Kayaks "R" Us

I will be teased and taunted about this kayaking trip for the rest of my life. What was supposed to be an easy breezy day on the water turned into a battle against a rip-roaring tide I thought I'd never win.

"We'd like two kayaks for the day, please," said my mom.

"Have you been here before?" asked the attendee. She was annoyed at the eager beavers who were there at 8:57 a.m. waiting for her to open the doors at nine.

"Yup. We've kayaked many times before," said my mom with chipper confidence.

"Ooooooo-kayeeeeeee," the kayaking clerk said with a dubious smirk.

Uh-oh, here it comes. We were in for it.

"Do you know what a wet exit rollout is and how to do it?"

My mom kept a straight face while I stared hard at the packs of gum below the counter calling unsuccessfully on my powers of telekinesis.

"I'll show you an exit rollout," is what my mom should have said.

Instead, "Well, no..."

Ok, lady, you put us in our place, now give us the sign-up sheet and we'll give you our money.

"Well then. Please fill these out, initials here here here and here. Signatures here here here and here."

It started out promising. Mom and I oared our way over to the harbor where several boats were docked and seals, like Sammy below, were swerving in and out of our bright, citrus kayaks.


Otters ate, corkscrewed and floated seamlessly around us. Otis is my mom's favorite sea creature, but by the end of the day my assertion was, while cute (if you were lucky enough to sneak up on them), they were not as flirty and fun as the sea lions.



Pelicans flew in tandem overhead like flocks of geese headed south for the winter. Once in a while you'd get the occasional daredevils who seemed to be showing off as they hovered parallel to the water, just inches from the waves.


Further down the Elkhorn Slough, Mom and I encountered a floating docent, or a "doating flocent," as he called himself, who informed us that seals are nocturnal -- something I never knew. No wonder I always see their battles of the blubber over sleeping space on the docks, or anywhere it's dry and sunny. I thought they were just lazier than me on a Sunday morning.


It took us an hour to get to the spot called the dairy. We barely had to paddle. The current carried us swiftly on our way, allowing us to stop and admire the nature and spectacular scenery around us. One Sammy popped his head up in front of a farm where cows were grazing and snoozing. I'd never seen anything like it. The slough was a spot where the barnyard met the ocean aquatic. I wanted to capture it on camera but his three seconds of sun-soaking and breathing were too quick for my hands.

Shortly after is when it went terribly wrong. As my mom and I turned around to head home we paddled for about ten seconds before realizing we were paddling in place. We were in a flume. No matter how hard we tried we weren't moving. I laughed, thought how absurd, and hoped it was just for those few moments.

But, oh no. I saw the bridge that marked "HOME" and I thought I'd never reach it before dark.

My mom and I kept setting barriers to get across.

"We just have to get past this tree."

"You've been saying that, mom, for the past half an hour!!!"

"OK! We just have to get past this buoy."

"Yes, mom, you've been saying that for the past half an hour!"

I even started treating it like a workout session. We'd go hard for 20 strokes, then easy. Twenty hard, 20 easy, until that tired us both out and we realized we were no closer to home than when we started the intervals.

We couldn't even enjoy the surroundings anymore because a brief glance or break from the paddling would throw you back 25 yards and about 15 minutes of grueling paddling.

My mom thought it was hysterical. Her triathlon/marathon-finishing daughter couldn't paddle her way out of a creek. I was laughing, though more out of lunacy than amusement.

"What happens to people who seriously can't make it back?" I was hoping a tugboat from the harbor would come down. Mom laughed. I wasn't kidding.

"They seriously need to do blood tests before this. What if you have a heart condition?" Mom laughed. Again, I wasn't kidding and considered suggesting that to the girl who checked us in.

"I could swim faster than this!" I shrieked.

"Yup, you're probably right."

After two and a half hours of this torture, we made it home. I wanted to kiss the ground like I was Christopher Columbus discovering land for the first time. As I leaned over my phone fell out of my life vest pocket.

"%&^$%&#$^%&#$%*&%#!"

I heard my mom's "Oh god," behind me.

I looked up and a father and son pair were standing directly over me.

