The Sunburnt Cow

Activista: This is my best Valentine's Day ever! Cheers to good girlfriends.

Me: What? Come on, Activista, you're sweet but... are you for real?!

Activista: I'm serious!

Me: I mean, I love you guys and I'll drink to good girlfriends... but I can't concur with that statement...yet.

I had grandiose plans for Valentine's Day. I expected the night to start out as a girls' gathering, to be interrupted by an onslaught of hot Aussie guys buying us drinks and sweeping us off our feet at The Sunburnt Cow.

Well, the girls' gathering never got interrupted, and the only hot Aussies were our female waitresses.

Blimey!

I was one of the first to arrive at The Sunburnt Cow and it wasn't what I expected. It was a small venue. The bar area was claustrophobic and the DJ that promised to play '80s tunes all night was awkwardly cramped between the bar and tables where people were eating to the loud jams. Where were we supposed to rock out to "Heart" or "Jesse's Girl"?

I scored a stool at the bar, but was peeved when I sat there for nearly fifteen minutes staring at the two male bartenders. I spoke with one woman about the Valentine's Day deal, which was $25 for all-you-can-drink and she informed me to get a wristband from the bartenders. They clearly had no idea what was going on. A staff disconnect is never a good sign.

It's one thing when male bartenders cater to other girls first. I'm fine with that. But when a party of dudes walked in after me in their business suits and they ordered before me...now that's more than I can handle. Finally, after a five minute stare-down between me and the weaker link behind the bar -- I think it was his first night-- I ordered a cocktail. There were a few options and I went with the "Illusion" Moo Juice: mango vodka, pineapple juice and midori. It was a fun first drink but it was way too sweet so I switched to the "Sunburnt" for the rest of the night: passionfruit-infused tequila with strawberries. This was the hit at the table.

Slowly, the girls started to arrive and we made our way in the back to a table. It was me, FoxyLady, Fashionista, LarchmontLass, Activista, LittleMissSunshine and Clover.

We ordered the calamari -- may very well be the best calamari I've had in a while, though it was very salty. I like calamari when you can actually taste the calamari more than the fried batter. These were great, and as you can see from the picture, very lightly fried. They came with kiwi and jalapeno salsa which was a cool twist on Italian marinara.

The burger was the most popular item we ordered. And as you can see the most popular with the camera. I couldn't get enough of it.

There were a couple of variations. Activista, our resident vegetarian, tried the vego burger. She said it was excellent.

I went with the burger with the lot: cheese, egg, beetroot, pineapple, tomato, lettuce, etc. It was juicy, it was sweet, it was enormous, it was perfectly cooked, it was probably the best novelty burger I've ever had anywhere. And the thick French fries were the perfect consistency. It was amusing trying to stick a 5''-high burger in my mouth, but after some good scrunching I figured it out.

Once we finished dinner, we stayed at The Sunburnt Cow for several more cocktails. We took turns going to the bathroom and scoping out the "talent" in the bar, and sadly the consensus was there was none. Oh well. Good times were still had by all, even if Valentine's Day did turn into a lush and gush rack pack. I guess I'll have to actually go to Australia to meet my Aussie surfer.

I wasn't crazy about the atmosphere in TSC. If you have to pick between TSC and Bondi Road (owned by the same people), I'd say go with Bondi- it's way cuter inside. Nonetheless, I am already craving the lot burger and the calamari. And I will be sure to ask Activista to come along, so despite the lack of romance in my life, she can remind me of my fortune of having such good girlfriends.

153 Rivington St., nr. Suffolk St.
212-253-5311

to keep reading

Allen and Delancey

I've only seen Carebear three times since she gave birth to her beautiful baby daughter about six months ago. The last time I saw her was for her birthday dinner at, you guessed it, Allen and Delancey. Friendship is a bustling two-way street, but once your friend gives birth, she's allowed to veer off on her own one-way path. Not seeing her more often has been entirely my fault. As a single girl in the city, I'm always trying to find/be the party. In my best Ado Annie voice, "I cain't say no," for fear of missing my Mr. Right (or Mr. Wrong?) on any given night's escapades.

After several Sunday fun days of saying yes, yes, yes, I'm convinced alcohol runs through my veins more than blood. Hence my recent vow to be on the wagon until the second week in April. I made sure to announce it to all parties involved, and in retrospect, I’m not so sure this was a good idea. It’s similar to going on a diet. You think by advertising "No fries because of South Beach!" will help ease the temptation and the pressure of eating fun stuff. But what ends up happening is the opposite. You feel even more pressure and more guilt and you're stuck wearing this crappy scarlet letter, as opposed to being genuinely healthy, no questions asked.

Two days into being on the wagon, I see Fashionista for a hot second at the gym. It goes something like this:

F: I'm not going to see you all weekend. We have to do something fun before you leave!

M: Yah, as long as it doesn't involve drinking. I'm on the fence on being on the wagon for three weeks...

F: You can just go out and drink a glass of wine. It's good for the heart.

M: YEEE-ah, RI-yeet...Shirley Temples?

Awkward pause.

M: Well, what were you thinking?

F: Schiller's? Tomorrow?

I cringe with frustration at my backbone, as sturdy as Gumby's.

M: Ooooooo-kay!

What is that? A mere 48 hours on the darn wagon and I'm already jumping off. Somebody throw me back on, please! I wish my will power was as high as my tolerance...

