Firenze

A friend of mine once said, "There are so many beautiful women in this city. I fall in love every minute."

Lately I've been having the same fortune (or problem, depending on how you look at it). I've always been boy crazy, just ask my mom, but this spring I've been particularly overzealous. I fall in love with men reading on the subway, playing basketball at the gym, throwing rugby balls in Sheep's Meadow, sipping beers at the Boat Basin, ordering drip coffees from Starbucks, cycling in full spandex in Central Park and on a Wednesday night in March, I fell in love with a Scotsman playing the bagpipes.

Dad bought us tickets to go see the Pipes and Drums of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards at the Met. My family is mildly obsessed with bagpipes. I can't sit through a single note without getting the goosebumps over my entire body. I just started playing "Amazing Grace" from my iTunes, in my bed as I type this, and bam! They hit me. Forget about "Auld Lang Syne." Virginia's "The Good Old Song" is sung to the tune of "Auld Lang Syne" and both hold a very dear and special place in my heart.

It was the spring of 1997. I was a few months away from high school graduation. I applied early to UVA and did not get in, meanwhile another girl in my high school did. I was a devastated wreck. I received the news over Thanksgiving '96 and my mom still refers to it as one of the worst weekends of her life. "It was as if somebody had died," she always says.

Fast forward three or four months. I'm upstairs in my bedroom, scrambling on some history paper for Mr. Mosley and suffering from an acute bout of senioritis. I get summoned downstairs, figuring I was probably in trouble for something my brother did. All of the sudden I hear "Auld Lang Syne" bagpipes blaring from the family room stereo. After the wave of goosebumps hit, the tears started flowing. It could only mean one thing. I had been accepted. Since my dad's an alumnus, they notified him personally that his daughter made the cut this time. Still, to this day, that moment-- the bagpipes, jumping and screaming and crying with my family like we had just won the lottery-- it was one of the best moments of my life.

The concert in the Met's Temple of Dendur was surreal. What an awesome place for a concert. Ladies, there is nothing better than Scottish men in uniform playing the bagpipes and drums. I couldn't stop drooling and neither could my mom. After the show, some of the guards were mingling with the crowd. One of the eight or so bagpipe players was walking directly in front of me and I might as well have been standing next to Brad Pitt. I was dying to speak and tell him how much I enjoyed the concert. After trying to come up with something somewhat intelligent to say I blurted, "Where are you headed?"

In his thick Scottish accent he replied with a big smile, "Out for a smoke."

"You can smoke and still play the bagpipes?" I was shocked.

"Oh yeah, been smoking for almost 18 years. Been playing the bagpipes for just about that long as well."

"Dang! That is impressive!" Or disturbing. I'm not sure which. He looked like he was about my age. I hope he hadn't been smoking since he was 10.

He started gabbing with another fan in front of us and that was it. We grabbed our coats from the coat check and dad was hightailing it to Madison Avenue. I was trying to take my excessive time as I kept an eye on where my boy was. The whole band was huddled outside the museum chatting about their performance and smoking quickly before their second show. I noticed him looking at me and watching me leave and I sent him a smile. Darn, I hope he didn't think Uncle Butzy was my date.

When we got to the crosswalk it hit me. I should have asked the guys where the party was after the show. If I sent a text message with the words "Scottish men in uniform," about 12 of my girlfriends would drop everything they were doing and be at my side in no time. It would have been quite an evening. Mom was all about it and told me to go back and ask. Dad was in shock at how utterly crazy his two women were. Brian, whose famous line, "Mona, your love life just about has no credibility," was also wondering how we could possibly be related. My fear and unprecedented timidity got the best of me that night and we headed for dinner.

I think the upper east side, particularly in the 80s, is a foodie's no man's land. I lived on York Avenue for a year and can think of no noteworthy restaurants I tried in my neighborhood. When my dad told me where we were going, and I started seeing familiar signs like Mad River, Tin Lizzie, Brady's (the bar that renamed itself Manning's the weekend of the Super Bowl) and other watering holes I land in occasionally, I started getting worried, I mean, really worried.

"Where are you taking us, Dad?"

"Firenze. It got great reviews!" My dad is pretty religious about checking Zagat's before he goes anywhere. He's almost too good and it gets a little intimidating sometimes. Just the other day he called P.J. Carney's "tacky." We can't have J.G. Melon or P.J. Clarke's all the time, Dad.

