Trader Joe's in N.Y.

No. It's not the line to get the new limited edition 80G iPhone.

It's the Trader Joe's wine line.

"S---!"

I had reached the end of a long day of productivity and waiting in yet another line wasn't in the game plan.

"Everybody's been cursing me all day," the TJ's bouncer replied with a laugh. He sported a back brace and a handlebar mustache. If you needed cases of wine carried, he was your man. If you needed anything moved, I have a feeling, he was your man. I snuck a smile and kept walking to the end of the queue.

The line moved quickly and was relatively painless, until my partner-in-line started talking. She's the person you dread sitting next to on flights. She's so sweet you can't be mean to her, but when she speaks out loud what most people would keep silent in their heads, you want to tie her down and put a muzzle on her. I shared some niceties before I dug viciously in my bag for my iPod. Talking Heads make this talking head go away, please.

Her loopiness was confirmed when she told me she was waiting in the line for a single bottle of wine.

"You're only buying one and you're waiting in this line? Go to a normal wine shop, girl! I'm here to buy 20 bottles of Chucky + six bottles of bubbly for a party!"

Once inside, the line wrapped around the outer aisles of the store. But again, it was shockingly bearable. Everyone was calm and friendly, especially Donna my wonder woman/check-out lady.

I learned TJ's delivers to four zones in New York (if you get to the store before 7ish) and my zone four gets the $20 surcharge -- a minor fee to receive goodies at my doorstep today by 4 p.m.

Let's knock on wood, shall we? Or Mona's New Year's Eve party will be a No Cheer's Eve, bone dry affair.

Happy New Year, everyone!

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Christmas Morning

I woke up to the elephant paws of Tucker on the staircase before he nudged open the heavy bedroom door with his nose and hopped on my brother's bed. Not only does he weigh more than a small dog, but he sports a collar with bells so we can hear him if he escapes to the busy Carmel streets. He's an indoor cat and an outdoor enthusiast. I like to call him Houdini.

T- had to work this morning, and since we share a bedroom in our new digs, this meant we were both up earlier than we would have liked. I hoped Santa had already come and gone before my feet hit the cold wooden floor.

Christmas Eve we had a wonderful meal at the Quail Lodge, followed by scotch-sipping in my parents' bedroom. T- was inspired to treat the family to a nice bottle of scotch after he read the Sunday Times article on indulgences people refused to give up, no matter the dire economic straits.

Following dinner, I was uploading pictures in the study when I heard my mom shrieking from her bedroom like she'd discovered a secret hiding place in our new house filled with diamonds.

"'Meet Me in St. Louis' is on!!! GET UP HERE!!!!! 'Meet Me in St. Louis' is on!! HURRY UP!"

We don't have DVR in our house so her sense of urgency was somewhat warranted. I didn't want to miss one of my favorite Christmas carols. As we watched Judy Garland in her stunning red dress sing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," we drank smoky Lagavulin and hung out until we were good tired and drunk.

This morning the cheer had worn off and my dad informed me we were a (wo)man down. Mom was white as a ghost and suffering from an acute scotch-over. Ironic because she was telling us last night, as T- poured us generous portions (his unrealized goal was to finish the entire bottle), that her father always told her she should acquire a taste for scotch because she'd never have another hangover if she drank it. Curious...

T- was running late for work and couldn't walk Odin so one of us had to step in as pinch-walker. Normally Mom's up for the task, but today's extenuating, Alka Seltzer-heavy circumstances put her out of commission. I was excited to walk Odie and hoped he'd be happy to hang out with an old friend.

I grabbed a poopy bag, his leash, some beef jerky-looking shreds out of a treat bag and I was ready for the walk.

I opened the fence that separates the real world from our backyard and glanced to the small shelf of mulch and stones to the left of the pathway. I noticed a small, plump bird, with his chest puffed out and his head snuggled underneath his right wing. Tucker does the same thing when he's had it and wants nothing but sleep and quiet.

