F.A.T.

Fridays About Town:

The above photo was taken in my new favorite upper east side dive bar, Marty O'Brien's. I was slightly fearful walking in-- I was the only female and the only person under 40-- but left feeling like a million bucks. Not only did they let us watch the swimming Olympic Trials in Omaha, Neb., with the volume up, but they served us free sausages, hot dogs and burgers off the grill in the backyard. It was like we were family.

So what's a girl to do now with no Olympics and no Democratic National Convention hoopla? Look towards the RNC in Minneapolis and hope to see Marat Safin up very close and personal in Flushing? I guess so.

If none of those sound compelling, check out this Labor Day weekend's goings on:

For Those West Coasters, Skip Fast Food
Who Knew? Drink Up New York
Gimme Some Absinthe, Gemma
El Bano: Where X Is for X-clusivity
Would You Like Some Grits With Your Worms?
Can Italians Do BBQ? Mama Mia
Somebody Make Them Go Away, Please
Get to McCarren Pool for Sonic Youth
Pucker Up, Wine Week's Coming
Labor Day's a Great Reason to Hit the UWS
I'll Be Seeing You Here Next Friday
Because These Just Look Sick

I'm headed to New Jersey to visit my dad's family tonight and I'll be offline for a couple of days. Unfortunately, I'm working Monday so it'll be a normal weekend for me. We love convention madness around here. Last night I got a phone call from home, mid-festivities at The Frying Pan (staring at my monitor I still feel like I'm rocking on the upper level of the old boat).

"Hi M-, it's Dad!"

"Hi Dad," I screamed, slurping down my vodka soda and making everyone in my party yell, "HEY DAD!" into the phone.

Gauging that it probably wasn't the best time to be conversing, my dad, half- laughing and half-speaking, informed me, "I'll pick you up tomorrow after work. Uncle T- says bring your water-skiing gear!"

Sweeter words were never shouted on one of summer's final Thursdays.

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Gradisca

LarchmontLass works for a boutique publisher in Union Square. Our fireplace mantel and coffee table both greatly benefit from her situation -- they're constantly being decorated with an influx of hot, entertaining books of all shapes, sizes and materials. The cookbook we have is made out of a flimsy, rubbery material (like the one you sat in the tub with when you were four) so you can spill anything from Worcestshire to bearnaise, from Zinfandel to guacamole on it without so much as a flinch. Another chef-friendly read dons a sleeve made out of an apron -- how clever does it get?

My excitement about LarchmontLass' job reached its apex when a very special package came to our apartment from a very special person. LL had been slaving away on a book inspired and based on the rapper Eminem. It was her first major project and she was working around the clock like nobody I'd ever seen (until my roommate FoxyLady clocked in a few 20-hour days in preparation for Denver's DNC, which she is now at). My roommates make me feel like a slacker.

A few integral additions to the book were coming to our apartment and we all got the 411. Be on alert. Listen for the buzzer. Answer the buzzer. Ring the guy in. Retrieve the package. Sign for it. Guard it with your life.

Thank goodness LL was home when it arrived or I'm not sure I would have known what to do with it. I probably would have sat and stared at it on the kitchen table for hours or held it up to the light so I could see through to its contents.

LL opened it immediately and I was in awe. There were a couple of Polaroids of the master Eminem himself, in addition to two incredible, ink portraits of Tupac and 50 Cent by Eminem. I died. Ever since the movie "8 Mile," I've idolized the rambunctious rapper. Regardless of what you think of rap, the guy is a musical genius and after looking at his artwork, I realized he was a genius, period. I'm not a huge Tupac or 50 Cent fan, but Eminem drew something in their souls that was almost fantastical and it made me want to explore them further.

I wonder if he'd ever do my portrait. A girl can dream, can't she?

When LarchmontLass mentioned she was having a birthday dinner with co-workers and friends, I was in. FoxyLady and I met her at her office with birthday goodies and after several introductions and a glimpse into LL's daily office life, we headed to Gradisca.

I'd been hearing about Gradisca for as long as I've known LarchmontLass. LL and her work crew frequent Gradisca for happy hour and she always raves about the service, food and how special it is to be taken care of as regulars. Something told me it wasn't just your run-of-the-mill post-work hangout.

I was right.

If there was ever such thing as a food-centive or an office perk, Gradisca is it. I suggest LL's boss think about showcasing Gradisca when hiring people. If potential employees are on the fence, take them to Gradisca, offer it up as the office's preferred after hours destination and sign the deal in no time.

We walked in and were serenaded by the entire staff. Every two feet there was somebody coming out of a dark shadow, saying "Hello" and "Welcome." I felt like I was walking into the wine cellar of an Italian villa. Maybe I'd run into the Count of Monte Cristo in the bathroom. It was dark, candlelit, cavernous and inviting. The bar is to your right when you walk in and further back is the dining room with exposed brick, reddish walls and dark wooden tables. We were a pack of about 20 people and I was wondering where the heck we were going to sit.

Then I saw it.

It was a table fit for the gods of Greece and the royalty of Rome. King Arthur's knights could have sat at this table comfortably with some room to spare for shields and sheaths. It was the biggest table I'd ever seen. If you want friends to feel like a million bucks on their birthdays, take them to Gradisca and sit them at this enormous marble-top table. It rose up from the floor and stood at about four feet. It was surrounded by comfy high chairs and the whole time I just sat in awe. How had I never been here before?

No sooner had we sat down than the parade of food and booze began. They served us bottles and buckets of champagne and wine, enormous platters of fresh antipasta, warm, toasted paninis, homemade pasta and exciting desserts.