"On 82nd and Second? Dad, you must be joking. There is nothing worthwhile on this block," I said.

Two minutes later I was eating my words and some soft and doughy focaccia.

I have never been so fiercely flabbergasted by a restaurant as I was with Firenze. I walked in to this small, cavernous, charming, candlelit dining room and I felt like I had discovered an oasis in the Sahara. All I kept thinking to myself was "Oh my God. Oh my god. Oh my god!" The maitre d' whisked us off to our table after a very warm welcome and I walked to the table checking everyone out. Who were these wise men and women who knew about this place and why was I the last one to know?

I dug into the focaccia on the table and didn't stop until my entree arrived. There was olive oil on the table to dip it in but the bread was so moist it didn't need any.

We ordered a salad of parmesan, prosciutto and pear. The presentation itself was beautiful. It was like a fountain of salad. I snatched a small bite from Uncle Butzy and the bibb was crisp and the prosciutto was soft. I'd never had pear and prosciutto together but it's my new favorite combo of salty and sweet. This will be a good alternative to melon and prosciutto which I'm not very fond of.

Dad ordered clams sauteed in wine, tomato and basil. These were probably my favorite clams ever. The marinara was perfect.

Mom's fried eggplant with mozzarella was intense as an appetizer, but I couldn't stop eating it. The eggplant stood up well to the cheese and tomato sauce. Normally this dish can get really soggy but Firenze's maintained a tasty firmness.



After much prodding and persuasion from my parents, I ordered the bistecca alla fiorentina, or Tuscan-style porterhouse steak served with sauteed spinach. They couldn't believe I was 28 and had never tried this Italian staple. Now was the time. It was the biggest slab of meat I've ever seen and I've seen my fair share of massive steaks. I think the waiter wanted to marry me right then and there when I placed my order. When it arrived at the table I needed a crane to lift if from the plate to my mouth. The meat was juicy and packed with flavor and I had three solid nights of leftovers.


Uncle Butz ordered shrimp with risotto. He only had a few shrimps so I didn't get to try one, though I did dig my fork into the risotto. It had a crunchy texture to it.


Mom ordered the vitello alla Toscano, or Milanese-style veal topped with sauteed wild mushrooms...


and Dad went for his new favorite fish the branzino or Mediterranean striped bass, sauteed in white wine, lemon, fresh chopped tomatos and tiny sliced scallions.

Everyone raved about his or her dinner. Forks were flying and bites were being swapped all over the place. Our server came over several times to check and make sure everyone was happy and not once could we speak. We were too busy stuffing our faces.

"How is everything?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Mmm. Soommm Goommm."

I tried to enforce the "no dessert" clause, but my dad insisted on us ordering not one, but two. We chose the frutti di bosco with this crazy Mascarpone cheese on top. The coolest thing about it was the waiter whipped it up right in front of us and literally dumped huge dollops on our plates over the berries.

Don't be fooled into thinking you're eating healthy by ordering fruit. Just look at the fruit drowning in the cream. It was too much for me.


The cutest display of the whole evening was the tiramisu. Someone was having a little too much fun (or grappa) in the pastry kitchen. The butterfly of berry syrup surprisingly tasted really good with the moist coffee treat.

If you live on the upper east side, if you're looking for a romantic dinner, if you're with your family, if you're craving authentic, earthy Italian cuisine, go to Firenze. It is a refreshing escape from the onslaught of Irish dime-a-dozen pubs on the upper east side. To me, Firenze was the poor(er) man's Il Mulino. Dinner was an event and the staff treated us like royalty. The dishes were almost as rich in portion and flavor as Il Mulino's. I felt like I was eating a meal that would make my grandfather or any Italian relative proud. The fact that it's not a critic's pick on NewYorkMag.com makes me wonder.

After dinner, I decided to take fate into my own hands and hastily return to the Met, since it was on my way home (wink wink). Maybe I would catch the bandmembers packing up and hauling off to their hotel. I'm not sure what I intended to say to them, but Uncle Butzy walked with me for moral support and was thoroughly amused by my absurd quest.

When we arrived at the Met, it was a ghost town. There wasn't a single person inside or in front of the museum. You would have never guessed there had been two sold out concerts there that night. Rats. I missed the bus.