I mumbled "%&^$%&#$^%&#$%*&%#!" to myself and shook the water and sand out of every hole and key of my poor phone.

Like salt on a wound. I even had it in a plastic baggie the entire time. I took several pictures on the water, then in the final moments it jumps out into the water?! God was laughing at me.

Mom cheered me up with tamales and margaritas at The Whole Enchilada on Moss Landing while my Sony-Ericsson camera phone sat air-drying on the dashboard like a seal on the sand.

I hoped we both would come back to life.

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Bagpipes and Dreams

When I told my mom I was coming out to Carmel, the wheels started turning. She's always 100 steps ahead of the rest of us. While we're enjoying breakfast or a morning walk, she's planning the hours and days ahead. I arrived to a list of things we were going to do while I was here and my goal was to get through at least 75% of them. (My mom just sent a friend to Paris with a similar list and said friend enjoyed it so much she suggested my mom copyright it and sell it.)

At the top of the Carmel list were bagpipes and kayaking.

It's a tradition in our family to sip a bottle of bubbly, preferably from my handmade "happy place" flutes, and to go visit the bagpiper at Spanish Bay on your first night in town. He plays on the famed golf course as the sun sets. Like constant church bells, my mom and I always tear up listening to him. She's reminded of her father and I can't stay tearless when I see mom welling up. New friends sitting next to me at our California fire pit noticed and asked, "You're totally going to have bagpipes at your wedding, aren't you?"

"Yup!" I replied with a grin.

The cocktails, mojitos and dirty martinis with blue cheese-stuffed olives, are usually followed by dinner at Pebble Beach's Tap Room. The Tap Room's food and service have gone considerably downhill since my last visit. The hostess and manager split serving duties that night because the server who took our initial drink order was ne'er to be found the rest of the evening. The potato skins were disappointing -- they were basically baked potatoes and they weren't even crispy. My salad was dressing with a side of vegetables. The Tap Room will sadly no longer be a part of the welcome-to-town equation.

All this was secondary, however, to an amusing turn of events. My mom and I bonded with three men and a lady at Spanish Bay. They were a jovial, mish-mosh bunch of characters: a 50-something-year-old woman and three men in their mid-thirties. One was the flirty ringleader -- the kind you meet in a bar who breaks the ice and introduces you to all of his friends. One was a quiet, soft-spoken, blond baby-face -- the kind I'd have a crush on. And one was a big, burly, teddy bear of a guy named S-.

I assumed they were celebrating a birthday, a bachelor party (with mom as chaperone?), an anniversary, or even a wedding. After the alcohol started to seep in, they became more and more chatty and they shared some sad, unexpected information with us. One of the guys, S-, just discovered his wife of four years had been involved in a year-long affair and he called an emergency weekend with friends. They love this guy so much one flew in from Hawaii to be with him for a mere 48 hours.

We all need friends like that.

You would never have guessed from the group's smiles and laughter that one of these men was hurting so bad. I cannot begin to understand the complexity of sadness, devastation and disappointment S- must be feeling.

My mom and I had a duty to keep these guys in good spirits, but we had to meet my brother at the Tap Room. When we told the crew we were leaving, it was nothing but sad, puppy faces.

"Where do you girls think you're going?" one of them asked.

"Tap Room!" I yelled, "My brother's hungry and waiting for us."

"Where is that?"

"At the Lodge at Pebble Beach. It's great."

We wished them all the best and more good times with S-, and assured them it was a pleasure to have met them all. The friendship and support they showed S- was an inspiration to both of us. As I got up, S- slipped me his name, phone number and e-mail on a piece of paper -- I'm staring at it now -- in case I wanted to keep in touch. I was flattered, though not romantically interested, and I hoped I could help S- realize that there are plenty of cool, single females out there in this world.

My mom and I continued our 17-Mile Drive bar crawl and met my brother. Not halfway through our mediocre dinner, a man practically fell in my mom's lap before he threw his arms around her neck, "Well heh-LOOOOOOOOOOOW ladies!"

I died. It was the return of the party boys. They didn't even know where Tap Room was and here they followed us to keep the night, and their friend, alive.