Every time I thought I eyed the last dish, another one came out. There were three pasta choices: pappardelle with a lamb ragout, a vegetarian-friendly pappardelle, and a cavatelli dish. All were amazing. One of LL's co-workers, who knows the owner of Gradisca, told me each pasta is hand-rolled by an elderly Italian woman. I don't know where they hide her but I'd love to take pasta lessons from the best kept secret in New York.

The pasta texture and temperature were flawless and the sauces were so thick and savory they could have been eaten with a fork.

As if the multiple entrees weren't enough to fill our bellies, the desserts started to come out for Miss LL. An array of gelato was served in these cute ramekins.

And the highlight here was definitely the tiramisu and flourless chocolate cake.



I couldn't stop emoting about how blown away I was by the incredible meal and the friendliness of the staff. The birthday bash was seamless. Not once was a story interrupted, a laugh broken or a smile turned upside down by frustration with the service. We were left wanting nothing, and with a party as big as we had, this was a huge feat. The drinks and water were free-flowing and the food was neverending. Everyone left happy and about 1o pounds heavier.

I read on Gradisca's Site that they named the restaurant after a character in the movie "Amarcord" who is known for her "bon vivant personality." LL's birthday was all about eating well, drinking heavily and being gregariously merry. If you seek these simple joys in life, get to Gradisca and tell Massimo Mona sent you.

126 West 13th St., between 6th & 7th Ave.
212-691-4886

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Sunday Delivery: Kitchenette

If you're at home in pajamas, watching the last day of the Olympics and you're too tired to move or think straight, hop on Seamless Web, plug in your zip code and order away.

I hope you live within Kitchenette's delivery radius. I will no longer order breakfast from anywhere else. The other weekend I chose scrambled eggs with scallions, sour cream, tomatoes, a side of grits and a biscuit.

I wanted some breakfast meat in there so I tossed in a side of the homemade turkey sausage.


Oh man.

I'm normally left less than satisfied with delivery orders, but this was outstanding. The eggs were still hot and a little runny, the biscuit was soft, warm and accompanied with a side of sweet apple butter. I only had room for a few spoons of the grits, but I saved them and a couple bites of turkey sausage for later and I was thrilled with the leftover snack.

Yesterday I ordered the cottage breakfast: scrambled eggs with cheddar and bacon and homemade dill-onion toast. I was equally impressed. The toast was amazing -- it had the same thickness and texture as French toast but the dill made for a perfect twist on toast.

I'm in pajamas, tired from a late night, nothing's cooking in my kitchen and I'm wondering what's cooking at Kitchenette's.

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Mona's Day Off

Choose a photo:

A)


B)


Today I choose B.

I was going to title this post "Truancy," but then it would sound like I was skipping work. I actually have the day off because I worked last Saturday night (witnessing Phelps' eighth gold medal and proudly being able to post this story).

Rather than sitting behind my desk, plugging away (see above for the quintessential, dutiful, worker bee), I am at home, gearing up for a run and mulling options on how I could spend my day, while noting tasks I'd like to accomplish before the weekend's through.

Day Off Options (open to suggestions):

-a trip to Long Beach
-an adventure at Six Flags, probably too late for that though, right?
-lying out on the roof of NYAC
-going on a sail around Manhattan
-hitting up Chelsea Piers
-soaking up some sun in Sheep's Meadow
-going out to Travers Island
-hitting up a new lunch spot

To Do This Weekend (also open for suggestions):

-bills, paperwork (eww)
-buy ticket to Atlanta for end of September joint birthday bash with K-Fo
-e-mail teammate with list of Web sites I like so he can help me create my own
-catch up on my blog, while maybe discovering a new Wi-Fi spot
-update my iPod (so sick of my tunes)
-send "Thank You" cards
-continue vigorous training for Mighty Hamptons triathlon 9/14

Happy Friday, everyone! I highly recommend the occasional four-day work week. I'm picturing slackers' heroes Ferris B., Peter G. and Jeff S. What would they do? Overwhelmed with giddiness and joy, I'm skipping the fifth more often.

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Burgers Beware

Just off my post-Pianos burger glow, I read this hilarious, albeit alarming, story on various burgers and their calorie counts.

SirDatesALot, my calorie-counting guru weighs in:

Nothing says summer like a big, fat, juicy hamburger.

Whether it's from Shake Shack, The Burger Joint, P.J. Clarke's, Corner Bistro or my new favorite, The Pier I Café, I am always happy to get a burger, fries and a beer (or even the occasional vanilla milkshake).

But with the new calorie listings on menus at New York chain restaurants, maybe it was time to do a little bit more than inhale a good burger. I decided to find out how many calories some of America's favorites pack in there.

Check out the PHOTOS of these monster patties.

The calorie-packing champ didn’t come from McDonald’s or Burger King. One of the biggest burgers I stumbled across in my research was TGIFriday's cheesy bacon cheeseburger.

The restaurant describes this 1,590-calorie behemoth: "Our juicy, fire-grilled beef patty topped with two kinds of cheese -- mild American and gooey, golden-fried Provolone. We add crisp bacon, stack 'em all on a toasted bun with the classic fixings and serve with fries."

Compare that to the 540 calories in the Big Mac or 670 for the Whopper.

So what is the New Yorker looking to stay fit while still indulging in these carnivorous treats to do? Eat out less? Skip the fries? Or maybe just stick to those non-chain restaurants that don’t have to disclose their calorie counts.