*

The first time I saw Carebear as a new mommy was in the hospital 24 hours after she popped. I was on the evening shift and stopped in before work. I got to spend a couple of hours in the hospital room, talking it through, hearing the play-by-play from her husband and her mom, while zipping through hundreds of pictures. That baby is what I call a 25PPH baby, that is, she has 25 pictures of her taken per hour, no joke. And her speed hasn't slowed down since her first day on this planet. Mommy sends them out to us on a weekly basis.

"Did it hurt?" Aside from checking in on mommy and daughter, that's all I really cared about.

"Yes!"

Oh god.

"But it totally helps if you're in shape or an athlete. That's one reason for you, Mona, to keep up your swimming and running."

Yes, it is! The next time someone asks me why I exercise, I'll respond rubbing my belly, "To get through the labor of my unborn child."

Carebear's daughter was in the baby intensive care unit for a few days before she got to go home to mom and dad. It was stressful and I know it killed Carebear to go home without her baby. Luckily, baby went home with family at the end of the week and I let them settle into their groove for a couple of months before I stopped over for lunch.

When I did I walked in to quite the adorable scene. Mommy was in a tank and shorts, tres casual for Carebear, and baby was chillin' on an extra large pillow-turned-bed on the couch, limbs everywhere, like a giant four-legged starfish. Carebear and I ordered sushi and we managed to get through a few bites before there was some noise coming from the couch. I felt like I was disturbing the feng shui in the room, and baby wasn't having it. All I wanted to do was throw on a pair of PJs and play for the rest of the day with the two girls. I had to race off to work, but I wasn't leaving without my photo op. I'd been seeing everyone else's pictures with baby for months and the envy of having my own portrait was killing me.

Fast forward a few months, and several hundred baby pictures, I received a birthday dinner alert from Carebear. Carebear is surprisingly in the know when it comes to new and chic restaurants in the city. A good portion of all the places I've been to in Manhattan and loved were because of her recommendation. Landmarc, Alta, Stanton Social, Le Bilboquet, BondSt, Esperanto and Ditch Plains, to name a few. It's amusing that the girl who can't remember a movie, or notice a celebrity if they smacked her in the face on Spring Street, knows her restaurants.

For me, it was love at first sight. Allen & Delancey was designed by Jason Volenec of RKIT. You can be sure I will be checking out his other venue Cantina, and any of his future projects for that matter. Allen and Delancey had every element of charm I love in a restaurant-- the perfect lighting, exposed brick, dark wood, space, a separate bar in the front that you can actually sit at, two dining rooms (each with a different feel) and candles. All it was missing was a fireplace and wooden stove and I would have camped out there for the rest of the winter. I can't imagine what will happen to this place come Christmas-time but I know I will want to make a trip back.

After we checked our coats, we headed to our table. We sat at a booth in the shape of a half-moon. There were five of us and we were a little tight. It would have been the perfect table for four, but we managed.

We had a very resourceful, knowledgeable young man serving us and he did a fabulous job answering our questions and concerns about the menu. He even steered us in one direction over another, which I appreciate in a server. Honesty is key. Don't try to sell me the most expensive dish. We can see through that. Sell us what we'll eat and never forget.


The bread was one of my favorite things on the table. We each got two small warm bread balls-- one was a bacon bread and the other was plain. I liked them so much I was stealing them kindergarten-style off the other girls' plates.

Wherever I go out to eat I ask if they serve St. Germain. At A&D I didn't even have to request it. It was staring at me in the face from the cocktail list.

The Delancey.

I shared my excitement with our server about them serving my friend's creation and he was a little frightened. Did he think I was kidding? I mean, I guess it doesn't happen that often that somebody at your table throws it out there, "Oh, I'll have this drink because I know the person who invented it."

Nevertheless, I told him I had to try St. Germain and report back to my friend, its creator. Sadly, I had to tell him the truth. The cocktail was made with entirely too much pomegranate juice and prosecco and not nearly enough St. Germain. I had to ask him to bring me an extra shot because I couldn't taste the most important ingredient. I never complain about cocktails, but this one's close to my heart and I wanted them to serve it right.

For starters we tried the shavings of hamachi, pink grapefruit beads and pickled fennel. This was a really zesty appetizer. It was almost like a palette cleanser but it was the first thing we ate. It had a cool, bitter taste to it and was perfect for sharing. The hamachi just split apart with the slightest touch of a fork. It reminded me of something you'd see at WD-50. I loved the mix of sour citrus and fish.

We also split the sea scallops, celery root cream, braised cipollini onions and verjus. As you all know, I'm not a huge scallops fan, but these were well-cooked and had a sweetness to them that I really liked. They were chewy but not rubbery like most scallops I've had in the past.


Our entrees included the following:
braised fluke, cauliflower cream, parsley root and trompettes...


another order of sea scallops (yes, someone was a little scallop-happy at dinner that night)...


fillet of cod, fennel, confit lemon, oyster veloute and caviar...

roast salmon fillet, five day spinach, cippolini jam and red wine fumet...


and lastly Colorado lamb chop persillade, braised middle neck and potato puree.



I don't know what dish I liked best. Everything had such a unique presentation and flavor. I'm normally wary of ordering so much seafood in one meal, but each plate seemed to outdo the next. The fluke had this soft crust on top that I wanted to steal from my neighbor's plate. Cod is so plain-tasting it's really dependent on what you serve with it and the lemon confit and caviar complimented it perfectly. The salmon looked beautiful with its delicate layer of skin, but out of the three fishes, this was my least favorite. I didn't like what it was paired with.