For the next several days I read all I could about the guards, their band and the rest of their massive USA tour. LarchmontLass supported my idea of going to their Sunday concert in Stamford, Conn. I could be the bagpiper's equivalent of a Band-Aid, though Pipe-Aid doesn't really have the same ring to it.

I decided to leash my looniness and instead of going to the concert, I found a fan group on Facebook (the next best thing) and left a message about how much I loved the show:

just saw them at the met and they were amazing. wish i could see them again. i've fallen in love with a tall redheaded bagpipe player. we spoke for two minutes and i will now regret for the rest of my life not seeing where him and his crew were going out after their two shows. they seemed like a great, fun group of gentlemen.


A few weeks went by and I'd forgotten about the Scotsman, having fallen in love several times since then. Until this:

Hi M-!
My name's Andy and I'm a drummer in the pipe band that you went to see perform. Just by chance, I saw this group on Facebook and I read your comment. Unfortunately I'm not your tall redheaded piper but I think you may have spoken to Steven. He doesn't have a Facebook I'm afraid. I hope you enjoyed the show as well as the talent ;-)

I fell out of my chair at work. I screamed. I laughed. I screamed again until everyone at work was trying to understand what was going on. Forget Facebook. I'm calling it Fatebook. I tried describing the turn of events to friends and the resounding response was, "Only you, M-."

I don't know how the story ends. I'm now friends with Andy on Facebook, but I never heard from Steven. Perhaps he's married with children. No matter his relationship status, it's still exciting to be in contact with one of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards in the Pipes and Drums band that my family is so enamored with.

I fell in love twice that evening in March-- once with a stranger and once with a new friend. I have no regrets.

1594 2nd Ave., between 82nd and 83rd St.
212-861-9368

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F.A.T. III

Fridays About Town:

Hoot! Hoot! Minutes Left to Eat at Little Owl

Are People Really Torn Up About This Place Closing?

Things Are Getting 'Wild' in Murray Thrill

Let Them Eat …Cheese?

A Post After My Own Kidney

Forget Rand McNally, This Is My Map of Choice

Surf's Up! I'll Be Eating Here After Finishing My Mighty Montauk

Hello! Where Have You Been?

What's On Tap Around Town? Click Here to Find Out

Donde Sera Este Cinco de Mayo?

Because This Just Looks Sick

One More Reason I Really Want to Go Here

At Cirque, Bring in the...Blondes?

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Kingswood

We were chowing down at P.J. Carney's in midtown, negating everything we had worked off in sweat and pain at NYAC across the street. One of my friends TheDude inquired about my blog and how it was going.

"If you ever need a date, Mona, to try new restaurants, I'm your man. I'm up for anything anytime," he said.

I had no idea TheDude was such a foodie until he started rattling off all of his favorite steakhouses in the city, and what constituted the perfect burger. We agreed on the juicy factor and the bun factor. Maybe I should keep him around.

While I have a crew that I eat out with quasi-regularly, I don't have one person, per se, who I'd call to meet me within a moment's notice to try a new spot. I know I can count on Winette when it comes to wine bars and apps, FoxyLady when it comes to pizza or pasta, and Fashionista when it comes to steak and burgers. And as far as guys go, several know about my blog, but many aren't as enthusiastic about eating out as I am, until I met TheDude.

Shortly after our P.J.'s discussion, TheDude and I decided to rally a small crew of four for dinner. He invited his friend LoveLight and I invited Fashionista. It was a sort of experiment, to see if we all got along and to see if we were food compatible. If we were, then we would make dinner a recurring affair.

I first discovered Kingswood because of UrbanDaddy, and when I read "inside beer garden," I was hooked. This would be our first dining adventure.

Of course I show up and Fashionista, TheDude and LoveLight are sitting happily at the bar, sipping on their cocktails, waiting for my arrival. I have been better this year about punctuality, I promise. I was only a few minutes late. Fashionista had her dirty martini in hand (another reason why we're friends) and the boys had their beers. TheDude introduced me to his friend LoveLight and I ordered a martini before the hostess escorted us to our table in the back.


It was as if we had all taken a big jump into a sepia-toned picture a la Mary Poppins stepping into the sidewalk art and disappearing into an imaginary world. The fake windows in the back gave off a golden brown light and the result was a warm and cozy charm. We settled in immediately. The table was an extra large picnic table, minus the benches, and I worried dinner would turn out to be a communal affair. Once we sat down, however, I barely noticed who was sitting next to us. The tables were so gigantic it felt like the couple was miles away and I barely heard them utter a peep all night.