Maybe like so many things in life, ignorance truly is bliss.

I agree, SirDatesALot. Life is too short for calorie-counting. Burger. It's what's for dinner.

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Pianos

TheDude called me Sunday and I got the following voicemail:

"Who wants margaritas?"

Click.

It could only mean one thing. It was time for a Sunday fun day at Pianos. It'd been ages since I'd been to Pianos, one of my favorite spots in the city. It's hard to resist $3 frozen margaritas that are guaranteed to have you smiling and giggling like a three-year-old watching SpongeBob. I don't even like frozen margaritas, generally, but I'll drink 'em down like liquid candy at Pianos.

I had spent the day swimming and sunbathing at NYAC's Travers Island, and was worried about showing up with my salty skin, matted beach hair, cover-up/bikini combo, but when I walked into Pianos' casual and welcoming atmosphere I felt right at home. That is, until I noticed a certain someone sitting next to TheDude. We'll call him JohnSmith.

TheDude's eyes practically popped out of his head like a buck caught in headlights. I gave him a "What the BEEP?" stare with arms raised and kept walking to a couple of empty stools beside him. NovaCat was with me to be an additional buffer.

TheDude introduced me to one of his friends and co-workers several months ago, we hit it off, we hung out a few times, I fell in like, it seemed like he returned the sentiment and then I received the "I just got out of a relationship" speech. This cemented my feelings that no, Mona, there is no single, good catch left in this city. They're either about to be engaged, they're maturity-challenged or they've just broken up with a psycho girlfriend and they're scarred for a good half a decade.

I knew I'd run into JohnSmith sooner or later, I just wish I'd gotten a heads up. Maybe I would have changed out of my beach gear and into something a little bit more boy-snagging appropriate. Nah, I wouldn't have.

JohnSmith noticed me and I was suddenly engulfed in a bear hug and "What's up M-?" It was a cute gesture and I sensed we'd both warm to the occasion pretty quickly.

TheDude (laughing hysterically): Sorry, M-. Well, now you know, JohnSmith's here!
Moi (trying to whisper): Um, yeah, hello!? What!? I look like a--.
TheDude: Oh please, no you don't. It'll be fine.
Moi: Lordie...
TheDude (continuing to laugh hysterically): I love being in the middle of socially awkward moments.

What better way to drown the shock of seeing JohnSmith than with alcohol and food. I was starving, ordered up some "margars," as TheDude calls them, and went right for the burger. I hadn't had Pianos' burger, but had seen others devouring it so I went in for the kill.

It is one of my new favorites. Not only did it have my preferred English muffin bun, but it was juicy too. What a great surprise. The French fries were also scrumptious, aided by a smooth chipotle mayo. I know it's tres francaise of me, but I love my fries with ketchup and mayo, to the disdain of some.

After I stuffed my face with goodness, JohnSmith stole me aside for a tete-a-tete which I enjoyed and appreciated. He asked me about my blog, I asked him about work and his dad. He's just as confused as ever, he may get back together with his ex, I dropped a subtle line about boys being stupid and we both laughed. I don't expect to make plans to see him again, but at least now I know we can be friends on the off-chance we do bump into each other on another Sunday fun day. He loves the Great Jones Cafe so I suggested we try there next time. Maybe then I'll be fully clothed and even get a heads up from TheDude.

After dozens of margaritas, the crew was hyper and giddy and forgetting the weekend was coming to a close. Pianos and I work well together because like me, Pianos doesn't know when to stop. I walk in on a late Sunday afternoon and it may as well be a Friday night. Everyone's prolonging the fun in Monday denial mode. I may have had a slight hangover the next morning, but with no pain, there's no gain. I re-gained a friend that day and that made it all worth it.


158 Ludlow, at Stanton
212-505-3733

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I Got to 'lantic City on a Frid'y

My friend PoloChick sent me an e-mail at noon last Friday:

Do you want to come to A.C. for the night?

Hmmm. My friend SassyScrubs promised a set-up at a party of hers that same night so I was ready to forgo gambling and club-hopping for that welcome scenario.

PoloChick sent me another e-mail:

It would be a free hotel room, free dinner and free car there and back ... still not interested?

It may as well have been an e-mail with the words "FREE!FREE!FREE!" flashing in neon lights. I e-mailed my friend SassyScrubs telling her my dilemma. She said not to worry, there would be other opportunities to meet her friend, but he definitely wanted to meet me at some point.

I wrote back to PoloChick:

I'm in.

It's been a while since I've had a spontaneous road trip. Being a professional in your late 20s does not lend well to zipping off in a couple of rental cars with a dozen of your closest friends and hitting up Key West, Myrtle Beach or Louisville (to name a few of my in-college destinations). Those were the good ol' days, or as Fashionista calls them, "the glory days."

I'd never been to Atlantic City. All I knew was my aunt and uncle had spent several a weekend there. I imagined my aunt hitting up the slot machines with a little bucket of quarters and Uncle G working the blackjack tables. I often hear of bachelor and bachelorette parties in A.C., but as for me, I'm not a gambling guru and casinos don't appeal to me at all.

If you do go to A.C., I recommend doing it no less glitzy or glam than we did. Cheese it up to the max!

Me: Where are we staying?
PoloChick: The Taj.
Me: I'm sorry, the what?
PoloChick: The Taj, as in the Taj Mahal.
Me: Oooooh, of course, the Taj!

The Taj is a Trump property. And in case you forget where you are, everything from the toilet paper, to the plastic cups, to the towels, to the cocktail stirs was emblazoned with "Trump." I scored a few plastic drinking cups (ok, maybe several) and they're sitting on my kitchen counter.