Before I could say golf, S- was sitting at our table carrying on a conversation. He was staring at me waiting for answers to his questions, I was staring at my mom looking for answers to his questions, and my mom was reveling in an ear-to-ear smile at the whole situation. I was as red and hot as a steamed lobster and could not wait for it all to end.

After the "Where are you from?" and "What do you do?" and "Oh, you went to Virginia" conversation, my mom and I went our separate ways.

There was loose mention of getting in touch with the boys the following night, but I knew it was more of a nicetude than a reality. These guys needed to be with their friend, sans female distractions.

Before we left, my mom shared something the ringleader told her he had told S-.

"You have to walk across a bridge, turn around, burn that bridge and never ever look back."

I am 10,580 nights old today, and in a minute fraction of this time, I was touched by three men who helped change my perspective on life's lemons. Nothing is that bad that you can't go out and kick it, and even make a fool of yourself, with your closest friends. I will never forget my moments shared with these strangers, listening to the bagpipes with hopes and dreams that we all find our bridge to forever.

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California Girl

Think I can smuggle her back in my suitcase? Better yet, maybe I'll move in with her on this sunny rock in Monterey.

Stay tuned for more updates and photos from California!

Next stop, bagpipes at Spanish Bay.

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Frederick's

LarchmontLass and FoxyLady asked if it was OK if their friend stayed with us for a couple of nights. He was flying in from London. He went to Duke with them. He was somebody's ex's best friend. Sounded juicy.

"Fine with me," I said.

The weekend was long and wild, but I promised my girls I would be up for a Sunday fun day, in order to show the British import a good time.

Since I met QuiteDashing, I have not heard the end of it. One mention of the blog and he was all eager beaver to get his honorary mention. He even went so far as to suggest a nickname for himself. I believe his "Thank you for your hospitality" note still sits on our fridge for posterity:

"Mona, I look forward to appearing on your food blog. I'm thinking something like 'Dashing Jetsetter' might work. Up to you."

I don't take requests normally, but we all got a kick out of his suggestion so I decided to work it in somehow.

Sunday fun day arrived and LarchmontLass and I sat on the couch throwing places back and forth, none of which were inspiring.

"We could do Boat Basin, or we could do Barrow..."

"Yeah ... or we could do White Horse Tavern. But I do love Boat Basin..."

"There's also Barrow, but yeah, we could do White Horse..."

"Oh, what about Freemans or Corner Bistro?"

It was the worst game of "Where are we going?" Ever.

Then the lightbulb.

"Frederick's. It's one of my favorites!" yelled LarchmontLass.

I'd never heard of or been to Frederick's but I share similar tastes in bars and restaurants as LarchmontLass, so I trusted her and went with it.

It was QuiteDashing and the ladies, FoxyLady, SassyShark, LarchmontLass and myself. We walked into Frederick's and I noticed a table of Euros sitting at the front window. Their feet were up on the chairs, I wanted to put my fingers through their dark, wavy hair, they had crisp button-down shirts and each wore fancy leather shoes or sneakers. Why can't all men look this good? They were angled towards the televisions to watch soccer, like bikinis aligned with the sun on the beach.

Instead of checking your ID at the door with a bouncer, at Frederick's, you unofficially check your physique with this soccer-watching panel. We're all pretty girls, but you would have thought Gisele Bundchen had just walked in. I couldn't help but chuckle to myself, thinking, seriously? Frederick's is French, but the last time I felt like this was when I was walking in the streets of Italy with my best friend CP.

We waltzed in to a table at the back with flying colors. Frederick's was fancier than I was expecting, almost too fancy. Its clean, white walls and white table cloths added a touch of elegance to the space. There's something about table cloths that scream, "Behave!" or "No mess allowed here!" If table cloths are to be used at all, I think they should be saved for dinner.

We all laughed when we saw the enormous movie screen to our right. Life-size soccer was happening. This place was serious.

A busboy immediately came to the table to pour us water. He was tall, gangly and doe-eyed and completely missed my glass. The contents started trickling over the table onto my leg. I quickly said, "No worries," and I meant it. The poor kid went to the back completely embarrassed where he received a scolding from the hostess. He returned to the table, and for some reason, with an empty glass, to try again. His hands were shaking and I wanted to invite him to have a seat, take a breath, and tell him it was OK.

