatballs have big mouths to fill as my Dad's been making them homemade for as long as I can remember.

Last but not least J ordered sweet sausage, roasted red peppers and onions over pine nut polenta. I'm quite shocked Frankies serves something that looks like it came straight out of a mess hall. I didn't even want to try it it looked so unappetizing. It was a big heap of veggies over a big puddle of watery sauce. Something seemed off and I wasn't going to be the one to find out what. Poor J was surprised herself when the goulash was placed in front of her. I caught her dual-raised eyebrows. Judging by the amount she left on the plate, our first impressions were accurate.

Being half-Italian, my standards for eating out in Italian restaurants are perhaps higher than the average Jane. Spuntino means snack, or place for a snack. Maybe they should go the route of 'ino and stick to snacks like sandwiches and bruschetta, rather than bland entrees. While I enjoyed the atmosphere and company at Frankies, I was uninspired by the food. I wanted to like it, for BeanieBaby's sake and for the sake of adding another Italian restaurant to my repertoire, but nothing spoke "return" like tossing a coin into Rome's Trevi Fountain.


17 Clinton St., near Stanton
212-253-2303

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Hill Country

The messages started trickling in and within hours my inbox was flooded. First there were e-mails. Then there were text messages. Then there were voicemails. There were even Facebook wall messages. We were all on our toes. Warrior was coming to town on his East Coast tour.

I've known of Warrior for almost twice as long as we've been friends. We were members of Connecticut Swimming as terror tots, but we never swam for the same team. He was always somebody's crush on my swim team. Fast forward a decade. My high school YMCA coach Murph, whom I was very close with, became the coach of the Harvard men's team. While I was in college I moved up to Cambridge for the summer to train with him. It was there that I met and partied with Warrior and several of the other Crimson boys who are, to this day, some of my closest friends. Warrior even introduced me to Swimster back in the day.

I was trying to think of a name for Warrior that depicted what he's been through over the past year. Nothing seemed to accurately reflect his Navy SEAL BUD/S training in Coronado but Warrior. I joined Facebook for the sole purpose of reading his updates, or "Notes," from the island. It was some of the craziest s--- I've ever read in my life: running at least ten miles a day, swimming in 50 degree water and staying up during "hell week" for five days straight are just some of what comes to mind. He survived some of the hardest and trying -- emotionally and physically-- months of his life and somehow it was on my shoulders to welcome him to the Big Apple, invite all his local friends and show him a good time.

Warrior's the type of guy who has friends (and girls) in every city and state. I believe he visited Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, Boston, Maine, New York...there may have even been a sixth city on his East Coast tour. And judging by the photo albums that popped up on Facebook, he had a grand ol' time.

I was in talks with a few of his friends on what to do. My initial idea was 1492. I recently had a baby shower dinner at 1492 with Carebear and a bunch of our friends from out-of-state. It was a great deal: $50 for food and all you can drink for two hours. The food was free-flowing and so were the cocktails. 1492 reinvigorated my faith in tapas consumption. The portions were extremely generous and none of us - big boys included- went hungry. Despite my push for 1492, a number of the loyal Crimson poo-pooed the idea out of worry not everyone would make dinner and we wouldn't get our money's worth. They were probably right. After several more stressful phone calls, desperate e-mails pleeing for suggestions and Web searches on NY Metro for "group friendly" places, we came up with Hill Country.

When I first looked at the Web site, I couldn't tell if it was barbecue propaganda or the real thing. The only barbecue I've eaten in Manhattan was at Dinosaur, and to me, that was great. It was filling-- the kind that makes you sick-- but great. Hill Country's Web site made the place look a little corny, almost like Disney's Frontierland where the Country Bear Jamboree was going to bust out with its banjos. I was a little concerned, but we went with it. There was no more time for indecisiveness.