As we exited the limo, I'm sure we disappointed a lot of porters and visitors expecting some celebrity to come out with a chihuahua in hand. I snapped a few pictures as we walked in. I think these women were all still staring at the same machines 18 hours later when we checked out.

No matter what you think of Jersey, or casinos, I couldn't help but get sucked into the Vegas-like vibe. My affinity for the place surprised me. Could I really become an Atlantic City chick? The din of the machines binging and dinging and zinging made for a weird futuristic, orchestral overture. I got a sick enjoyment out of it, but couldn't imagine working from 12 a.m. to 10 a.m. having to listen to it.

We briefly discussed going to the new Chelsea Hotel (opened by the same people who run The Beatrice Inn). However, it was my friend PoloChick's cousin's friend's birthday so we didn't have much say in the matter. Being guests of guests, I just smiled, sipped champagne in the suite, watched the Olympics opening ceremony, went where I was told and drank what was put in front of me.

We stuffed our faces with some yummy fried room service, thanks to a friendly butler taking care of our party, then we headed to the club 32 Degrees. I almost died. It was in a mall. I was dolled up in a new, sassy dress and had to laugh at myself. Who was I kidding? Did I think I'd be meeting Mr. Wonderful at a club in a mall in Atlantic City? Oh well. You never know.


Saturday was a spectacular day of crisp blue and puffy white sky and we spent it lying out on the beach in front of the Taj. There was a boardwalk with some curious people in between me and the sand, but it was tolerable and entertaining. The characters were similar to those you find in Coney Island. Boardwalks seem to be magnets for the eccentric and mildly unstable.


"Ice cream, ice cream, ice! Get your cold ice cream, ice cream, ice!"

Our crew flagged down one of the icemen with his big wheely cart. The strawberry fruit pops, or strawberry margaritas on a stick, were a hit.


The lifeguards were a hit too, with the tween set. I was out swimming for about a half an hour and was mildly off put when I noticed them repeatedly with their heads down reading the newspaper. I guess they didn't think they had to worry about me, being a swimmer and all, but with the multitude of riptide deaths this summer, I would have preferred a more eyes-on-the-surf approach to lifeguarding.


Despite having a blast and dancing on a box or two at club 32, I managed to escape Atlantic City with my dignity and class.

A co-worker threw me a $20 on my way out the door Friday, asking me to play his birthday -- 7/12 -- at the roulette tables. My timidity and ignorance with regards to roulette-iquette really pissed off the casino worker. I wanted to leave, crawl into a hole and tell my friend I couldn't find the huge section of roulette tables. Unlikely story. With the encouragement of NovaCat and PoloChick, however, I persevered and put money on his lucky numbers.

"Can I just not --"

"Just play," they said.

"Yah, but what if I --"

"Just play."

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The Grocery

I'm on the couch typing away, trying to find a happy medium between blogging productiveness and watching the Olympics. I'm gaga for the Games. My life and friendships go on hold for two weeks during them. I can't talk to anyone or do anything while they're on, unless I'm in a bar or at a party cheering with former swimmers.

A few of us went to The Australian on Saturday night and we were all very impressed. The bar was filled with Americans and Aussies and we all stood on the rims of our bar chairs to cheer at the top of our lungs for each swimming race. It was great and unlike anything I'd ever seen in this city. Excitement for swimming? In a bar? Sign me up! We had full volume and all the screens. That and the bartender bought shots for everyone when an Australian won the gold and a beer when an Australian medaled. I think at one point he was so impressed with an American swim he bought us all shots anyway. My kind of place.

The excitement over the swimming hit a new level after Sunday's relay. A few friends read my G-chat and Facebook statuses about wanting to marry the sadly, already taken Jason Lezak (the hero of the 4x100-meter freestyle relay) and the messages started pouring in. My former teammates are all pumped about the swimming this year, Michael Phelps and the onslaught of attention the sport is getting, more than in any previous Olympic years. MommyCanuck even said she was more excited this year for the American team than her own countrymen.

I couldn't keep up with the individual IMs so I figured out how to start a group chat. We had a few moments to get fired up, reconnect, catch up on babies and diapers and now we're all trying to get some work done before the swimming begins. Meanwhile, back to blogging as I try to keep my eyes off the synchronized diving...

I was psyched when Fashionista chose The Grocery for our monthly dinner club.

There. I said it. It was supposed to be a secret. We were to speak of dinner club to nobody, though technically, I'm not. I'm typing. But we're almost through with the second round and we will soon be opening up the club to guests and/or new eaters. I figured I might as well give you all a heads up.

Back in March, I started this group that meets for meals on the first Tuesday of every month. Its first name was Supper Tuesdays, but upon further discussion, some goading from my dad and LoveLight's clever idea, we changed it to Fat Tuesdays Dinner Club. FTDC all the way!

We created our own little constitution and between the four founding members, we rotate who picks the restaurant each month. The only condition is you present the group with three choices in case we've been to your No. 1 pick, and it has to be a different type of food and in a different neighborhood from the previous dinner.

Fashionista's second and third picks were Sfoglia and Bar Tabac. I wouldn't have minded trying either but The Grocery was the one that stood out. To me, it's sort of an institution that every New Yorker should experience, similar to The Tavern in Charlottesville, Va., though slightly more upscale.

Walking through the restaurant to get to the outdoor garden in the back, I felt like I was in a home in colonial Williamsburg. It was small and elegant, but drab at the same time. I don't know what I was expecting, maybe somewhere more casual and laid back like The Spotted Pig. I was surprised and intrigued by its simplicity.