Three guesses what I ordered. Yah, that's right. Meat. I asked the waiter for his recommendation and when he said the lamb chop I was sold. I barely needed a knife to cut the boiling tender meat off the bone. I'm normally turned off by lamb chops because I hate dealing with the bone but it was like it wasn't even there. It tasted like a filet that happened to be on a stick. The sauce was light enough that it didn't overpower the meat, but strong enough that it lathered my potatoes in sweet goodness.

As it was a birthday party, we couldn't skip dessert. We tried the chocolate peanut butter tart and malted milk sorbet with a whiskey vanilla shake. It did not disappoint. The classic, "Oh, I'll just have a bite," were our famous last words. At the end it was a fight to the finish. The idea of putting a little shake with a straw on the plate was too adorable to go unnoticed. I loved this touch. And who would have thought whiskey and vanilla tasted so good together? Next time I hit up the diner for a vanilla milkshake, I'll say forget the vanilla syrup, throw in some whiskey! If I'm off the wagon, of course...


My only complaint about Allen and Delancey was the final tab. I suffered from minor sticker shock. Between the four of us, and covering Carebear's meal, we each paid $115. It was a little bit more than I intended on paying for dinner that night, but my heavy (and happy) stomach balanced out my lighter wallet. Now at least when I return, I know what to expect.

As I mentioned in a previous post, Gail Simmons was sitting at the exact table directly opposite from us. Sadly the chef visited her and skipped over the civilians. Her and her gal pals were enjoying the Delanceys as much as I did, after my extra shot of St. Germain. I wonder if they noticed the St. Germain shortage.

On our way out, we headed to the coat check to retrieve our winter layers. One of my friends LynchburgLass asked for her coat back and was jolted from her food buzz.

The coat check girl looked at her blankly and said, "We can't find it," and continued to sit there and do nothing as if it was nothing. I thought Lass' eyes were going to pop out of her head when she said, "Well I gave it to you so I'd appreciate it if you found it."

The coat check girl turned away for two minutes, and turned back again, "We can't find it."

I'm just relieved this happened to the somewhat calm LynchburgLass and not myself. Had this girl so nonchalantly informed me my coat went missing into the Allen abyss of a coat check, there's no telling what would have happened, since I hate coat checks to begin with. Lass eventually busted back there herself and went digging for it successfully.

"Make sure this goes in the blog, Mona!" She said.

"Oh, don't you worry. It all goes in the blog," I responded, "From door open to door close." I debated taking a mugshot of our coat caper but I decided that was a little aggressive.

Gentlemen, if you want to impress a lady on a date, take her to Allen and Delancey. I'd say it's a little uber-romantic for a first date, but perfect for that third or fourth date when you're confident mood-lighting is the way to go.

Ladies, if you want to impress a guy with your New York City food-saviness, take him to Allen and Delancey. You won't be disappointed.

As for me, I plan on taking friends back to A&D, if I can get a reservation. I'm sure it's already popping up on Eater's [impossible to get] resy feed. Who knows, maybe Carebear will let me take baby there for her birthday several years from now, presuming it's still around. I can't wait to tell baby about my adventures with Carebear, starting with our crazy days as first years and roommates on the swim team at Virginia, and then growing up in our post-college New York world. And I'll tell her that her mom will always be one of my go to friends, whether I've spoken to her in a couple of weeks, or a couple of months, and of course, whether I'm on or off the wagon.

115 Allen St., at Delancey
212.253.5400

to keep reading

Easter in S.H.

Happy Easter Monday!

That's Goldfinger saying hello from Sag Harbor. We haven't come to an agreement on what we're calling our yellow school bus that puts a smile on everyone's face who sees it, but I like Goldfinger.

I hope you and yours enjoyed the earlier than early Easter weekend. I know I did. My only complaint is it went by too quickly. I'd really been looking forward to being out of the city for a couple of days and here I am, back at work on a manic Monday, feeling like this weekend was just a flash of family, food and fun.

If anyone can tell me why we celebrated Easter in March this year, I will treat you to dinner. Seriously. Besides movie and book reviews, politics and cocktails, this was the topic of many a conversation over the weekend at my Uncle Butzy's (sounds like kibbutz) house.

"What are you packing for Easter, Mona?" asked my roommate FoxyLady, who we adopted for the weekend. It's the second time she's spent Easter with us. I think I smell a tradition.

"I have no idea. I guess my white and pink Lilly Pulitzer palm tree strapless number with white sandals is out, huh?" Bummer.

Once we knew we were heading to Sag Harbor, we decided on an Easter feast Saturday night and a mellow brunch after church on Sunday. My luggage contained jeans, sweaters and for Easter a blue and white-striped blouse, a grey J. Crew wool blazer and off-white cords, not really the Easter egg-hunting apparel of yore, I know.

FoxyLady and I hopped on the Jitney from work on Friday and we were in Sag Harbor by 6:30. Mom and Dad weren't kidding when they told me they brought everything from our home in Connecticut but the kitchen sink. We walked into what is normally my uncle's simple, uncluttered habitat and it had become a kitchen and Easter decoration warehouse supply store. There were bags in every shape and size scattered throughout the kitchen and dining room. And the biggest shock of all came when I went to grab a water from the refrigerator. Uncle B is the takeout king and his is usually empty. This weekend it was overflowing with cheeses and wines and vegetables and antipasta. It was more food than I think we had in our fridge at Christmas and I was in California for ten days. We were only spending 48 hours in Sag Harbor!