I stared harder to make sure I wasn't imagining my feathery friend unphased by my approach. Maybe he too was suffering from a hangover, of suet perhaps? My mom has bird feeders hanging on every square inch of our property so that would be reasonable.

I knelt down a bit closer, giving the bird another chance to flutter away to the treetops. He unnuzzled his head as if he'd just woken up from hibernation. If he'd been a person he would have been pursing his lips and stretching his arms above his head. I glanced at Odin to make sure he wasn't within gobbling distance. He tugged on his leash, oblivious, and stuck his nose in the air to figure out which way the wind blew and which spot would be his first target.

I thought the little birdie was injured, but was relieved when he took a few painless steps towards me. I didn't know what to do besides sit there and stare at him in wonder. I was waiting for him to really wake up to realize he wasn't staring face to face with his sibling or parent but he was at eye level with a human.

I reached my pointer finger out. Like a dog or a cat, he eased his head forward. I didn't have anything to offer him but a warm tummy rub so I lightly touched his belly with the back of my pointer finger. It reminded me of Mary Poppins' similar encounter with a curious robin.

Odin was getting antsy and I quickly left the bird to his day. When we returned I was sad to see my new friend had disappeared.

I didn't understand the significance of my morning interaction until I told my mom what happened.

"How many people can say they've touched or petted a bird?!"

I will never know what was wrong with him, or why he wasn't afraid of me. Maybe he'd seen the trailer for "Despereaux." Whatever the reason, I am happy I turned my head in his direction. Instead of the Christmas mouse, I will always have my Christmas bird. Let's hope his fearlessness was a sign of new and exciting adventures to come.

I hope you all had a Merry Christmas!

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Carmel Cat Cam

Everyone, say hi to Tucker the cat, or as his vet calls him, Tucker the panther.

Tucky is my close companion when I'm here visiting from the East coast. Last night at dinner my mom went so far as to say, "Tucker only has eyes for Mona when she's here."

I laugh because it's partially true, but then again, pets are loyal to their feeders and I can never resist Tucky's cries for snacks.

We have a pecking wake-up order in my house: my dad, me, then usually my mom and brother. Tucky will meow at each person as they come down from bed and we all fall for it, thinking we must be the first ones to hear his cries for food. Smart cat.

Tucky has made himself comfy in our computer chair, so I relinquished all blogging duties to him for a day. He didn't get very far...


Merry Christmas!

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The White Elephant Party

White elephant, according to Wikipedia: a valuable possession which its owner cannot dispose of and whose cost (particularly cost of upkeep) exceeds its usefulness.

I'd never heard of such a thing until I received my first white elephant party e-vite last year from FunStar.

White elephant party, as interpreted by FunStar: an all-girls affair where each participant brings an item of sexy lingerie and gets exceedingly drunk off Prosecco and good food during an out-of-control gift exchange.

Instructions:

Starve yourself all day so you can fully enjoy the breadth of FunStar's cooking. Don't worry, I've included recipes below so you can all read it and eat.

Bring several bottles of Prosecco. One is not enough.

Load up on the brie and honey pastry -- it gets ugly later.

Pick a number out of a hat, preferably a high number. If you're no. 1, forget about it. Just open another bottle of Prosecco and call it a night.

Unwrap gift from pile and share with group while feigning indifference and disgust with your present. Maybe the rest of the crew will catch on and you'll actually get to keep the cuteness.

If you happen to be no. 5 and you like no. 4's present, don't mess around and try to be the big girl on campus like I did. Steal it.

Each successive participant, in the order determined from the drawing, can either a) steal an already opened gift, b) risk it and go for a gift from the pile, or c) regret doing either. If the participant chooses to steal, the person whose gift is stolen now repeats her turn and either steals another person's gift (not the one just taken) or unwraps a new one. Fun, huh?

Out of the dozen or so girls I think I was the only one who kept her initial present. I was the victim of a last minute pick-up. TarBabe even told me in private at the beginning of the night, "Man, I feel bad. I had no time. I just came from the Gap." Well, guess who picked her present. TarBabe, you know I have nothing but love for you. What can I say, I was drawn to the flashy silver bag.