I admit I judge a restaurant by its garden. When I stepped in and saw The Grocery's I fell in love. There was a mini bar to the left where I sat with Fashionista and sipped on a glass of wine while we waited for the boys. It was a first so we lived up the moment. Normally the boys are always sitting handsome waiting for us to show up unfashionably late.

They arrived and we took our seats. Fashionista was showered with praise and props for her pick. It was only our third meeting (one more to go to complete the round) and we were already calling her pick the runaway winner.

The server brought us out the amuse bouche and we proceeded to order our meal. The amuse bouche is always a nice, unexpected touch. You never know when you're going to get one. It's no longer saved for the Jean Georges and the Les Bernardins, but it's not so common that it's offered everywhere. I think it should be called the surprise bouche.

For starters we chose the fried artichokes with radicchio, parmesan, roasted garlic & lemon aioli and toasted breadcrumbs...


the roasted beets with goat cheese ravioli, fried shallots and toasted pine nuts...


and the risotto with carrots, peas and mushrooms and a garnish of green bean tempura.


We chose the best dishes on the menu. We each kept rotating the plates around in lazy Susan fashion. I can't put a finger on which was my favorite -- they all stood out. The fried artichokes were monsters and the aioli was the sweet icing on the veggie. There was a lot going on in the beet dish. It was intense. I scraped off all the extra beets so I could enjoy the ravioli underneath, going back for the beets after the ravioli was kaput. The ravioli was a little on the chewy side, reminded me of a pierogi, but the cheese was out of control. For me, the chunkier the risotto, the better. As you can see, it was packed with veggies. I don't generally like risotto, it's too bland and soupy for me, but I liked theirs.

I was impressed with the fluidity and ease with which they served us. It's not easy to nail a three-course meal for four people but they did. Our server was very attentive and everything came out at the appropriate time and at the exact, desired temperature.

Here was our wine. TheDude is the wine selector of the crew. We always get the wine list and throw it his way. We have yet to be disappointed with his picks.

We ordered the duck breast with kasha and roasted green market vegetables in a caramelized red wine sauce...

the fish...


the pork tenderloin...


and don't forget the side of spaetzle.


I loved everything I tried, the fish being my least favorite, but it was still excellent. I'm just a meat kind of girl. The duck and pork were both equally juicy, and I loved the diversity of the sides. No two flavors tasted similar. I was most impressed with the spaetzle, a successful surprise being that we weren't in a Bavarian-themed restaurant..

TheDude: Fashionista, you won this round hands down and we haven't even had LoveLight's dinner yet.
LoveLight: Yeah, dude. Congrats. I think this just about takes the cake.
Moi: Agreed. This is going to set the bar pretty high!

Who knew we were having a competition, but I liked it. Competition breeds the will to excel and if all of us were trying to outdo the other in food we were sure to eat at some pretty remarkable places from here on out. Game on!

For dessert we went with the rhubarb crisp...


and warm apple cobbler with ice cream. The highlight of the two was the crisp for sure. The cobbler was a little too dry for me. It was more warm apples with a hard, dry scone/biscuit on top than a cobbler.


Eating at The Grocery was like going to see The Police in concert. You know it's been around for a while and was once supposed to be great. You hope it still has that special flair and that its hay day has not come and gone. After our wonderful meal, I was reassured that The Grocery still has it, and if anybody asks me for a Brooklyn recommendation, I will not hesitate to direct them to 288 Smith.

288 Smith St., nr. Sackett St.
718-596-3335

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Closed Table: The Art of Making Ko Reservations

I'm keeping tabs on the Momofuku Ko reservation success: casualty rate. So far it's 2:1 of my friends. My co-workers KatAttack and MellowYellow have both succeeded, while TheDude failed on his first attempt. Better luck next time, Dude!

I have yet to eat at Momofuku Ko (momofuku is Japanese for lucky peach). I don't know much about it except that there are 12 tables, you can only reserve a table online and that David Chang (its founder) has banned photos from being taken inside. If somebody invited me to go with them, I wouldn't turn them down, but I just haven't been all that excited about it. Mostly because I know Chang's success stemmed from his Noodle Bar and I am not a fan of ramen.

Until now.

Upon doing some research on Chang, I've developed a virtual chef crush. If you haven't read this profile piece in The New Yorker, read it now. The guy says "dude" more than Swimster (maybe it's a Korean-American thing), he is roughly 30 years old, he's won as many awards as Michael Phelps has medals, when asked about naming a restaurant David Chang's he said he'd "rather f**ing off himself" and he cried after his dinner at Per Se. He sounds like someone I'd be really good friends with.

After hearing relentless chatter from my co-workers about it -- off the hook IMs about their every waking moment on the Web site -- I asked for a write-up about the game of Ko.


MellowYellow reports:

David Chang's Ko (of Momofuku Noodle Bar and Ssam fame) is probably one of the most sought out reservations for NYC foodies (even BruniBaby struggled to get in). Having heard the buzz from friends and co-workers, I decided to give it a try.

The first time I tried making Ko reservations was the morning of July 5. I was hanging out with a buddy and we entertained the idea of getting reservations for that weekend. We figured most people would be out of town.

We sat in front of the computer at 9:55 a.m., where we proceeded to hit the refresh button for five minutes. 9:59:59 came around and we luckily clicked our way through to the actual page where you pick what time you want. We smiled as we saw a couple of green checks still available. We clicked on a random time that had a green check, but we were already too late. The reservations to our surprise and dismay filled up in less than a minute.