The windows were beautiful, almost like we were in a museum. There appeared to be dried plants behind the windows that gave it a sort of "Secret Garden" feel.

TheDude started us off with a bottle of red. If you ever want to try a bottle of wine that you're sure to remember, order You Are So Nice. All of us were big fans. And it's guaranteed you won't forget its name at the wine shop like you forget that movie you've been dying to rent when you walk into Blockbuster.


"So how do you guys know each other?" I asked LoveLight.

"We lived in Singapore together when we were..."

I know the ex-pat ties. They create borderless and timeless bonds. LoveLight didn't have to say much else beyond this. I knew I liked him already. Even though my family lived in Paris over 15 years ago, there are a handful of people I still talk to and see on a regular basis. I think one classmate from the American School of Paris finds me on Facebook per day.

There's something about living in a foreign country in your tweens that brings you closer to your classmates than any public or private school can in the States. And I believe, compared to kids who never leave the country, that you start out with a deeper understanding of the world, a greater tolerance for differences and then of course, there's that travel bug that just never goes away until you return overseas for work or for pleasure, for a couple weeks at a time or on permanent hiatus. I'd prefer to go permanently.

LoveLight informed us that he had just moved from San Diego and we all chimed in that he was in for quite the culture shock. Hopefully a few nights out and some excellent food will break him in quickly. Then again, the kid lived in Singapore. He's got to be pretty adaptable.

Looking over the menu there were a lot of things we wanted to try. So we went for the gusto and ordered three appetizers. The mussels...


a wild mushroom risotto with garlic and ricotta, or a risotto smorgasbord. This dish is to risotto as Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia is to ice cream. There was so much going on in this risotto I loved it. Mushrooms of all shapes and sizes made this a risotto I thoroughly enjoyed, and I don't typically like risotto. It was really rich and perfect to share by the spoonful with company.


The risotto and mussels were accompanied by a delicious crab linguini with garlic, chili, parsley and cherry tomatoes. The pasta was cooked perfectly and the crab was very fresh. This was probably my favorite thing of the entire meal, which was a nice surprise. I'm always afraid to order pasta in non-Italian restaurants.


Lovelight and I both tried the steak sandwich as the main meal. I really don't know what they were thinking here. The bread was plain and barely toasted. The steak was bland as all get out. It may as well have been served on a bed of Saltines. And the julienned vegetables did nothing for the steak. It was like dry vegetables+dry steak+dry bread = serious dry mouth. Somebody get me some wine or water, please. The best thing on this plate were the chips.


TheDude chose wisely. He ordered the roast pork loin with mushroom polenta, roasted apple and bean sprouts. He was like a little kid who got all As on his report card. He wouldn't zip it about getting the best thing on the menu.

"Mine's the best."

Yes, we know.

"I picked the best thing on the menu."

Ok. Do you want a free shot or something?

"Dinner was OK, except mine. Mine was awesome."

What was that about food compatibility? TheDude had a little food gloating problem. But yes, he was absolutely right. The pork was juicy and tender and the polenta made the dish a perfect blend of savory and sweet. I wish we could have exchanged our meals for his, but it was too late.

Fashionista ordered the rib-eye steak, with herb butter and macaroni and three cheeses. The mac and cheese wasn't so bad, though a little heavy on the gooey cheese. It was almost like soup. The steak's picture is worth a thousand words. Look at all that fat. For $27, I certainly expected a prettier, more eater-friendly steak than this. Sorry Fashionista. I guess we'll just have to stick to Freemans when it comes to steak.


For dessert we tried the chocolate fondant with Earl Grey ice cream. I don't have to look up this dessert to know it is supposed to be a lava cake, exploding with chocolate that's barely been cooked. But just so I could confirm I wasn't completely losing my mind, I looked it up. Yes, this is a dessert that is only meant to be cooked for a few minutes and the inside is supposed to be liquid. The staff at Kingswood clearly missed this memo. It tasted like a sugarless, over-cooked brownie. And I'm not sure what they were aiming for with the Earl Grey ice cream, but it tasted like vanilla.