The rest of the night was a blur of dancing on beds and headbanging to "All I Want for Christmas" while discussing next year's white elephant theme: sex toys! One or several of us may have called in sick to work the next day. Ahem!

I asked FunStar for a menu roundup to inspire you to throw that last minute party you've been itching to. Let's end 2008 with a bang, shall we?

FunStar: Should I make the queso or do you think we have enough food?
Me, channeling my Steve Carell "Kelly Clarkson!" outburst in "40-Year-Old Virgin": MAKE THE QUESO!

1. Queso – melt one 16-ounce block of Velveeta (look, Mom and Fashionista, something in it for you!) one can of Rotel tomatoes, a splash of milk and salt & pepper. Serve with chips.

FoxyLady: Mmm, these potatoes taste delicious!
Me: Umm, what potatoes?
FoxyLady: The ones with the goat cheese.
Me: They're pears!
FoxyLady: Oh ... I thought they tasted a little sweet...

2. Click here for pears with goat cheese recipe.


I normally hate baked fruit, but these were awesome. The key is not to overcook the pears and FunStar did them just right. They still had some firmness to them.

3. FunStar's deviled eggs: hard-boil 18 eggs (you will only use 12, the six extra are for the yolk stuffing). Mix in mayo to taste with the egg yolks (about 1/3 cup to get the right creaminess), 1 tbsp of mustard, Worcestershire to taste (about a tsp to a tbsp) and salt & pepper. Sprinkle with paprika for garnish.


4. Click here for barbecue/pulled pork bruschetta recipe.

This was probably one of my favorite dishes, though not pictured here. It was a great twist on the normally Italian bruschetta. Onions and barbecue on toasted bread -- it doesn't get much better than that.

5. Click here for red velvet cupcake recipe. FunStar made mini-cupcakes which was a great idea. You can kid yourself that you can eat more that way. She made about six dozen minis and instead of nuts, bring on the sprinkles.



6. Baked brie in puff pastry with apricot preserves: one sheet of puff pastry thawed, roll out and put approx ¾ cup of preserves in the middle (FunStar goes for the apricot, but you can use raspberry as well). Place small wheel of brie on top of the preserves and fold up the corners of the pastry. Mix one egg with water to brush on seams to hold pastry together. Cook for approximately 20-25 minutes on 350.

7. Caprese salad skewers: stack cherry tomatoes, fresh mozzarella and basil on a toothpick with balsamic vinegar for dipping. This is a simple addition to any party that not only tastes great but looks festive.

Do yourselves a favor. Throw a white elephant party. With the perfect mix of good food, drink and music it'll be the party everyone looks forward to each holiday season. Just ask FunStar. I bet she's already planning W.E. 2009.

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Great Jones Cafe

I didn't care that it was cold and misty out. I would keep walking until I found a solo-friendly dining spot downtown after jury duty.

I passed by Delicatessen - not inspired.

I passed by Lombardi's - not inspired, though I told Leondardo DiCaprio and his mom that in addition to being America's first pizzeria, it was really good. DiCaprio nodded his head in response, "Yes, it is really good!" My 2008 was made in that moment.

I passed by Il Buco - not inspired. The place was totally empty, mind you it was 3:45 p.m., but I was hoping there'd be some late lunch stragglers. No such luck.

I passed by Cafe Gitane - not inspired. The place was packed like it was the only restaurant open in New York. People were even eating outside in the miserable weather like it was a summer 72-degree day.

I fought the instincts to pop open my umbrella. It was that annoying in between rain -- the kind where you'd rather it just pour and get it over with so you don't have to waffle over the necessity of umbrella protection. I'd been on the jury chopping block on Centre Street a couple of hours prior -- my head filled with awe and amazement on how our justice system works and the intricacies of jury selection. It takes 48 hours to pick a jury for a guy who was arrested on gun and untaxed cigarette possession? Too bad it wasn't Plaxico. How long would it take to pick a jury for a murder trial?