Too bad our server wasn't as sweet and soft-spoken. He was on the track to stardom at the beginning, but then totally fell off. The place wasn't that busy so I'm not sure what he was up to. Perhaps soccer. He was preoccupied and every time we had a request, whether for another drink or more water, he was slightly agitated.

We ordered the caprese with pine nuts and balsamic vinegar. They both were a nice addition to the normal caprese with just olive oil, although pine nuts are always tough to eat. The tomatoes were a bit ripe but the mozzarella was excellent.


Artichokes are my weakness. I see them on menus and I cannot deny them. These came in a brown paper bag. I liked the idea of crispy artichokes and parmesan, but they turned out being better on paper than in the paper. All flavor was grilled right out of them and I was afraid I was going to cut my throat on the crisp artichoke edges.

FoxyLady ordered the granola with berries and yogurt and I think she was a bit disappointed. The yogurt was all natural and the small dose of berries did not make up for its lack of sugar.


The pancakes with strawberries were buttery and fluffy -- everything pancakes should be.

For me, the best thing on the table were the French fries. I was tempted to order a second helping. They are now among my favorites in the city. They were boxy, fluffy and crispy and straight out of a frites counter in Brugge.


After catching up on years since (and in) college, learning about London and hearing too many "quites" from our British import, we decided to press on in our Sunday adventure. I was nervous, yet again, to cross the threshold of Euros in the front. They were seated just as they were when we walked in. I held my breath, and my stomach, and bolted for the doorway. We paused for a few photos in Frederick's spacious outdoor lounge area, fully equipped with a sofa, and headed on our tipsy way.

God knows what compelled us to eat another meal a mere two hours or so after that at Frederick's, but we did. We headed down the road to White Horse Tavern and ordered some fried mozzarella sticks,


a tuna melt,



and QuiteDashing ordered this hulk of a roast beef sandwich.


I'm never too impressed with the food at White Horse. I suggest eating elsewhere and just sticking to the basics -- like fries or sticks -- at White Horse. My tuna melt was borderline gross and normally I want to try tastes of everyone else's food, but the roast beef sandwich didn't look appetizing to me. Next time I'll stick to Blue Moons.

QuiteDashing has since returned to New York a couple of times, but we have yet to enjoy another solid, around the clock, Sunday fun day. He did show up once, mid-afternoon at The Frying Pan. He was straight off the plane with luggage in tow. What a good chap, that QuiteDashing.

My friends and I don't normally walk the sidewalks of Manhattan arm in arm, unless it's 4 a.m. on a Sunday. But if you asked me to show you what Sunday fun day was all about, this would be it.


Where to next, QuiteDashing?

*Frederick's
637 Hudson St, near Horatio
(212) 488-4200

*White Horse Tavern
567 Hudson St., at 11th St.

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I missed ...

my friend's name being read.
Every year I listen for it.
I feel like I let him down.
2,555 days since my boss called me from a bus saying she saw a plane crash into the World Trade Center.
2,555 days since The New Yorker staff huddled in a conference room glued to the television before we were ordered to leave the office.
2,555 days since I walked over 100 blocks to Harlem to get a train home.
2,555 days since cars in the New Canaan train station parking lot sat abandoned, their drivers would never return.
2,555 days since I slept in my parents' bedroom.
2,751 lives lost.
One second and our lives changed forever.
Seven years ... is anything different?

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The Eldridge

Caption: Really?

I received an e-mail from Young'un asking, "How much of a d-bag is this guy?" Below the question he linked to Eater's first article about Matt Levine's club The Eldridge. The words "closing the weekends," "laser-engraved entry cards" and "friends and family" frightened me.

The Eldridge entrance, with its wallpaper of books, like the wall-size, plastic CD holders tweens dump on their walls for art, was an artificial, contrived version of Paris' Shakespeare and Company. Owl Eyes looking through Gatsby's library came to mind, and I wondered, are those books even real? Is Levine for real? Or will he be New York's next, tragic hero?