After coming so close to getting the reservations, I decided I would designate 9:55 to 10:00 a.m. everyday until I got the reservations. This desire to get reservations to a small 12-seat restaurant became an obsession of mine and nothing would come in my way of getting that reservation, not even waking up hungover with four hours of sleep would stop me. (That's my boy, MellowYellow!)

After weeks of trying both from home on weekends and from the office on weekdays, I realized the weekends were the best time for me to get a reservation since our network at the office was way too slow to get me in on time. After working every possible variation I could think of, I realized that the key was to cut down on the number of clicks you make with your keyboard and mouse, which in turn meant more time in the actual reservation page.

Finally last Saturday I tried out my new technique and to my surprise I got reservations.

With my reservations locked and set I decided I would push my luck and try to get reservations the following morning and have two consecutive days at Ko. I scored reservations again. Landing two consecutive nights at one of the most coveted and talked about restaurants in the city gave me a sense of cockiness. I decided I would push my luck even further and see how many days I could pull off.

Monday rolled around and as usual I set out the five minutes before 10 to prep for my reservation. I didn't get it. Surely it was the failed network at the office that stopped me from gaining elite status as being one of the only people to eat at Ko three days in a row.

On Tuesday again I get into my routine, but this time I was greeted with a nice surprise. In lower case red lettering on the bottom of my page was the image you see at the top of this post. I have officially been blacklisted from Ko for seven days! I guess I pissed off the Ko machine.

I'm not sure what did it -- it was either canceling one of my reservations or trying to go for more than two in one week that got me a little slap on the wrist from my friends at Ko.

I tried again on Wednesday to double check if I was making this up. I realized every new day you try to get a reservation after you have been temporarily blacklisted you reset the counter and start another seven days.

We will see if all my work pays off this weekend when I finally get to taste the food. If all goes well, and I am allowed by Ko to get out of my timeout corner, I will go for the gold and aim for the super 4-top reservation.

I've enjoyed MellowYellow's Ko-thusiasm. I look forward to hearing how his dinner is, and then maybe I too will be duking it out with him at 9:55 a.m. for reservations. Stay tuned.

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SportsonBars.com

If I was a Web designer, I would have set up an Olympics countdown on my blog. To say I'm really excited for this year's Olympics would be a gross understatement.

I've been salivating to watch the competition, to get goosebumps during the medal ceremonies, to hear the "National Anthem," to witness surprise upsets and victorious underdogs, to see the splendor of the Water Cube, to feel the sweat and pain of sport, to laugh and to cry. I will live vicariously through the thousands of journalists covering the event and keep on top of friends who are Beijing-bound.

I've convinced two of these said friends to keep blogs of their adventures. Follow Activista here, (though her blog is still naked, even after much heckling on my part) and my friend G-man here.

This weekend is BackMan's last weekend in town and he asked me to pick a place for all of us to hang out on Saturday night. My gut reaction was Swift, Zum Schneider's or Horseshoe Bar. Then it hit me. I am not going out over the next two weeks unless it involves the Olympics. DVR-ing the Games is not going to cut it. And I work in news. I'm going to be avoiding our AP news alerts like the plague. There's nothing that peeves me more than to find out in the middle of the day that Michael Phelps won his eighth gold medal without witnessing it first.

An e-mail I received from Pop Media came as a welcome and timely surprise. It alerted me to a new Web site, Sportsonbars.com, for all the Big Apple sports junkies looking to spice up their sports lives. It allows you to search for teams, cities, etc. to find which bar will be showing your preferred sporting event. I logged in to check it out. Gave them my name, e-mail address and a log-in, and after typing Olympics 2008 in the search field, a bunch of places came up. Score! The Parlour, Tequila Jacks, Stout, Down the Hatch, Becky's Bar, Suspender's Bar, Madhatter. I heard of a few, but not all, of the places. I will be checking them out and see if we can't pick one from the mix.

I just got an e-mail from Young'un:

As lame as this sounds, ESPN zone?

I hope my newfound toy Sportsonbars.com will help us come up with a more appealing option.

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Celeste

You know you're a writer when you're in the shower, all suds-ed up, and you're going over in your head what lines you're going to type next. I have about one New York moment a day and my mind always races to translate what I see or experience into a clever phrase or story. Is this normal?

Yesterday, I was moved in the most unexpected place. I was sprinting in Central Park, my face was dripping in salty sweat and my techno music was blasting when I saw an elderly, homeless woman feeding the birds. I almost burst into tears in the middle of my workout. I slowed down and lowered the volume on my iPod. I was stunned. She barely had enough material on her frail body to constitute an appropriate outfit and she was sprinkling seeds for her loyal, feathered friends. Her back was to me as she stood next to a shopping cart of plastic bags filled with recyclable bottles and cans. I could see her bony ankles popping out of some worn-in, laceless hightops. I wondered if she even had food amongst the mess for herself. The twisted beauty of her selfless act wins "National Geographic" awards and I didn't have my camera phone. She was like an angel and I will never forget her.

While I have only just started to embrace that I am a writer, I've been embracing my O.C.D. for years. The two make for a killer combo. I am not certifiable, but I do have a few ticks: I don't eat food in the movie theater until the opening credits start rolling; similarly, I don't eat food on airplanes until we're in the air; I am somewhat of a neat freak; I only use the ladies' room at work when I pass it on my way to the cafeteria; I eat two hard-boiled eggs for breakfast after our morning meeting ends at 9:30 a.m., never before; I have a daily handful of chocolate-covered pretzel bites between 10:30 and 11:00 a.m.; I have Gmail open all day and if I get a new message I check it instantaneously -- if I tell you I didn't get your e-mail it's a blatant lie; and up until now I have rarely blogged out of order.