FoxyLady and I cruised in East Hampton Saturday afternoon and I was so amused by this store's window posting I snapped a picture. The Monogram Shop made napkins and cups for the candidates and they've been tallying how many of each cup they've sold. As you can see, Obama cups are the runaway favorites. Poor McCain doesn't seem too popular in good ol' East Hampton. How's this for a slice of Americana?

When we returned from our Saturday shopping escapade we found Dad making his famous stuffed baked clams. The batter filled about a dozen shells but for some reason I spotted half of them sitting in the fridge.

"Why are there only six on the tray?" I asked worried I would only get one helping.

"I'm only cooking six."

"What!?"

"For once we're not getting full on appetizers, miss." He responded as he shoved them in the oven before I could say anything else.

Hmmph. I've eaten these once a year for as long as I can remember and these were the best in two decades. I really wanted that second helping.

Look at mom's cute paper plates.

The rest of the feast:

*A honey-glazed ham to die for. I don't even like ham sandwiches from the deli, but this ham was ridiculous. My parents informed me they fell in love with it at a friend's house and will never order another baked ham from anywhere else. Nodine's apple-smoked spiral cut ham. Learn it. Find it. Love it. You too can order it for any holiday feast.

*My mom's famous asparagus. It's usually a tag team effort. Mom steams 'em and I babysit to make sure the sticks don't get overcooked. These were the best yet. Twelve minutes in the steamer and about seven minutes in the oven before we broiled them for three minutes.

*Roasted potatoes, courtesy of the Barefoot Contessa. They were great, but they just got a little chilly in my Uncle's icebox.

And here are the friendly Easter bunny candles that Mom found.


"Want me to light these?" asked FoxyLady.

"NO! They're too cute!" yelled my mom from the kitchen. It wouldn't be the first time a purchase's form trumps its function.

For the first time Dad didn't have to ask me to set the table and I was quite proud of myself. I was in charge of decorating the table and I had fun playing with these little waxy Peter Cottontails. Check out their little white tails! Yes, I'm easily amused.

Mom was loving the seriousness with which I worked.

"Well, forget you ever needing a wedding planner! You'll be doing your own decorations!"

This little guy's looking in sadness over the corn muffins that didn't quite come out as expected. I think the word "hockey puck" was thrown around a few times. I had a bite and put the rest of it back on the plate where it came from, hoping nobody noticed. We laughed about going down to the pond to feed the ducks with them but that never happened. I suggested a cornbread stuffing, but that went out the window as well. Mom made them from scratch from a Paula Deen cookbook. I plan on filing an official complaint.


After several of Uncle B's signature Mt. Gay and tonics, or as I like to call them, the Palmer Terrace, FoxyLady and I ventured out to the bars of Sag Harbor to scope out any other young 20-somethings in town for the holiday weekend. Sadly, the scene wasn't nearly as hopping as we'd hoped. The only party was a joint bachelor/bachelorette pub crawl, made noticeable by their drunken loudness and team T-shirts. I think FoxyLady signed some girl's T-shirt, "Happiness forever."

Sunday our schedule included Mass and brunch. Exercise was part of the plan Saturday night but there was little motivation in our post-feast comas. We ended up at the children's Mass which was quite amusing. The priest called up all the children to the altar and when he asked what Easter meant to them all you could hear was "Easter eggs!" "Candy!" "Bunnies!" I felt I was watching an episode of Bill Cosby's "Kids Say the Darndest Things." When he mentioned an Easter egg hunt after the ceremony FoxyLady's leg started twitching.

"What is wrong with you?" I asked.

"I'm getting mentally prepared for the egg hunt. I'm ready to race out of here!"

"Umm, you know we're 28 right? We don't do the hunt," I said.

"Yah, but I'm so competitive. I can't help myself!"

Yes. But let me help you. "You are NOT doing the egg hunt."

Dad won the best dressed award, along with FoxyLady, for his awesome yellow pants. Mom knows how to pick 'em! This could be straight out of my favorite fashion blog, The Sartorialist. After our positive response to the pants, Mom said she would head back to the Darien Sports Store to buy Dad a red pair. Nantucket reds, perhaps?

We had brunch at Spinnakers in town. We were thinking of going to the American Hotel but their brunch was more like a five-course dinner and much too food-forward for our simple brunch tastes.

Unfortunately, FoxyLady and Uncle B were disappointed with their eggs Benedict. I tried the creamed spinach and agreed it was just OK.

Mom's "hobble bobble" omelette was a hit. Don't ask what that means, or who came up with that name (perhaps it was a drunken conversation over Thanksgiving?), but the waitress described it as an omelette with cheese, bacon and potatoes.


Dad loved his dessert/brunch-Belgian waffle with strawberries and cream.


I ordered the lobster roll. It was MUCH better than it looked. I was slightly disappointed by its size--I was expecting a massive roll, and it sat on a mini hotdug bun. After I finished I was relieved there wasn't more to it. It had just the right amount of mayo and the lobster tasted very chilled, crisp and fresh.


I never thought I'd ever say I don't like French fries that are overcooked, but that was the case with these. I love my fries crispy but all you could taste was the fried layer and no potato inside. This is good for a few fries at the bottom of a batch, but not for all of them.

Several years have passed, though it feels like just yesterday I was up at an altar screaming and shouting with my brother for candy in my pink and white frilled dress, white patent leather shoes and white socks with a lace trim. At 28, I still find it's not Easter without malted eggs. Nor is it Easter without my family.