As I kept reading more about Levine, he softened his rhetoric. Perhaps in response to the uproar his arrogance and condescension ignited on behalf of New Yorkers who, god forbid, stay in their city on the weekends. Just read any of the comments linked to blogs on his new club and you'll get a sense of what I mean. I champion the idea of steering away from bottle service only in clubs, but the odd hours and the card to get in are extreme. Sure, build the club with the exclusivity factor, and they will come. Just look at the success of The Beatrice Inn. But I think his attitude will backfire.

I did learn one good thing about Levine. He has a bulldog puppy named Boss. If Boss is the bouncer, I will wait in line every weekday and happily let the crowds flow by.

My buddy Ray LeMoine, who just returned from several days and nights of convention madness with little to no sleep, continued his party streak on Monday night. It is Fashion Week, after all. He went to the opening of The Eldridge and here's what he had to say:

Last night I stopped by the opening of downtown's newest club, The Eldridge. The place made me want to leave America more than Sarah Palin's speech. But what can you expect from a guy who runs a company called Steelo Clothing? Matt Levine not only runs Steelo, he also calls his bartenders "butlers." So it was pretty much a given that the place would suck. But The Eldridge goes beyond sucking and is among the worst executed clubs in recent memory.

First mistake? The faux bookshop entrance. No one who's actually read a Pynchon novel is dumb enough to buy a $600 table -- or even pay $20 for specialty cocktails. Second mistake? Inviting a cross section of the sub-21-year-old DJ/whigger/post-Misshapes crowd and the over-35 sleezeball scene, while missing the entire 25 to 35-year-old crowd that runs downtown. Third mistake? Hiring a faux-Farnsworth doorman who wears pink, plaid shirts tucked into cowboy jeans. Fourth mistake? Opening a club in a space too small for actual dancing. Did I mention the corny lighting? Weak DJ? Cheesy girls?

There was great buzz after the Apotheke opening last week. I guess two good new clubs can't open in the same week.

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The Frying Pan

It's been my mission this summer: leading friends to this promised land, or boat. Judging from my past two visits, the rest of the public is waking up and smelling the sea salt. Part of my selfish avoidance of writing about it was so it would stay undiscovered.

Still in your apartment? It's partially covered so even today's rain is not a viable excuse.

26th St., where the Hudson meets the highway
212-989-6363

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Brown Cafe

Fashionista always picks birthday dinner winners. She should be a consultant. Last year she nailed it with Bondi Road. This year she stuck it again like Shawn Johnson with Brown Cafe.

We were throwing ideas back and forth before the big night. Clinton Street Baking Company almost became the destination front-runner -- we were wooed by its comfort food selection -- but Brown snuck in there for the win. This actually may work out to my benefit as I begin to vet spots for my own birthday dinner at the end of this month.

We all know my problems with punctuality. I have made slight improvement over the past few months and my early arrival at Brown was a new record. I showed up almost a half an hour before anyone else. When I inquired what Fashionista and LittleMissSunshine's status was via text messages, I got some bad news. I wasn't early. I had simply misread the e-mail. I knew it was too good to be true. Oddly enough, the same thing happened to me for Mother's Day brunch a week earlier...

I was really impressed with Fashionista's pick, not only because I loved the comfortable bench I became friends with outside, along with the adorable baby pine tree in the wheelbarrow, but because she had stumped me. When people pitch dinner spots or bars, I've usually heard of the venues. In this case, I'd never heard of the restaurant, or the street it was on, for that matter.

When the party arrived, we walked into the little bungalow of a restaurant. I was shocked. I tried looking for more of it, but what you see is what you get. There were maybe five tables inside and the bar was miniscule. It was the type of bar you'd find in the basement of a friend's house. Brown only has wine and beer so a mini-bar is all they really need.

The light brown tables were the same color as my East School elementary school desks. It was like we were in an uber-small homeroom class of fresh eating and drinking 101.

We were starving and thirsty so we didn't waste any time. We ordered a bottle of bubbly to celebrate Ms. Fashionista's special day, then we went right in for the charcuterie and cheeses. The various hams were sliced comfortably thin and the cheeses -- a goat, a cow and a sheep --were all equally smooth paired with the fruit or the meat.