While at least I'm not avoiding cracks on the sidewalk or washing my hands fifty times a day, I have inadvertently applied my O.C.D. to blogging. I have to blog in order, though I'm so far behind in posts there's about a three-month delay. I go by the photos I've taken. The camera dateline does not lie. So, while friends hem and haw until they see their lunch, dinner or evening up on the blog, there is a sort of method to my madness. I swear.

"When am I going to be in the blog?"

"When are you writing about X?"

"OMG, we ate at Y ages ago. You haven't written yet?"

"Seriously, you're just writing about Z? HA! I forgot we even ate there!"

Those are just some of the forms of friendly harassment I hear. Before people knew about my blog, it was fun to surprise them or for them to stumble upon a post they happened to be in by accident. The fact that my friends are coming here more often is almost a kiss of death. If they're not up on the Site soon after a meal, I hear about it.

Earlier this week, I wrote up a list of 36 places I've been to that are waiting in the queue for their moment in the spotlight. Think of it as their incubation period. I will get to all of them. My summer calendar just does not cater to the blogging life.

Today I'm going to change it up. My camera's built-in date saver can shove it. I had dinner with BeanieBaby this weekend and she was so subtly forlorn about not being in the blog recently, I couldn't waste another minute.

BeanieBaby is gearing up for her second year at HBS. When I hugged her goodbye, I told her I really, truly wanted to get up to Boston to visit her this year. It's going to happen. I just need to make it happen. LiLa was at Wharton for two years and now she's moving to Dallas. I regret not getting up to Philly to see her. Atrocious and unacceptable.

BeanieBaby spent the weekend on the upper west side, which works perfectly with my new eat-local-on-Sunday-nights plan. LarchmontLass and I had dinner at the west side Pudding Stones and decided if we went out for dinner on Sundays, we would try to eat in our neighborhood.

During a recent wine-tasting event, organized by MyWinesDirect, I met a couple of food snobs, like myself, and they almost fell out of their chairs and broke a whole flight of wine glasses when I told them I had never eaten at Celeste. Their reaction was equally surprising to me because after having lived in this neighborhood for three years, I'd never even heard of it, let alone seen it. I guess it was a must eat.

LarchmontLass and I went exploring a couple of Sundays ago and were going to try Celeste, but after we learned it was cash only, we bolted for the door. We are both equally terrible with cash-holding. Now, with cash and visiting friend in hand, it was the perfect night to try Celeste.

Celeste is the poor man's Gennaro. Both are tiny, both have lines outside the door at all times, both are cash only and both have homemade pasta. Celeste feels like a very casual, hop-in-hop-out, pizza joint while Gennaro has a little bit more decor and warmth. You feel like you can relax at Gennaro and kick back while having a private conversation. BeanieBaby and I started talking about making out with boys and I felt it was slightly awkward with the two strait-laced tables sitting next to us. I think we got a few raised eyebrows.

Our waiter was straight off the boat and I liked him. He looked like he was an extra in Johnny Depp's "Pirates of the Caribbean." He had long, wiry hair in a ponytail, a couple of earrings and a half-shaven face. I was embarrassed to order my pasta for fear of killing its pronunciation, though when I did, he helped me.

The place was so small, when our waiter came to rattle off the specials he told them to us and the other two tables we were squeezed next to.

"LEE-seen up AY-vree-BAH-dee. I now go-EEN to tell all of you dee specials at dee same TI-yeem."

There's a first for everything.

BeanieBaby ordered the golden fried buffalo ricotta and there was a slight mishap. Out came a beautiful caprese salad. Who knows what happened, but the waiter apparently heard mozzarella instead of ricotta and brought the wrong thing. No big deal. Had I not ordered a beat salad with gorgonzola and onions, I would have kept it. We waited patiently for the fried ricotta and man, was it good. I'd never had fried ricotta before. Here I told BeanieBaby I didn't want any and when she placed one of the two pieces neatly on my plate I devoured it like a hungry dinosaur.

My beat salad was very simple and fresh, though nothing spectacular. It was too much beat, too little onion and gorgonzola.

In following with the ricotta theme, we both ordered the paccheri, or large tubular-shaped pasta with ricotta and tomato. The pasta was excellent -- it was cooked to a lesser done al dente. Yet the sauce was a little bland. I was looking around for parmesan to spice it up a bit, but it wasn't happening. And instead of laying on the ricotta there was really only a small sprinkling of it in the sauce. It was disappointing for a place that had been touted as somebody's favorite restaurant in the city.

I'm not really a huge fan of the places that pack you in, fill you up and ship you out. This was the feel I got at Celeste. I wasn't pressured to speed-eat, but the atmosphere doesn't cater to lounging around and enjoying an extra glass of merlot or port. The highlight of dinner was the gregarious busboy Enrique. He teased us relentlessly after the appetizer mix up, and insisted we order random stuff off the menu so he too could eat those dishes in the back kitchen.

I've had better casual Italian at Malatesta in the village. I think I will stick to Gennaro for a sit-down Italian meal in my hood, and perhaps order take-out or delivery from Celeste.

BeanieBaby, thanks for the good company and I will now revert to my O.C.D. blogging ways. Oh! And it's time for my mid-morning sugar fix!