FoxyLady and I headed home on the Jitney a few hours after brunch, armed with two enormous bags of leftovers. I gave Uncle B and my parents big hugs and grew nostalgic for Easters as a kid, when we didn't have to part ways. Sitting on the bus I looked at FoxyLady with a frown and said, "No matter how little or often I see my parents, it's always sad to say goodbye." There were no tears yesterday, though I came awfully close. I was overcome with a feeling of happiness for being so lucky, mixed with a little bit of ho-hum glum for missing my family and hope that my parents will be around for another 28 Easters.

to keep reading

Haste Taste: Jerusalem

Who: Me, Myself, and I

What: a giant falafel sandwich

When: about a month ago

Where: Jerusalem, 2715 Broadway, between 103rd St & 104th St

Why: Because of an insider tip and a craving for falafel and hummus

Scoop: If dudes are trekking all the way up to 104th Street from their downtown apartments and offices to eat the shawarma at this place, it has to be legit. The falafel was excellent, though I wish I had requested hummus in the pita. Instead I got a rather bland yogurt sauce. I hit it off with the French-Arab guy who made my dinner. I noticed he had a French accent so I asked him where he was from. When I told him I lived in France and spoke French he loved it and we proceeded to talk the rest of the time in French. I plan on heading back to eat at the counter and practice my French with my new friend in falafel.

Get in my belly!

to keep reading

F.A.T. II

Welcome to my second F.A.T.

Bruni's Stock Just Went Way Up

Eater to the Resi Rescue, and You Don't Have to Call These Jokesters

Just When I Thought I'd Heard It All...Meet Jack

Rah Rah Sis Boom Bah: Ray Ray's Here to Stay!

When You Wish Upon a Four-Leaf Clover...Head to August

Name That... Shawarma?

Where to Find Mom's Irish Soda Bread

Because This Just Looks Sick

When the Spitz Hits the Fan...Make Sandwiches

Thanks, Mr. Richman, Great Minds Do Think Alike

Forget Your Subway Map, Grab Your Reuben Map This St. Patty's Day

I'm Headed to These Places Tomorrow, Because I'd Rather See Irishmen Than Guidos

Everything's Cooler in Brooklyn, Even Restaurant Week

Got something you think deserves a mention? Send it along! Happy Friday!

to keep reading

Public: Sunday Fun Day

Several of us received an e-mail from Young'un about his birthday brunch at Public, yet somehow I was the only one who was called out in it:

"As some of you know (especially if you are a real Facebook stalker) I am turning 25 next Saturday (I know that Mona can barely remember her 25th that happened somewhere around 15 years ago)."

I swim with Young'un at NYAC, and somewhere along the line, we started relentlessly teasing each other about our age discrepancy, despite it only being a few years. More than once I've been called "grandma" and I'm happy to say on Young'un's birthday, I rubbed it in his face that he was finally of age to rent a car. Young'un was a Harvard swimmer, of the sprinter variety, like Swimster. His older brother Special K swam with Swimster and my other good buds OakGal, Warrior and Explorer.

I confirmed Public was wheelchair accessible for this grandma and RSVP-ed a big "Yes" to the festivities. I had heard of Public for ages and was dying to try it. From the sounds of Young'un's e-mail plan to consume "several drinks at bars to be determined," it was going to be a wild and crazy day. And so the concept of Sunday Fun Day was born. Sunday Fun Day can be defined as the brunch through dinner partying that takes place on any given Sunday. It involves drinking at brunch, followed by drinking at bars, followed by dinner and maybe even drinks after, for the real ironmen. There is no going home in the middle of a Sunday Fun Day, or the spirit of the day is broken. Sunday Fun Day was taken to a whole new level that Sunday because it was a three-day weekend. Most of the party had President's Day off so folks were especially rowdy. I, however, had to work and just prayed to the Man that it would be a slow news day and I would be able to handle what I hoped would be a lighter than usual work flow.

I arrived at Public a few minutes late from my workout. I made sure to get a run and swim in before my marathon Sunday. We had our championships that following weekend and I didn't want to completely throw away the season. That, and I at least wanted to feel like I deserved some of the good food I was about to consume.

I made the mistake of walking in, yet again, via the wrong entrance. I somehow couldn't decipher between the "Loading Dock" and "Entrance" signs and walked into a table of four eating their brunch.

"Wrong door!" they all shouted as they scooped up their eggs and bacon.

"It would appear that way..." I thought to myself as I let out a half-ass laugh and flew back down the stairs to the other entrance. My face was as red as my pashmina.

I had better luck through the next door. I walked in and noticed my friends gathering behind a sheer white curtain that hung past the host stand. I said a quick "Hello!" to the greeters and waltzed right into what I later learned was the Wine Room.

It was as if we had our own private banquet hall. The table looked like it could seat at least 20 people. There were menus dispersed throughout and table settings for all. A server came by and asked me what I'd prefer to drink: a passion fruit or regular mimosa or a bloody Mary. I gave into peer pressure and went with the passion fruit mimosa. It didn't taste much different from a regular mimosa though it was a little bitter. After two of those, I graduated to a bloody Mary. The bloody Mary was spot on-- spicy, peppery and loaded with all the appropriate trimmings.