The entrees consisted of a roasted free range chicken breast with a sweet layer of skin and green beans,

roasted striped bass with wild mushrooms,


macaroni and cheese with two-year aged gruyere, ricotta, fontina and mozzarella,

and grass-fed flank steak with potato gratin and roasted shallots.

I was blown away by the simplicity and complexity of the dishes at Brown. Each item was so fresh and clean I felt like I was eating at a farm table, and the food had just come off the pasture or was handpicked from the fields. We all licked our plates. The food temps were spot on and even the macaroni had perfectly burnt edges.

It would be a real challenge not to get good service in a space that's so tight. The furthest the server ever got from our table was about three feet so if you needed something she was there in an instant. She was amiable and had solid meal suggestions, especially with the wine and cheese.

For dessert we ordered a big, fluffy, berry tart. It was a flaky, filo cupcake with berries on top. Some forkfighting ensued as we all tried to scoop up the remaining bits. The candle on a birthday dinner is always an appreciated gesture.

Brown is one of three businesses run by a colorful group. Green is its catering branch, while Orange, nextdoor to Brown, is the "epicerie," where you can plan small dinner parties.

I was excited to discover this small gem with Fashionista and LittleMissSunshine, and our two other friends. The only reason this can't be on my shortlist is because of its location. It is on the other side of the Manhattan planet from where I live. Brown is the kind of place, on a weeknight (weekends it would likely be too swamped with people waiting for tables), that you can cozy up with a glass of grenache, some cheese and a good book. The tables in the front use the windowsills as seats so it feels like you're sitting in a bay window.

Our night ended at a bar The Skinny, another Fashionista-picked success. It was long and narrow, like its name suggests, dark, it had good tunes, and the birthday girl got a nice bonus -- free drinks all night long. What more could you ask for on a day of celebration?

My birthday is around the corner and my third-life crisis is starting to kick in. Am I as successful as I should be? Is it acceptable to be still living paycheck to paycheck? Should I be married with a family living in a suburb? Is it OK that I live in a fourth-story walkup with two roommates on the upper west side? Are me and my other local, single girlfriends destined to be mirrors of the "Sex and the City" cast?

I recently ordered business cards with my blog banner on them: "Mona's Apple: A 20-something's slice of life and food in New York City," and it has been brought to my attention ad nauseum that that phrase will expire in twelve months.

I am well aware of this fact. But am I supposed to expire, too? I e-mailed a co-worker today about being excited to "rage" tonight. His response: "Rage tonight? How old are you?" Am I too old to seek or anticipate a fun Friday night? It bothers me that fun has an expiration date, and once you reach a certain age, you're expected to have less of it. I don't come with a sticker that says, "Best used by: 9/27/09." I will be raging well into my thirties, and as Dylan Thomas wrote, "against the dying of the light." Peter Pan complex? Maybe. Staying true to my city that never sleeps? Definitely.

Brown Cafe
61 Hester St., between Ludlow & Essex St.
212-477-2427

The Skinny
174 Orchard Street
212-228-3668

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Mighty Mona?

"WHERE'S MY CLIP MOM!?!?"

"Honey, I don't know, look in the bag."

"WHERE ARE MY SUNGLASSES MOM!?!?"

"Honey, I don't know, look on the sheet."

"UGHHHH, forget it."

Why did I think my mom would know where I clumsily threw stuff before my mile-long swim at the start off my triathlon debut? Lesson learned. Maybe this next one my transition times won't add up to 15 minutes...

The countdown to Triathlon II, or the Mighty Hamptons (9/14), is on and I'm starting to freak out.

Did I clock enough miles on the bike? Probably not.

Did I run enough loops around the park on bike legs? Probably not.

Did I swim enough? Yes, surprisingly.

Will I get my competitive face on for my legion of fans -- Mom, Dad, Fashionista and LittleMissSunshine -- all coming to cheer for me? Yes, definitely.

The Mighty Montauk was in June. When I crossed the finish line, my mom asked me, "Well, how was it? Would you do another one?!" I walked off in silence, tried to re-feel my legs, fought to catch my breath, wiped the salty sweat from my eyes and mouth, found the food table and threw a few orange slices and cookies in my mouth (all at the same time -- quite tasty). I returned to Mom, Dad and my friend Birdie and gave an emphatic, "YES!"

