Mona's Apple: 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.