We all hung out in clusters at different corners of the table before someone made the executive decision to sit down. I'm not sure, but I think I was already at least two drinks deep. Our server was relentless! You'd barely finished one and he was on his way with your next. As we took our seats, we politely exchanged niceties with our table neighbors. Everybody spotted the delicious plates of scones in front of us but nobody wanted to be the first to go in. It was like Pandora's Box--once one went they ALL went.

As you all know, I'm somewhat of a scone snob. I take my scones very seriously and like my Dad judges Italian restaurants on their bread, I judge a breakfast/brunch place by its scones. Public's scones are now my third favorite scone in the city, to Balthazar and Petak's. There were currant scones, scones with cheddar and corn bread with jalapeno. Each just whet my appetite for what was to come.

Before we each got our own dishes we received this brunch surprise -- a little bowl of fresh fruit with a dollop of sweet tahini yogurt. It reminded me of Italian desserts with mascarpone but the yogurt wasn't nearly as rich. It cleansed my palate.

Shortly after we licked our fruit plates clean, we were surrounded by yummy brunch entrees:

scrambled eggs on sour dough with bacon and buttered mushrooms...

banana-stuffed French toast with bacon and maple syrup...

venison burger with cassava chips (or fries)...

grilled chorizo in the middle for everyone to share...

and finally, salmon, spinach, poached eggs and hollandaise on toasted sourdough bread.


I died and went to heaven that morning. I've never been so impressed with everything that came out to the table than I was at Public, and lately I've eaten a few mediocre brunches.

I glanced up from my meal, tried to steal one of Special K's cassava fries, and noticed that everyone was getting their post-brunch glow on. The end of the table was especially bright where Special K and Young'un's parents were seated, basking in the glow of their sons' and their friends' company. I was happy to be a part of that morning (and even happier I had decided to spend my Saturday night on the couch with water and a movie). I got a few laughs as I tried to snap pictures of everyone's meals -- not all the dudes knew me or about my blog-- so this was a small challenge.

A few people backed me up.

"No! Don't touch! Mona's got to take a --"

"What?"

"Put your fork down. This picture is making Internet history," I'd chime in, before explaining the concept of my blog.

My favorite/new-to-me item on the table was by far the cassava fries. I'd never even heard of the word cassava before. Now I'm determined to not only return to Public to inhale them again, but to seek them out at all future New York City dining venues. If you know a place that serves them, pass it along.

I was looking at Public's Web site tonight, to get a feel for what it offers for dinner, and I've since fallen in love with Public's head chef Brad Farmerie. I'm not sure what intrigues me more, that he went to college to become an engineer before he hightailed it to London to learn to cook, or the fact that he seems as similarly obsessed with Australia and New Zealand as I am. All aside, the guy's doing something right.

New York Magazine once called Public's fare "free-spirited fusion," and Public has since adopted that saying. If you go to its FAQ section on its Site and click on "What kind of food does Public serve?" The response? "Free-spirited fusion." Maybe that's why I liked it so much. If someone asked me how I'd describe myself, I'd say, "free-spirited fusion."

The rest of the day was a blurry blitzkrieg. Here was our itinerary:

12-2ish: Public
2-4ish: Zum Schneider's-- this seems to be popping up in my weekend routine quite frequently, as do its extra large steins of beer
4ish-6ish: Horseshoe Bar, where we proceeded to play a seated flip cup tourney, even with parents present
6ish-7ish: dinner, AKA 2nd round of food out in one day, at Katz's Deli, hereby cementing Young'un's birthday as a true Sunday Fun Day
7ish-midnight: dancing at Pianos with the last, strongest ladies/men standing (sadly there were only a few)

All good things come to an end. The circus shut down early Monday morning and I had to be Ms. Productive on a mere few hours of sleep. I made it through the day, thankfully, and was already thinking about what I could come up with for the next Sunday Fun Day.

210 Elizabeth St., between Prince and Spring
212-343-7011

to keep reading

F.A.T.

It's Friday! It's Friday! Never have I ever been so excited for the weekend. So, without further ado, as you surf the Web to kill time on this long, drawn out, neverending day, welcome to the first installment of "Fridays About Town." Enjoy!

Top Chef Hung: Where Is He Now?

Bobby Flay Wants to Teach Dummies to Cook

Shake It Like It's Hot, Shake It Like It's Hot

Spotted: Mary Kate Olsen at the Opening of New York City's Latest Hot...Knot?

Terroir Is Bringing a Whole New Meaning to Happy (Sloppy) Hour

Win This Contest, You Win a...Restaurant?

Because This Just Looks Sick

TGIQ: Living Vicariously Through You, Backyard Chef

Think You've Got What It Takes to Smell/Taste With the Big Boys? Well, This Sip's for You

to keep reading

Perry Street

It was restaurant week and the e-mails started trickling in. A few friends wanted to brainstorm some reservations for the week-long event of cheaper fare.

No matter what names came up, I wasn't convinced. I trusted my anti-restaurant week instincts and refused the offers. It wasn't like I had better things lined up like hot dates or swanky parties, but I prefer eating what I want, when I want it and being able to pick from more than three items per course (and often eating more than three items per course). Shh, don't tell my nutrition coach. Oh wait, I don't have one.

I'm about to leave work on Monday afternoon and I receive this e-mail. There's no body, just a subject line. I love these kinds of e-mails. They convey a sort of urgency and it made me feel important.

"plans tonight????"

I hadn't spoken a word of restaurant week to FunStar. The girl loves pitching day-of plans. I'm all about being spontaneous, but I'll admit to being more of a planner. Whenever I throw parties, I get very frustrated with guys and the typical "game-time decision." What is that? I've disappointed FunStar one too many times, and I didn't feel like disappointing her again.