Kingswood started off like gangbusters. We were psyched about our drinks, the wine and the appetizers. But dinner is a marathon, not a sprint. After the last bite of risotto, it was all downhill from there. What a disappointment. I was excited to try Kingswood ever since I read about it on UrbanDaddy months ago. It's billed as a combo of Australian and American cuisine. I wonder what local Aussies think about this. If Kingswood is representative of the kind of food served in Sydney, maybe I should re-think my plan of moving there someday.

121 W. 10th St., at Greenwich Ave.
212-645-0044

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Haste Taste: P.J. Clarke's

P.J. Clarke's burger is one of the best in the city and that's final. I don't care if it's a chain, I don't care if there's one too many in the city, their burgers rock.

I hadn't hung out with Fashionista in nearly two weeks so we decided to catch up before she heads to UVA's beloved and highly anticipated Foxfield weekend. The swim team banquet, which I recently attended, and Foxfield used to coincide with one another on the same day, until one too many swimmers showed up intoxicated and sunburnt to the awards banquet post-Foxfield foolery.

"Lose the hat, darling, it's eight o'clock at night!"

"I can't, or Coach B- will see my eyes..."

Needless to say, the coaching staff smartened up, and much to the alumni dismay, we now must choose between the banquet or Foxfield.

Fashionista and I headed to the east 50s so we could be near the pool where she would be competing in an inner tube water polo game. After a small hike and a void of restaurants as we crossed town, we noticed P.J. Clarke's at the end of a long avenue. Score! We picked up the pace like horses on their way back to the stables.

Fashionista and I haven't hung out in over two weeks. We had some serious catching up to do in a limited amount of time, so much that we literally said, "Ready, go!" We had an hour and a half to gab in between stuffing our faces with salads, French onion soup, cheeseburgers and fries before her game.

Late last night I received the following message:

omg NEVER again will i eat soup, burger and fries pre-water polo. seriously at one point i think B- thought he was going to have to pull me off the bottom of the pool and perform mouth to mouth.

Yikes. Sorry, girl!

Those juicy, melt in your mouth burgers are just so hard to beat, as are the French fries that are as perfect, if not better, than McDonalds' fries. I know, you'd think I'd have refined my French fry taste, but there are different cuts/styles of fries and McDonalds has their cut nailed.

At the end of dinner, I noticed a tall, sunkissed, blond and bright blue-eyed chef leaning against the expedite window. He was chatting with his co-worker, taking a break from the kitchen, and I couldn't help but catch his sweet blue eyes a few times. How I would have liked to have gone up to him and thanked him for the satisfying dinner we just had. If there's anyone who knows anyone who works at P.J.'s and knows this burger-making bloke, please, help a fun single girl out.

Some enchanted evening (over burgers), you may see a stranger (or a hot chef), you may see a stranger, across a crowded room (restaurant)…and somehow you know, you know even then, that somewhere you'll see him (I will definitely be making a point of returning to this very P.J. Clarke's, despite there being one two minutes from my office), again and again (if I'm lucky).

And this from my buddy ClarkKent, who's got a nose the size of Pinocchio's and always looks at what I'm up to over my shoulder at work:

"If you want to add a collegial note to your Mona's P.J. Clarke's post, they have the coolest male urinals in the city," he said with a grin.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yah, they're surrounded by porcelain."

Good to know...

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Buceo 95

I received the following e-mail from Winette on Friday, and she doesn't even know about my "Fridays From the Field.''

Hey!
You HAVE to go to Fig & Olive! (http://figandolive.com/)
I went to the downtown one last night - a very cool dramatic space, I didn't even mind sitting inside on such a gorgeous night!
It was wine/cheese/bread-palooza with tons of veggie options!
In fact I'd go back with you because the menu is huge, we barely made a dent!

I guess this means one of our future pow-wows, as we like to call them, will take place at Fig and Olive. I can't wait.

Winette and I had our most recent pow-wow just this week at a wine bar within ten minutes walking distance of my apartment. This just spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E. I grabbed a beer with a co-worker after work, went to the gym for a quick workout (yes, my timing was a little off), then headed uptown to meet Winette. I turned right on 95th from Broadway, for the first time in my life, and the street looked barren -- could this be right? After a few paces, I spotted a bright fire engine red entrance to a restaurant, with no "Buceo" sign visible. It had to be it. That or I had the blocks wrong.