I signed up for the Mighty Hamptons a short week or so later, thinking I had all the time in the world to prepare for it. Summer fun was fleeting and now the Mighty Hamptons is staring me up and down with a menacing grin.

Before the Montauk tri, I was supposed to meet up with Birdie and his buddies for dinner at Luigi's. I took a wrong turn and ended up at the lighthouse. Not bad! As it turns out, I got a preview of the biking route as well.


Dinner at Luigi's took me back to the days of pre-swim meet dinners I had so often with teammates and family. The meals were always about quantity, not quality. The dinner at Luigi's was fun because of the company, but it wasn't the best Italian.

For starters, the service was pretty bad. That or everybody competing in the triathlon showed up and they were unprepared and overloaded. We sat at the bar waiting for someone to serve us beers -- yes, that's right, beers -- for about 15 minutes. A fellow triathlete said it was good to have one or two to calm the nerves. Nobody was behind the bar and I almost went back and grabbed them myself.

The food was just OK, but it did the trick. We shared some garlic bread,

some fried calamari,

and about one of each pasta dish on the menu.

I tried the penne with melted mozzarella, tomatoes and black olives. It would have been better with homemade pasta. I could taste the non-freshness, though I did like the combo and will look for it now when I go out for Italian.


The far more superior meal of the weekend was the post-race splurge at my favorite Clam Bar. I was racing to get to the Belmont, where I expected to see Big Brown win the Triple Crown, so we ordered our food to go. It was one of those situations: if I didn't go, he would have won and I would have missed history. The fact that I did go, well, you know what happened.

Dad was proudly sporting my lucky number.

We ordered a wealth of fried goodies to inhale in the car before I jumped on a bus to the horse track. In solidarity with Big Brown, I cleaned up but left my racing numbers in big black marker on my arm and leg. It was my badge of honor for completing my first triathlon, and for finishing in the top 20 for the women (20th to be exact).


Wish me luck next weekend, and if you have any recommendations for where I should be doing my carbo-cramming, please, send them my way.

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Spotted!

Ivanka Trump and Andrew Cuomo ate together with an unknown third wheel at Raoul's downtown. What is going on here?

It was our seventh month of FTDC, or Fat Tuesday Dinner Club. Fashionista and I arrived together from NYAC. A tall blonde and a shortie in an annoying two-toned, Brooks Brothers shirt (you know the kind - blue with the white collar and cuffs) hopped out of a souped up, black van. I was trying to snap a picture of Fashionista opening the door to Raoul's and these jokers got in the picture:

I have star-dar but didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. I followed Fashionista and the odd couple into Raoul's. The stunted jerk politely held the door for the blonde before he strolled inside and slammed the door in my face. Awesome. Thanks.

I shoved the door open, pissed off, mumbling "a--hole" not-so under my breath. The guy in the first seat at the bar heard me, sympathized with me and had a good chuckle.

Fashionista and I found LoveLight sipping on a Hoegarden waiting for his fellow FTDC-ers to arrive. We ordered three fabulous dirty Goose martinis, only to realize it was Ms. Trump standing tall and beautiful next to us. Who was the unworthy chump next to her?

We hadn't gotten two drinks into dinner before Andrew Cuomo waltzed in and joined the dashing Ms. Trump and her dining partner at their booth, which was directly behind ours.

I was trying to discern what connection Ms. Trump had to the two gentlemen, other than the fact that she's young, stunning and successful -- who wouldn't want to be in her company -- but sadly, I learned nothing.

She told The New York Post that she's "kind of lame" for not going out often. Instead she usually heads to a dinner meeting after a long day on the job for her father -- she's vice president of real estate development and acquisitions for the Trump Organization. Pretty impressive for a 26-year-old. Not only that but she has her own jewelry line and one of her pieces retails for $140,000. Maybe I should get in on the jewelry design business.

I like people that have good taste. I don't know what Ms. Trump tried at Raoul's, but she appears to have it ... minus the company she kept.

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