"no, what you got?" I replied.

"come eat with me. have a reservation at perry street!!!! was going with c-town but he can't go last minute!!!"


Last minute? I'll say. Had I left a few minutes earlier, I would have missed the invitation all together.


"what time?"


"early. six-ish."


"done and done."


I'd never heard of Perry Street and I wasn't sure what I was getting into. When I realized it was a Jean Georges restaurant I freaked. Abort! Abort! Jean Georges is the fanciest restaurant I've ever eaten in in Manhattan and I was dressed like a paup-ress that day. I barely made it out of my apartment in a wrinkled polo shirt, a V-neck sweater and old ripped jeans. Not to mention my baggo, but favorite, Barbour that looks like it was my grandfather's.

I called FunStar on my way to the gym to inquire about the dress code and she insisted I'd be fine. I was tempted to run into the local Club Monaco for some new duds, but figured I'd save the money for dinner. When I read that Perry Street kisses the Hudson, they weren't kidding. Besides driving down the West Side Highway from Connecticut, I'd never been so far west on the island. Every time I crossed another street I thought to myself, "It must be on this corner, it must be on this corner." Finally the numbers were matching up and I could see the cars flying by on the HH. I wasn't sure what the appeal was, of looking out on the highway, but I was curious to see what this place was all about.

Lately, I've been walking into a lot of wrong doors. And Monday was no different. I walked into an apartment lobby, confused and awkward, "Is this Perry Street?" You know you've been there. The handsome doorman, in his heavy, charcoal-gray, golden-lined overcoat said, "Nah, around the coo-wuh-nuh."

"Thank you!"

I walked in and the place was empty, except for a couple of tables. It was early for a New York City dinner, but I still expected the place to be a little more happening. I walked to the back and checked my coat-- my petpeeve of all petpeeves in restaurants these days. Is the coat check really necessary? Please discuss. It's not like Perry Street has the same negative square feet as A or 'ino and needed to conserve space.

I beat FunStar in proud fashion. It's been a New Year's resolution of mine to be more punctual. So far it's going pretty well. Instead of being a half hour late, I'm showing up early or only a few minutes tardy. Baby steps, baby steps.

I went right to the bar and ordered a cocktail from the funky bartender. He was a cross between Steve Urkell (a white version) and Sesame Street's Count Dracula. He had long hair, a long nose to match, big ears, and dark shaggy hair to his chin. He wore thick-rimmed, black glasses, and his thin tie stopped way above his pant line, even though they were hiked up to his belly button. I couldn't see his shoes, but I would bet my life on it he finished his British rocker look with short pants revealing bleach white socks.

As I was slurping down my beverage, FunStar arrived and we made our way to our table. Perry Street has a nice space -- large windows all around -- but I wasn't really feeling the atmosphere. It was stark and cold and too industrial-like for me. I wished I hadn't handed over my coat. There are lounge pods to your left when you walk in that slowly filled up throughout the night, for those who like to eat/drink hunched over. The bar was long and sleek, and with more people, I think it would be enjoyable to relax and hang out there for a while. It's separated from the tables so you don't feel like you're in the face of the seated patrons.


We made our selections and a server brought us our amuse-bouches. It's been a while since I'd had one of these. I had to ask a couple of times what it was because I couldn't get my tastebuds wrapped around the flavors. I think this is a good thing -- it made me think a little and not just inhale. It was a celery root soup with raspberry foam and it was definitely one of the best things brought to the table the entire night.

FunStar and I both ordered the ricotta and beet salad with wasabi for an appetizer. The best thing about this dish were the thick crunchy croutons. Other than that it was totally bland. Ricotta needs something with a lot more kick than plain ol' beets.

Again, lacking all originality, we ordered the same dish: hanger steak with a bed of jalapeno and steamed spinach. Hanger steak is usually hit or miss and I have to say I was pleasantly surprised by Perry Street's hanger steak. I would definitely get it again. It was tender and juicy and the outer layer was packed with a peppery-sweet flavor. It reminded me of my favorite dish growing up-- flank steak grilled by Dad on the patio. Even the spinach was cooked perfectly. I could taste each leaf-- it wasn't a big gob of mush. The age old problem with restaurant week is the portion sizes. I wanted more steak and, as you can see in the image below, there was only enough for a few forkfuls.

For dessert, I ordered the chocolate pudding with cream and crystalized violets for dessert. The violets tasted like a sort of cookie crumble and they saved this dessert from being a flat out disappointment. The pudding didn't have the richness of flavor I was expecting. It was like they whipped all the flavor right out of it.

FunStar ordered the white chocolate and mint meringue concoction. It was certainly pretty to look at and the more exciting of the two desserts, but nothing I'd write home to Mom about.

Poor FunStar is never going to invite me to dinner again...

When asked what my favorite dining experience in the city has been, I will, without a doubt, say Jean Georges. Swimster and I felt like a king and queen when we ate there a few years ago, and this feeling has yet to be replicated anywhere, in this city and beyond. It is one of my top five, if not the top five, dining experiences I've had in my life. I was hoping to leave Perry Street with a similar sensation of awe and bewilderment of what my eyes and tongue did behold. But alas, I did not. I enjoyed seeing FunStar and I was flattered she chose me to be her date that evening, but yet again, I was left with fear and loathing of restaurant week.