I walked in and I felt like falling to my knees and shouting "Allelujah!" My prayers had been answered. Were us upper upper west side kids finally to be rewarded with our very own neighborhood wine bar? It appeared so. While I fear it will become a sensation overnight and the lack of a wait for a table was nothing more than a fleeting luxury, I'd rather it be overcrowded and stay in business for the next decade than remain a neighborhood secret and land on Eater's "Deathwatch!" report quicker than you can say vino.

I loved everything about it: it wasn't packed, they had the typical wine bar high tables/high chairs, the hostess came up right away and said sit wherever you desire, once we took our seats a busboy dropped waters at the table, along with bread, olive oil and olives. Winette and I were in heaven. The only problem with the olive oil was the size of the dish it came in. In Oliver Twist fashion, we had to constantly ask for more, more, more olive oil. They need to scrap the cute dish below and just go for a big plate. While I ate the bread like it was going out of style, it was very mediocre bread. Perhaps they should up the ante in their bread-making (bread-buying?) decision. It was tough, bordering stale-tasting.

FoxyLady was joining us later, but we decided to pick a couple of items to snack on in the meantime.

First we tried the oh so artistic beet ravioli with a pistachio paste filling. These were right out of a modern foodie museum.


This dish reminded me of something you'd find at Pure Food and Wine. It wasn't beet pasta like we were expecting. It was literally pistachio paste sandwiched in between two thin beet slices and it had a hardened texture to it.

I'm really glad we tried Buceo's spin on ravioli, but I wouldn't order it again. I prefer traditional ravioli -- gooey pasta with a gooey middle. The beet part was a little tough to swallow, though I did enjoy the pistachio paste. I could have eaten that plain.

Next we tried the grilled artichokes with a roasted red pepper marinara. This was definitely one of the tastiest artichoke dishes I've ever eaten, and Winette agreed. This is no small compliment to the chef since I've eaten my fair share of artichokes in their motherland California. They were the perfect blend of crisp and chewy and the sweet roasted pepper on the side was a perfect accompaniment to the salty veg.

Once FoxyLady arrived we went for the gusto and ordered ham and cheese croquettes. We killed these. Winette stuck to the vegetarian shapes and FoxyLady and I split the ham squares. We were toying with ordering another batch they were so good but we decided on cheese and fried mussels instead.

FoxyLady and I were supposed to share the fried mussels, but I think I ate the entire thing. My guess is they were too salty for her. I inhaled them. I love fried seafood, especially oysters, so when I heard they had fried mussels I was eager to try them. I could still taste the mussels underneath the light layer of batter.


We ordered a good mix of soft and hard, goat and sheep's cheeses. The pieces don't look that big in this picture but they were plenty for the three of us, especially since by this point we'd all had an entire baguette to ourselves. I was happy they served quince along with the cheese. This always seems to lessen the intensity of the dairy.

There were many stories of work and boys that were shared that evening. I was gearing up for a dinner with Swimster the next night and I received a much needed pep talk from the ladies. I hadn't seen him since our dinner at Chanterelle almost a year and a half ago and we all know how that ended. A lonely hour ride home on the subway bawling is never good for anyone.

I'd also just cut the ties from a boy I'd hung out with a few times. Over the phone, I got the unsolicited "I just got out of a relationship" talk, followed by a "I might get back together with my ex," followed by "I'd still like to hang out." Seriously? I really liked this one and I do believe he's a good guy, but I couldn't help busting out in laughter when I got off the phone. Boys. They never cease to amaze me...

Buceo blew me away. It blew all of us away. Not to mention our server was a sweetheart and each time we ordered a new glass of wine she always always always brought us tastes without a blink or us even having to ask. Buceo serves wine in quartinos and it's a huge deal for what you pay.

After three years in the neighborhood, I think I've finally found my hangout, where I will perhaps go during the week for a solitary glass of wine, some cheese and a book and where everybody will (eventually) know my name.

*****

I've been neglecting Winette and our always fun lush and gush nights for way too long. Instead of writing long reviews about each of our previous wine-induced benders, here are a few highlights.

Wine and Roses: It's a solid spot for wine on the upper west side, though the scene can be a bit mixed. There were old guys hitting on us left and right, which was amusing at first, but got old after the third or fourth failed attempt. The bartender Monica was super sweet and helpful. She let us taste wines without a fuss and was spot on with her cheese recommendations. They have a great outdoor seating area, sidewalk-style, but it's not a place you can just hop in, relax and start boozing. There's guaranteed to be a wait (or a fight) for a table if you don't show up at four o'clock.