I left court half-relieved, half-disappointed I hadn't been one of the chosen twelve. My mom sat on a murder trial in Conn. and she said it was one of the more interesting life experiences she's had. I wasn't looking to be sequestered in a hotel for six weeks with nothing but soap operas and room service, but I wouldn't have minded watching the lawyers, judge, witnesses and jurors play the game of justice for a couple of days. It was my job in media, and the defense's belief that I'd probably covered New York City crime like Greta Van Susteren covered the Natalee Holloway case that ruined it for me.

It's rare that somebody stumps me with a restaurant. About a year ago, my co-worker Z mentioned Great Jones Cafe was her favorite place in the city and I bent my head like a confused puppy. Huh? Ever since, I'd been meaning to go and it was only after my first stint of jury duty that I fatefully stumbled upon it.

I could barely make out the signs underneath the scaffolding, but when I saw it was the elusive Great Jones Cafe, I jumped for joy. I was giddy like a kid on Christmas morning and prayed the place would be open. The sign on the door read serving lunch until four so I was in business, at least for 10 more minutes.

I busted into Great Jones in one cold wet mess. My bags were falling off my arms, the water had crawled up the leg of my jeans so it was now at mid-calf, I couldn't figure out how to lower my umbrella and god knows what my hair and face were doing. The guy in thick, black glasses behind the bar couldn't help but look at me and laugh.

"Can I still order lunch?" I groaned with desperation.

"Of course. You've got 10 minutes. Take a seat!"

"Thank you, thank you!"

I couldn't have picked a more perfect spot for my solo, late afternoon lunch. It was dark and woodsy inside and not quite what I'd envisioned. I knew Great Jones served Cajun food, but rather than feeling like I was on Bourbon Street, I felt like I'd just stepped into a tavern in the Rockies. It reminded me of Hunter Thompson's divey lunch spot Woody Creek Tavern.

The room was small with about a dozen tables and a bar. There were chalkboards screaming "order me!" It was kitschy, but not in a cringe-inducing sort of way. It was a warm and welcoming kitsch that everyone craves once in a while. And the head to toe Christmas made me smile. It bums me out when places are too cool for holiday decorations. Lights and garlands adorned the walls and made me appreciate Great Jones even more. It would have to take some really bad food to mess up my first impressions.

Before I'd even sat down I witnessed a changing of the guards. The man who told me to order away disappeared to the side and a friendly bartender came to my assistance. I asked him for some recommendations and when he said the word catfish I knew what I had to do. The blackened catfish po' boy now beats Daddy Os as my favorite sandwich in New York.


My terrible picture doesn't do it justice. Each element from the bread to the dill mayo dressing, to the pickles to the catfish was outstanding. I don't even like pickles but I'm now considering adding them to any and all sandwiches I create. The combo of the soft spicy fish and the crunchy pickles worked and I now have a new appreciation for the pickle. The fries were excellent in their skin-still-kind-of-on way. I asked for a side of the dill mayo to dip the fries in and the bartender was more than willing to assist.

I ordered a Pilsner to wash it down, though I barely looked up or took a breath until I'd shoved most of the sandwich down my throat. After that I paused for a few minutes of "Twilight" intermission, then repeat. I could start a whole new blog on my scary obsession with all things (especially Rob Pattinson) "Twilight," but that's a tangent better left unexplored.

About midway through the remaining French fries, the bartender offered me a taste of his Bloody Mary. I don't know what magical ingredient he put in it, or what spell the Cajun catfish had me under, but that too was top notch and the perfect advertisement for their brunch, which I hear is excellent.

The bartender mentioned desserts and it killed me to turn him down. The key lime pie would be my reason to get back. There's no way I could do the catfish and the key lime in one sitting.

It's rare that I walk out of a place dying to rave about it to friends and total strangers, but that's how I felt when I left Great Jones. I couldn't wait for someone, upon hearing about my food blog, to ask me if I'd tried a good new place recently.

