Spotted!

TheTustler: When do I get to make my Mona's Apple debut?
Me: Now. (read as soon as I get my act together)

TheTustler is a bigger eater than I am. The kid goes out to eat about four to five times a week and could write his own guide book to city eats. Wednesday he had some company at dinner and wanted to share it with the Apple.

Hey Mona, I had a great celebrity spotting yesterday at Elio’s. While eating dinner amongst a sea of chooches* on meatball Wednesday**, who should walk in but Bill Clinton. I’ve been in restaurants often enough when celebrities walk in, but I've never heard conversations stop as quickly as they did for good ol’ Willie. Needless to say, Hillary wasn’t with him (which would ruin those delicious meatballs for everyone), but there were two secret service guys sitting conspicuously at the table beside his. I’m no prize, but I sat there thinking to myself: “There is not one girl in this restaurant who would rather be with me than that 63-year-old man.”

*For the uninitiated, a chooch is anyone that is immediately identifiable as working on Wall Street, usually wearing a fleece vest (emblazoned with broker logo) over a button-down shirt, slacks and Ferragamo loafers with a general air of self-importance.

**Chooches flock to Meatball Wednesdays at Elio’s like elephants to a watering hole during a drought. If it weren’t for those delicious little meatballs (which cost $2 each and are scarfed down by the dozen), Meatball Wednesdays at Elio’s might be the most intolerable eating experience in NY.

And, TheTustler, you are a prize and I'd take you any day over that chooch. Now gimme my meatballs!

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Bar Boulud

Is it possible to be honest on a blog without disclosing TMI, or, too much information, for the acronym-handicapped?

I know my parents read this. I know some of their friends read this. I know my friends read this. I know some of their parents read this. I know my uncles and aunts read this. I know co-workers read this. I know past, present, and you never know, maybe future lovers and dates read this. Does this mean I have to tweak my story so I don't upset or freak out any one party?

I've never been good at keeping my life's happenings or my feelings to myself. I am, to a fault, too honest and open. My office neighbor frequently responds to my weekend stories with a "JEEEEEEEZ-usssss!!!!"

"What?" I'll ask innocently.

"Really, M-?"

Yes. Really.

My mom recently told me over the phone, "Honey, I know it's probably too late, but try NOT to wear your heart on your sleeve?" She'll usually say it with an inflection so it's more of a question or a plea than a simple, protective request. My heart's not on my sleeve. It's on my forehead. It's on my nose. It's on my head. It's on my cheeks and it's in the color of my eyes. Many see it and run the other way, while some see it and stay a while.

My dear friend Winette and I meet up every few months for our epic lush and gush sessions and Bar Boulud was the setting of our last hurrah. I wish we got together more often but I'm usually so wrecked after all the food and wine we consume that it takes me a couple of months to recover.

Winette needs no introduction as my surrogate mom/friend in the city. She's been around since the inception of Mona's Apple and she's seen me through countless boys and dating drama. If you trace the path of our dinners you can trace the roller coaster that is my love life. We schedule our pow wows around my new and exciting, sometimes old and depressing, boy stories. Unlike the crew I get rowdy with regularly, Winette is married and living happily with her husband HefeWeisen, though she still likes to get rowdy. The stability and security in her marriage balance well with my "dating" life of chaos and fluidity, kissing and dissing.

I don't know how it started, but long ago she began using the acronym SCU. Maybe you'll figure it out, maybe you won't.

"I need an SCU please."

"What's the latest SCU???"

"Anybody there? You owe me a mega-SCU!"

I e-mail her the latest flavor's stats: name, height, hair, age, occupation, hometown, etc. There's usually an "Ooh la la" that follows then we go back and forth deciding on a date we can meet up to discuss.

I was off to California for my annual fall break and I was in the middle of a boy crisis. Winette treated me to an extraordinary birthday dinner at Bar Boulud before I left. It was mid-September, the weather was al fresco-friendly and we snagged a table outside. I hardly remember what those days feel like. Darn that bugger Punxsutawney Phil for seeing his shadow. Maybe if someone gave him a haircut or put him on a diet he wouldn't see it.

"So ... SPILL IT!"

"OK, OK..."