Park Blue: I met Winette and FoxyLady here, along with a former co-worker CineFile and his girlfriend. I had no idea there was such a cool, swanky lounge/bar right across the street from my gym. Had I known this, I certainly would have been suggesting this as an alternative to my team's standby P.J. Carney's. We had the amazing Park Blue signature cocktail to start, which was blueberries, champagne, gin and lemon juice. I don't usually like fruity drinks but this was a great combo of two of my favorite poisons, which I didn't know would taste so good together.

The wine-by-the-glass list wasn't that great -- they only have four reds and four whites, but we each found one we could drink all evening. We ordered some small plates to split and all of them were top notch, especially the cheese puffs. You could taste more cheese than puff which in my book is the key to a good gougere.


For dessert we ordered creme brulee and chocolate mousse...


and the bartender was so sweet he even threw in a few dessert cocktails for us, on the house. This was a really nice gesture and I've since meant to return simply because of his generosity, and OK, the gougeres. He informed us it was a mixture of vanilla vodka and chocolate, and it made for the perfect end to our evening.


Artisanal: I'd been to Artisanal once before and I know I will return several more times. I am a sucker for all things French and fromage. However, the last time I went, I was disappointed in our fondue fare. It was a repeat of the Park Blue crew. I should probably come up with a name for the group as we seem to have made a habit of getting together over wine and cheese. We sat in the same spot that I did with Winette and Hawkeye almost a year ago, and we happened to have the same unfortunate waitress. She's just not on the ball -- we kept on having to flag her for things we had already asked for-- and unlike most servers you encounter, she's not a people person.

CineFile had an important announcement to share with us that evening and after hearing the exciting news of his engagement to his girlfriend, we all ordered glasses of champagne to toast the happy couple. CineFile is the sweetest guy you'll ever meet and it's about time he found Mrs. Right.


Maybe I'm just not a fondue person. In theory, fondue always sounds so good to me. What steak and potatoes girl wouldn't love a pot of melted cheese to dip stuff in? But the past few times I've had fondue in the city I've been disappointed. The cheese is always bland and there are never enough "fixings" to go around for the entire table. Who wants to be the one rationing out bite-size pieces of bread and potatoes? Maybe I should just stick to dessert fondue from now on.

And to add fuel to the fire, we all decided that Park Blue's gougeres were better than Artisanal's. Artisanal is the temple of cheese in this city, or so I thought, and the fact that a little unknown lounge in midtown outscored them in the gougere department is just plain outrageous.


Next up for our wine night pow-wow? Terroir. Consider this your open invitation to lush and gush.

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All My Bags Are Packed

I am ready to go!

Oh man, why did I take that last Tequila shot?
The egg sandwich this morning put my stomach in a knot.

The clock is barely ticking -- it's like watching paint dry.
The darn minutes just won't go fast enough. Sigh.

At noon they are letting me out of the gate,
And please, God, for a taxi, I hope I don't wait.

I'm off to the airport to catch my flight.
If I'm lucky I won't be stuck there 'til night.

Thank goodness I chose United to fly.
Those kids on American are sure to cry.

Where am I headed? You might say.
To the good ol' town of U-V-A.

The swim team of yore descends on the town,
To honor many a teammate's new Hall of Fame crown.

I'm excited to see my friends of the past,
But I fear the weekend will go by way too fast.

I'm certain to be sotally tober the entire time.
Can you give me a vodka soda, please, and add a lime?

It's Hoosfest meets Boozefest from dusk till dawn,
I type this with excitement, but admit I fight back a yawn.

Reliving the glory days is how we do,
And we're not afraid to admit it to you and you and you.

It will be short, but it will be sweet, with much craze.
Proud to be a Wahoo till the end of my days.

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Cafe Cluny

It's Sunday. And you know what that means: brunch followed by drinks followed by more drinks followed by another meal. That's what happened on a recent Sunday and my body is still recovering.

I asked my forever friend FunnyGirl where we should eat brunch. Like so many of my wonderful friends, I met FunnyGirl through swimming. We were Wilton Wahoos back in the day (with FoxyLady, BermudaBabe and OakGal), and we continue to joke in the locker room at NYAC, "Who would have thought...15 years ago, that we'd still be gossiping in the showers after a swim, rinsing our hair of smelly chlorine and lending each other swim caps and goggles?!" Not me. If only our coach Murph could see us now.