"Yes! Great Jones! Great day, you've got to get there!"

Instead of being pissed I walked in 10 minutes before the kitchen closed, the staff was pumped to feed me proper (at least, they pretended to be). I don't eat alone very often, but after my experience at Great Jones, I'm tempted to make it a new habit. They were so warm and welcoming even an agoraphobe could eat at the bar solo.

All things happen for a reason, even jury duty. I just wished I could have directed DiCaprio in the Great Jones direction.

54 Great Jones St., near Bowery
212-674-9304

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A Winter's Night

If you're still trying to find that last minute Christmas gift, take a walk to Columbus Circle and venture through the holiday market.

Your first stop should be the cider and gingerbread cookie stand. Treat yourself before you treat others. They have his and hers gingerbread cookies, and in response to one buyer's question, no, they will not come alive if you dip them in milk. Last year I went for the little man, this year I went for the ginger snap (more like ginger chew) cookie and I was not disappointed. It was the softest and chewiest ginger cookie I've ever tried. That and it lasted for about four or five separate servings and there were even leftovers for my roommates to taste. The stand also offers hot apple cider.

My next stop was the Dakota. I asked the security guards if I could take a picture and they were nice enough to let me stand on the stoop for .01 of a second to get a pic. Their Christmas tree in the courtyard is hard to beat, if you can make it out behind the grand wrought-iron gates.

I head to California tonight on a 6 p.m. flight, excited to see family and friends in Carmel, but as I was walking to work this morning, admiring apartments with their various holiday decorations, I realized I wasn't quite ready to leave behind Christmas in New York...

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A Big Apple Christmas

No, it's not l'Arc de Triomphe. It's Washington Square Park's memorial arch with its splendid Christmas tree below. FoxyLady and I stumbled upon it leaving FunStar's annual White Elephant Christmas party last night.

Before I leave for California on Thursday, I'm hoping to share some festive New York scenes with you. My loyal reader, Karthik, was disappointed Nokia N82's first pictures were not of food. Do not fret, Karthik. I will be updating the blog with those very soon.

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R.I.P. Cybershot

I've been in mourning for a week and I apologize for my inattentiveness. I lost the blog's best friend, my barely two-year-old Sony Ericsson Cybershot, last Sunday and I've been a wreck ever since. Was eating at Oliver's downtown in the village, walked two doors down to Barrow Street, tried to message someone about my whereabouts and Cybershot was gone. Went back to the restaurant, back to the bar, back to the restaurant again and poof! He'd left me. I just hope not for another blogger.

I held out for a week, hoping someone would pick up when I called. But nothing. Too bad I lost him on such an uneventful evening. Had I been getting after it, it'd be more understandable. At least he could have gone out on a high note. I've even left Cybershot in a cab and retrieved him later that same evening from a friendly little Asian chick on the roof of the Gansevoort. The nerve...

T- tried to convince me to buy the iPhone but no way, Jose. Until Apple improves the mega-pixels on the iPhones, I won't be buying one.

Today I bit the bullet and went back online with my new baby, the Nokia N82. He's got tough shoes to fill, but with 5mpx I'm hoping he will be my new trustworthy companion.

So without further ado, say hello to my new little friend:






Not too bad for his debut, right?

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F-Bombs at Shopsin's

JB: have you eaten at shopsin's in the essex st mkt yet?
Me: NO! que es?
JB: oh my god. i just ate there.
Me: good, eh?

I don't want to ruin JB's narrative below with what came next, but I immediately responded with, "WRITE IT UP!" I introduce my new dining out correspondent, JB. And the first chance I have to eat breakfast out, I'm going:

My friend called me at about 11:30 this morning and suggested we meet for some brunch. I jumped at the idea. My laziness has reached the point where I don't even feel like ordering from Fresh Direct. He said there was a small place in the back of the Essex St. Market called Shopsin's. Given its proximity to my apartment across the street, I jumped at the chance.