I met Warrior and one of his friends at an apartment and we cabbed down together to the HC. We were all excited to check it out and feast. Several of us met earlier and drank at the bar and once the full party arrived, we checked in at the hostess stand and made our way downstairs to the mess hall. HC feels like a big western cafeteria, downstairs especially. It has a big open feel to go with its big food. The walls are covered with pictures of Texas and cattle and other "Home on the Range"-inspired nostalgia. Downstairs is where they play live music and all the tables are extra large for groups.

Similar to Katz's, you get cards at the HC. And like Katz's, I believe there's a fine if you lose your card. Once we sat down, we decided to go upstairs for the grub in teams. I was thankfully on the first team. There was a long line but it seemed to move fairly quickly. As I was people-watching, I spotted a familiar face. Gail Simmons, of the judges' table on Bravo's Top Chef, was standing in front of me with a group of friends or co-workers. I've seen my fair share of celebrities, and though I wouldn't put this in the same category as my Madonna/Nicole Kidman spottings on the running trails in Central Park, it was still exciting to see a food-ebrity.


The HC offerings are scribbled on a chalk board above the serving station, and when I glanced up, they may as well have been written in kanji. I tried looking at what other girls were ordering, what guys were ordering and thinking I'd copy the order of someone of similar stature as me. That plan went out the window when I saw what Lion ordered. It was beef brisket or bust. You could get it lean, moist, shoulder or prime rib, not to mention the pork and chicken options. And the best part? There are no plates at HC. You receive your barbecue on big open slabs of thick brown paper, like the butcher would throw at you if he forgot to wrap your order at the deli counter. If you didn't feel like a barbarian with the barbecue you ordered, you will now.

I watched the team of men behind the counter listen and cut, listen and cut, listen and cut. There was no time for questions. If you're not the barbecue pro, fake it like you do when you order your Starbucks skinny-no-whip-extra-foam-grande-in-a-venti-cup latte. Don't be fooled, this isn't what I order at Starbucks, but I swear I've heard those words spoken.

I went with two kinds of brisket, the lean and the moist. Lion ordered a rib and I figured I'd just share his. Then you get to the "sides" counter and your jaw dislocates from shock and wanting to fit all of what you're seeing in front of you in. I didn't realize I was supposed to save room for all these options: sweet potato bourbon mash, mac and cheese, baked beans, cornbread pudding, chili and green beans to name a few.


I went with my sideline favorite macaroni and cheese. There were desserts as well, but I knew we had a long night of drinking ahead of us, and if I killed myself at dinner I wouldn't wake out of my food coma.

The pieces of barbecue I ate were the juiciest, most tender pieces of meat I've ever tasted. I didn't know it was physically possible to make it this way. Backyard Chef, I'm going to have to challenge you to make me barbecue like this. I could have eaten my barbecue with a plastic spoon. Next time I would probably just go with the lean. I'm not so hardcore as to chew through fat and think it's OK. Excuse this picture below. It was really dark in our corner of downstairs and this was the best I could do. The macaroni and cheese was on the bland side, but honestly, anything after the barbecue just wasn't going to cut it. As I reached across for some of Lion's, I wished I had ordered more of the brisket.

After about fifteen minutes or so, each team had returned to the table with their brown paper batch of barbecue. There was a lot of cross-fork action going on. One person grabbing the brisket he left upstairs or the side he didn't choose from the next person. This is part of what made it so fun. On top of the sea of brown paper, our table was riddled with beers and shots. The casual atmosphere of HC made us all feel relaxed and comfortable and able to concentrate on what really mattered that night-- Warrior, his stories, his friends and our smiles in each other's company.

For a moment I lifted my head from my food and noticed Warrior in the middle of the table with his big signature grin. He's been to hell and back and he is still the same guy who just loves a laugh and a party. That night we brought the party to HC. I wonder if they knew they were feeding a real warrior. From the looks of our table when we got up to leave it appeared they'd fed several.

1492: 60 Clinton St., nr. Rivington St.
646-654-1114

Hill Country: 30 West 26th St., nr. Broadway
212-255-4544

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