After tossing a few restaurants around, we decided on Cafe Cluny. Please note, FunnyGirl recently brought it to my attention that she was misnamed on my blog and I owe her my deepest apologies. Her previous name was Clippy, and the fact that I neglected to recall that in a recent post just means it wasn't a great name. So, FunnyGirl, I hope you don't mind your new name because I'm not planning on forgetting it this time around.


I arrived at Cafe Cluny and found FunnyGirl and Robo hanging out at the bar. FunnyGirl already had her hands on a Bloody Mary.

"Taste this, it's baaaaad," FunnyGirl said.

I barely got to say "Hi!" and she was pushing a watery and barely spiced Bloody Mary on me.

"Gee, thanks?" I laughed back.

Robo is on the NYAC swim team with me and FunnyGirl. He missed our championship swim meet a couple of weeks prior because he somehow got mono. We joked that it was on account of him making out too much, but he didn't appreciate it. He had been cooped up in his apartment for weeks, and while I knew he wouldn't be in great shape, I figured he had to eat at some point and maybe getting some fresh air and a change of scenery would do him good. Sitting across the table from him and looking at his pale green face and emaciated frame, I started to wonder if this was such a good idea after all.


The place was busier than Mass on Easter Sunday. There was barely anywhere to stand, much less move. Straight couples, gay couples, double and triple dates, friends, newlyweds with in-laws, kids meeting the parents, moms and daughters, you name it, they were there.

The restaurant sits on a street corner and the great big windows make (save) the atmosphere. It kind of felt like we were in a room at someone's house, only with wall-to-wall tables. They pack them in tight at CC. Don't head to Cluny if you're claustrophobic. My favorite part of the place was the bar. It made an otherwise boring setting more alive and charming.

There's a main room in the front, a small bar and a sort of hallway that takes you to the back room, where we ate. They wouldn't let us sit down until we were all there-- a policy that I find annoying. Once FoxyLady came we headed to our table. There was a chance that Activista would be joining us, but we left that part out for fear of having to wait for another half an hour for a table.

Our server was friendly and efficient. Everything came out in a timely manner, including our hefty drink orders and Activista's French toast, an impressive feat since she showed up halfway into the meal.

There were a couple orders of poached eggs with short rib hash and bearnaise sauce. I stole a few bites of FoxyLady's and it was my favorite thing on the table, though a lot of sodium on one plate. I don't think anyone who ordered this could finish his or her plate. That's where I came in.


I ordered the breakfast club sandwich -- fried egg, bacon, tomato and avocado with French fries.

Look at this bad boy. I wish the egg had been a little runnier to soften the rock hard crisp toast. I think they'd be better served to offer this on an English muffin, or different bread. The bread was just too heavy and outplayed the goodness inside. It was like eating a sandwich on an extra large cracker.


Activista's French toast was a hit with her and the rest of the table. I tried a taste and thought it was too soggy, like a sugary sponge. It was also very rich with the sugar, syrup and fruit. One bite did me in. It would have been a fun dessert for the table if any of us had the room in our stomachs.


I am glad I got to try Cafe Cluny, though I was not all that impressed. Aside from Public, the brunches I've had lately have been really disappointing. Is there a solid, consistent and reliable place for brunch in this city? I want an everyday brunch place, where I can go any Sunday, with a group or just one friend, in jeans and a sweatshirt or all dolled up, for a good glass of O.J. or a stiff Bloody Mary, and where you don't have to wait for a table like it was eight o'clock on a Saturday night. Until I find this place, I will continue my Sunday adventures in brunching. Who's with me?


In the middle of brunch I received a text message from Fashionista:

"day drinking at Spring Lounge. come."

I wrote back:

"day drinking at Cafe Cluny. be right there."

Activista, FunnyGirl and I went on our merry way to continue our Sunday fun day. FoxyLady went to see about an Irishman her mother met on the train from Connecticut, who she hoped would fall in love with her daughter. I love moms.

I can't show you all the pictures from the rest of our Sunday fun day, but I will leave you with a couple that best sum up our day. Remember, a true Sunday fun day is two meals out without returning home in between...


and if there's dancing, it automatically becomes a Super Sunday fun day.


284 W. 12th St., at W. 4th
(212) 255-6900

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