Nestled right behind Cheesemongers, this extremely small eatery is something of a treasure in the city. It has a counter that seats three, and maybe room for 10 more people in the alcove and surrounding area. The counter lets you see into the kitchen, which looks like something out of a movie. Subtle decorations adorned the walls, as though someone needed a place to put stuff, and that's where it ended up. A package of GE light bulbs is on display and printed on the package is "Parties of more than 4 will not be served." A marijuana home test kit sits prominently at eye level. A "Bacon Scarf" is $35, but the sign is fairly small, and unless you were really looking around, it could have easily been missed (no clue what a Bacon Scarf is either).

The CD player was running Ella Fitzgerald at a perfect volume -- just quiet enough to talk over and just loud enough to suck you in at the good parts. We sat at the counter and the waiter immediately handed us two menus. I was totally overwhelmed. The two-sided menu had at least 65 things on both the front and back. Despite violating one of my first rules of dining (never eat at a place with a large menu as it usually means the place is mediocre across many genres and good at nothing, think Cheesecake Factory), every single thing on the menu sounded delicious.

After looking it over for at least 10 minutes, the large chef (dubbed "the profane prince of the New York short-order world" by New York Magazine), who, just seconds before asked his son, "Where is the f**cking pan you just used?" walked out to take our order. He was very friendly and upon my ordering the "Blisters on my Sisters" asked, "On a scale of 1-10, how hot would you like it?"

My buddy and I waited about 15 minutes when the waiter walked out with a silver skillet and placed it on the counter about a foot and a half from where I'd be able to eat from it.

"Be careful," he said. "That is hot as s---."

He was right. "Blisters on my Sisters" was a corn tortilla base of rice and beans, with about three fried eggs over that, covered with cheese and some kind of sauce, on top of which I put some homemade hot sauce, which was also tasty. The waiter said he goes through a water bottle of it a week at home.

The food was amazing. I ate until I was full and kept going. All the while enjoying the chatter from the cook and wait staff. I heard the "c" word uttered five times during my meal.

At one point the cook came out to take an order, and when the female patron asked which dish was better, he replied "Maybe you should go somewhere else." The look on the girl's face was priceless.

"Those are two totally different meals. One is Indian and one is Mexican, if you don't know which one you want, you are f---ed up."

That is a direct quote.

It was a pricey $29 breakfast, even though I had one of the least expensive items on the menu. But when you count the experience of sitting there, it's worth it. I got the feeling I was in the Milk and Honey of breakfast spots, except the staff wasn't as cordial. I cannot recommend this little spot highly enough. Just go in with a thick skin and know what you want to order before he asks!

120 Essex St., near Rivington St.

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Thank You, Amendment XXI

Thanks to Eric Felten for his informative article (and awesome, unbeatable headline) on the Prohibition and its demise 75 years ago this Friday. At the risk of sounding like a total boozehound, I cannot imagine how people survived for nearly 13 years without being able to purchase alcohol legally. My parents weren't alive then, but my grandparents were. What did they do for birthday celebrations or New Year's? Did they really sing "Auld Lang Syne" sober?

While alcohol has brought me much morning pain and suffering, I owe a lot of my fondest memories and (mis)adventures to the mighty cocktail. In fact, I would never have met some of my favorite people if it hadn't been for gatherings centered around a happy hour, party, dinner, open bar, flip cup game, beer pong tournament, keg party, etc. And half the enjoyment of dining out is pairing food with wines and beers from around the world.

In honor of the Twenty-first Amendment, I'm asking bar owners near and far to e-mail me their plans for Repeal Day. I will then post a list for my friends and readers to see. I know people who know people who will be looking for a deal on this happy anniversary.

For as one of our Founding Fathers, Benjamin Franklin, put it, "There can't be good living where there is not good drinking."