176 Perry St., at West Street
(212) 352-1900

to keep reading

B.O.N.Y.

It may be Super Tuesday redux, but the clock is ticking on another vote.

If you're a New Yorker and you like to nosh, this is the last week to cast your ballot for Time Out New York's 2008 EatOut Awards.

Where do you like to go for some serious Texas 'cue? Or to impress a first date? The awards run the gamut from best farm-forward endeavor to best mobile food. It's your delicious civic duty.

Click here to vote! And if you're like me, and haven't visited nearly half of the places mentioned, it's worth printing out the contenders. It'll make for a pretty sweet "to do" list.

to keep reading

Zen Palate

You can't see it from this picture but what you're looking at on the projector is rows and rows and rows of red Mt. Everest-proof jackets, queued up and ready to outfit all the crazies who decide to spend time in Antarctica.

Ken Mankoff is one such (impressive) crazy that I met at a Young Professionals dinner sponsored by the Nature Conservancy. My friend BumbleBee invited me to go and I was excited to try a new restaurant and learn about Antarctica. BumbleBee informed me that Mankoff was trained in giving Al Gore's "An Inconvenient Truth" lecture and I was thrilled to have the chance to hear him speak.

I expected an elderly gentleman in his mid-50s with gray hair and a big shaggy beard, sporting some killer '70s glasses and a saggy forest green grandfather sweater, or someone that resembled my 8th grade science teacher Mr. McLeavy. Mankoff was quite the opposite. He had more of the Williamsburg artsy flavor than science geek and he was my age, if not younger. He was a cute cross between Casey Affleck and Scott Foley.

Mankoff went to Antarctica to research the climate history of the region. He worked for the ANDRILL team, which creates software to help teach about scientific drilling, drill cores, Antarctica, and how the poles affect climate. While he was "on ice" for two and a half months, he walked along a rope to get from his "dorm" to the cafeteria during a whiteout, flew in a plane that had skis for landing gear instead of wheels, not only went to the South Pole but gave a lecture there, stood on 9,000 feet of ice, lounged in a hammock in a small green house to get warm and marched with the penguins.

As we listened to Mankoff's Antarctic adventure, servers at Zen Palate were stuffing our tables and our stomachs with incredible vegetarian delights. Each time we felt this MUST be the last dish, out came another one more impressive than the previous. I am not a vegetarian by any means, and have been very unsatisfied with vegetarian dining in the past, but the food I ate at Zen was almost as good, if not better, than real meat. If I could get my hands on Zen's food every day I could become a herbivore.

We started with this little plate as an appetizer. I thought this was dinner at first so I carefully took my time savoring each bite. The taro spring roll was packed with texture and flavor and I liked the lightly battered yam fries.


Below was my favorite dish of the night by far. It was the vegetarian's version of orange beef, or crispy wheat gluten a l'orange. The pieces were crunchy on the outside and chewy on the inside and smothered in a warm, sweet thick sauce. Forget seconds, I think I made it to eighths with this one.


The "chicken" dish was my least favorite. I liked the vegetables served with the meatless chicken but I didn't like its texture. It was too gooey for my taste.


This was the most attractive and intriguing dish to look at. It came out and there were several "Whoas" and "What thes....." and "Geeeezes" when it landed. It was a circle of portobello mushroom tempura with a sweet potato mash in the middle. I'm not even a portobello mushroom fan but these guys were scrumptious.

I could have skipped the noodles. They were very bland. Pad Thai is normally one of my favorite dishes so this was a big disappointment.


Just when we thought we were finished the server brought us all out a small cheesecake with blueberry drippings. I really liked it though my neighbors were not that impressed. It was a blend of tofu and cream cheese. I would certainly get it again.


I wish there was a Zen Palate closer to where I lived because I would order from them all the time. I was disappointed that it doesn't feel like an actual restaurant, but more of a fast food venue. And it would be a hike for me to head down to the Financial District for a quick grab-and-go meal.

I was extremely impressed by Mankoff's ease with which he spoke and presented his experiences to the crowd. One on one Mankoff seemed soft-spoken, reserved and timid. He could have fooled us, speaking in front of about 50 people with no notes, and just the projector to guide him. I'm the complete opposite: I'm a loud, boisterous extrovert who has an astute fear of public speaking. What gives? I was fortunate enough to meet Mankoff after his speech and compliment him. He happened to be there with a former co-worker and friend of mine. As it turns out the two are dating. What a small New York world.

I thanked BumbleBee for her invitation to Zen that night and asked her how I could get more involved. Below is the open invitation to a benefit she is organizing for her cause--The Nature Conservancy. I will be there and hope you consider joining me! After all, I am no scientist, and unlike Mankoff, I would not be able to contribute my brain or research to global warming, but I can support it with my money and my heart. I too hope to march with the penguins someday.

Hi boys and girls!

So as many of you know, I'm helping to plan the annual benefit for The Nature Conservancy. It's Thurs, March 13th at the Bowery Hotel and it's open bar, and it's not too expensive as far as charity things go. Anyone who likes either drinking or nature should be there! Give me a call if you have any questions... We're trying to raise money to save the environment (or one small chunk of it) after all. I've attached the invite with all the info...I can't make any promises, but there might be an ice luge.

Here's a link to the invite if opening the attached file seems too tedious.

http://www.nature.org/wherewework/northamerica/states/newyork/events/events4737.html

Hope you all can come!

Cheers,

BumbleBee

to keep reading