502 Amsterdam Ave., near. 84th St.
212-874-4559

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'Bottle Shock'

I'm really excited about this movie.

Besides it being a true David vs. Goliath story, the Barretts' fight help put one of my home states on the wine industry map for good.

It may also be for this reason:


"Bottle Shock" opens August 8 with limited screenings around the country. The cast looks stellar.

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Tailor

It was meant to be.

Trolling the Net one afternoon at work I found this chilling, mouth-watering slideshow on New York Magazine's Web site. I had been stumped until that moment trying to pick a place to drink with Fashionista on my vacation eve. Upon going through the pictures, I was determined to hit one of the spots mentioned. If you haven't checked it out yet, stop reading and click on the link. Ice never looked so good.

Out of all the places, Tailor sounded the most intriguing.

I strolled down to Broome Street and proudly pulled off looking like a Tailor expert. There was no sign outside but I guessed the right door; I walked into the restaurant level but I spotted stairs and hoped the bar was at the end of them. I chose wisely.

There was a large space downstairs, but not a lot of seating area. It felt like the inside of a modern, distressed barn. Every wall and surface was of a faded wood. There were a couple of back-to-back low tables with lounge furniture around them, a small wraparound bar that could sit around ten to twelve people and a ledge against a wall with a few extra seats. Luckily I scored a spot at the bar. As I learned that night, half the fun of Tailor is watching the bartenders up close at play. Get there early for front row seats. It's worth it.

Talent is hot. Professional athletes are hot. Award-winning artists are hot. Musicians are hot. Influential writers are hot. Even powerful politicians are hot (sometimes). After watching this man work, I decided Tailor bartenders are a part of the hot mix as well.

Fashionista and I sat with our chin on the bar, drooling at this guy and his skills. The vest was an added bonus. I felt like we were in an old speakeasy. VestedBoy and his partner in crime weren't just throwing together vodka and sodas. Don't you dare go to Tailor if that's what you plan on drinking. They were making drinks with liquors and mixers I'd never even heard of.

Fashionista ordered the bazooka concoction (vodka, bubble gum cordial, house sour) while I ordered the kumquat caipirinha (cachaca, kumquats, soy caramel, turbinado). I felt like we were at some sort of cocktail carnival. We were drinking liquid candy. I think Fashionista would have preferred a shot of hers -- it was a little too sweet to handle a whole drink. Both were unlike anything I've ever tasted. Mine was a bit sour on the tongue and I know there was some smacking of the lips as I first sipped it, but I grew accustomed to it and drank it down without a problem. The kumquats soaked in alcohol were deceptively potent and I made sure to eat all of them.

For the second round, Fashionista went hard core and ordered a cocktail with egg yolk in it. It looked like a milkshake. I followed suit and went with the mate sour (yerba mate, queberante pisco, lime juice, honey, egg whites, bitters). See what I mean regarding the makings of the drink? What are half of those ingredients anyway? I took a gamble and was happy with my choice. It was spicy, sweet and foamy.


For a snack we ordered the Tailor made hot wings...

and the pork belly in miso and butterscotch.

Both came out looking like desserts, a la restaurant's salty and sweet theme. I loved the Tailor wings. They were mini, brick-shaped cuts of chicken, topped with a spicy glaze and blue cheese crumbles. I could easily get addicted to these little guys. If they sold them in packages I'd buy them and pop them in my mouth all day long.

I'm obsessed with pork belly all of the sudden. Besides a good steak au poivre or filet, pork belly is probably my third favorite meat of choice. I used to not be a fan of the fattyness, but now I can't get enough of the juicy flavor. If meat could be a dessert this was it. The pork was chopped into morsels that resembled a Napoleon tart and it was swimming in a butterscotch goo. I had one of those "mmm, heaven" moments. The small helping was a total tease. After only a couple of pieces, I was left wanting more.

We didn't even intend to order dessert until the bartender insisted. Then like mindless, googly-eyed, freshman girls trying to impress high school, senior boys, we ordered what the bartender suggested: a bell pepper cake with cornbread ice cream and sweet peas. It sounded fascinating and not like anything I would have willingly chosen had the bartender not been so inspiring, but I tried it anyway, and boy was I glad I did. I could get used to this spot.


MastersDiva met us at Tailor for a drink, but Fashionista and I were ten comforters to the wind and we could barely keep up a conversation with her. Thank god she had a male companion with her. I felt bad we dragged her down to meet us. Mental note to self: the novelty drinks at Tailor are dangerous.

From Tailor, Fashionista and I skipped over to the Soho Grand Hotel, where we met up with Winette and Shia LaBeouf. Yup. That's right. Indiana Jones, Jr., was there spot dead in the middle of the hotel lobby. If I was five years younger I would have gone up to him and spilled my undying love for him, but I couldn't channel my Demi Moore and I scurried into the bar for an aperitif with my tail between my legs.

Winette ordered some of my favorite treats: macaroni and cheese and French fries.

I had no business trying either, but I did have a few forks of some crispy charred macaroni and I think I ate the majority of the fries. Just ask NovaCat, that's what happens when fries are put in front of me.

What a night. It was the perfect set up to my perfect holiday. I would love to become a regular at Tailor, as I would like VestedBoy to call me by my first name. The hefty tab, however, nearly knocked us out of our chairs and will prevent me from going often. I will just have to consider Tailor a treat, a treat I wish I could indulge in weekly.

Tailor
525 Broome Street, b/t Thompson St. & 6th Ave.
(212) 334-5182

Soho Grand
310 W. Broadway b/t Grand and Canal

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