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The Village Pourhouse - Upper West Side

Getting friends to go out uptown is like getting them to go to brunch on Sundays after a big Saturday night. It just doesn't happen. The owners of The Village Pourhouse, newly opened four blocks from my apartment, took this into account with an Upper West Side version of their popular East Village sports bar. Their bait? Come uptown for drinks in a cab and the bartender will equal the cab tab with a bar tab. I have yet to read of such brilliant customer-luring anywhere else and I know where I'll be going for nightcaps from now on.

My brother T- was in town for a few days over Thanksgiving and he left the Connecticut confines to party with me and his friend Tom on Friday. After a brief power hour of Miller High Lifes (never again will I be calling these the champagne of beers) in my apartment, we ventured to see what The Village Pourhouse was all about. I've been to downtown's Pourhouse several times and it's always the place to be on game day. It can get a little crowded, but it's fun to yell and scream at the TV in unison with randoms, while simultaneously high-fiving the entire bar.

We walked in and I immediately wondered, "Could this be it?" Then I noticed a doorway which opened up to a much bigger bar area with tables and a DJ. This was what I had in mind. A smiley Irish girl told us to sit wherever we liked and we grabbed a big booth along the window. My brother subsequently fell in love with the Irish lass, but that's another story. Had it been an Irish lad, I too would have been lovestruck. It appears we're both suckers for the accent.

I knew it was a holiday weekend, but I was still concerned how empty the place was. It's not because I needed company -- I would have happily sat solo with a Hefeweisen -- I just want the bar to thrive and survive in my neighborhood. Thank goodness, the waitress reassured me it was.

"How are you guys doing so far?" There was a handful of people at the bar, but my party of three was the only seated table.

"Oh goodness, I'm sorry you have to see it this way. We're normally packed. It's just the holidays!"

"Oh my god, stop. I know. I'm just psyched you guys opened in my neighborhood. I hope you're busy every night," I replied.

"Oh yeah, normally it's crazy, especially with the sports on."

I noticed the televisions and was happy to see there were several in all shapes and sizes, along with enough tables and chairs to seat big parties. I'm picky about where I watch sports and I would definitely invite a crew up to the Pourhouse. Friends drag me often enough to the Upper East Side with no promise of a matching bar to cab tab. Now, with that as ammo, they can venture over to my neighborhood.

We were all daunted by the menu. I wasn't ready for the huge beer selection. My brother tried to show off by choosing to "drink around the world," or order six beers from around the globe. But after too much selection and not enough brain or will power to choose, he went for a Sierra Nevada. We ordered a few snacks: potato skins, nachos and a Caesar salad. I loved the potato skins - they were just thin enough and had the perfect ratio of potato:cheese:bacon, with tons of sour cream on the side to dip them in.


The salad was surprisingly edible and I liked the dressing, though they packed it a little too heavy with croutons and not enough chicken.

The nachos were also a crowd pleaser and Tom licked his plate.


We only ordered one round of beers before my brother and his friend took off to Element downtown. I had a date at Brother Jimmy's the next morning to watch UVA football and I knew I couldn't hang with the young(er) folk. And besides, as Tom pointed out, each sip of beer we drank tasted like the awful High Lifes we downed prior. Never again...

Please go to Pourhouse on the Upper West Side, and go soon. And ladies, if you need one more reason to love a sports bar, besides friendly, welcoming service and a comfy seat, Friday nights are "Ladies Nights" and you drink for half-price.

*982 Amsterdam Ave., between 108th and 109th St.
or
64 Third Ave. at 11th St.

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Recession-Proof Your Wallet, Just Not Your Diet

Happy Monday!

My friend Scott Mayerowitz shared his story with me and I couldn't resist posting. As the business reporter at ABC News, Mayerowitz is always in search of a good bargain or a good meal. At the Clinton Station Diner in N.J., he found both. Finish this 50-lb hamburger with four friends in three hours and it's yours free, minus gratuity, of course (the servers deserve at least a 50 percent tip for lugging the whopper to your table). Not only do you get to walk away with the gazillion "free" calories (to be negated by doctor's bills and gym fees), but you earn a $1,000 prize as well. If you fail, you pay $159.95. Read on to see how my friend fared.

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