There were a few names floating around my birthday month. One untimely crush had finally, after a painful year of my fruitless advances, revealed his feelings for me. I received an e-mail both my mom and I cried over (collectively we have the emotional restraint of a two-year-old), but it wasn't enough. A taste of his words: "I spent a week up on the Cape with my family, and I found myself thinking about you all day, every day -- and then even mentally inserting you into scenarios with my family, like a 16-year-old girl who repeatedly writes her name with her boyfriend's last name to see what it looks like..."

No man will ever write me more sweeter a letter than he did late that night (after a few beers, he confessed), but what did I do? I realized it took him too long to come around and I wasn't into him anymore. Sad and typical.

"M-, you make these guys fall for you then you run the other way! What goes around comes around," said my mom. Maybe it's a sickness. I remember it happening as early as high school with one of the football jocks and being so confused with my sudden 180. One minute I'm about to throw myself off a building to be noticed by a guy, and the next I'm so repulsed I'm trying to throw myself off a building to avoid him.

"Hmmph. I'm not making anybody do or feel anything, Mom! I'm just being me.

"OK. Next..." said Winette as she swigged her wine glass finished.

Then there was the out-of-state, political nut who I'd been virtually flirting with. I invited him to my birthday party, hardly expecting he'd really fly cross country for it. Well ... he did. We had a great couple of nights, he even stopped in Carmel to visit me over Christmas and we haven't spoken since. Sad and typical. The revolving door never stops.


After a quick debriefing, we ordered a flight of white wines, soon to be followed by red. It's our routine: white before red, you'll recall what you said. Daniel Boulud, the father of Bar Boulud, Daniel (voted one of the top 10 restaurants in the world) and several other noteworthy restaurants, is passionate about the wine regions close to his home of Lyon, France, and his restaurant serves wine from them -- the Rhone Valley and Burgundy. The wine menu is split into three sub-categories: decouvertes, or lesser-known wines, classiques and legendes. Winette and I went with the decouvertes flight option and we were pleased with our choice. Someday I'll go back and splurge on the legendes.

We ordered the mesclun salad with arugula, olives, tomato radishes, fennel and fried artichokes. We asked them to hold the anchovies, which they forgot, but they weren't hard to remove. Our server felt awful -- you'd think she broke a bottle of wine over my head -- but I told her it was totally fine. I couldn't hold it against them with the fried artichokes sitting on top of the garden-fresh salad. It had a bitter vinaigrette that I liked. And ask my mom. I hate radishes but I ate them all in this salad. I don't generally enjoy meatless salads unless they have hearty extras and this was all heart.


Next up was the super green spinach, a side of cauliflower gratin...


and last but not least, the gnocchi with mushrooms and ricotta.


There wasn't a single item on our table that I didn't want to horde all to myself, starting with the complimentary gougeres. As soon as we sat down the waitress took our drink order and brought them over. They were heaven to my mouth and they gave Artisanal's a run for their money.

The spinach was hot and sweet, but not so overcooked and soggy that it lost its flavor. I enjoyed not having to squeeze the spinach with my fork to get rid of the water. It always seems a challenge to serve spinach that doesn't come out watery and looking like a pile of recently cut, wet grass.

Every time I eat cauliflowers playing the part of potatoes I'm reminded that I really should try them at home. These suckers were smothered in cheese but they maintained their crunch.

My only complaint was with the gnocchi. It was sitting in a soupy mushroom sauce and as a result the gnocchi's puffiness had wilted. They were a little too wet for me.


We proceeded to order a flight of reds and some dessert cheese. I was stuffed but Winette insisted.


She also insisted I cruise around inside to check out the wine cellar on the way to the bathroom and the community wine table in the round. I'd been hearing and reading about it for months.

When I stepped through the doors I was greeted by two friendly hostesses. It felt like I'd stepped into the belly of a modern-day Noah's Ark. The beautifully smooth, light wooden ceiling was curved forming a semi-circle and went the entire length of the dining room -- nearly 50 to 100 meters back. The decor was heavy on the wine accents which also gave me the sense I was standing in a giant's wine cellar. One wall had corks for as far as the eye could see while the other had a straight line of prints of bottle-sealing wax. It was sleek and stark -- a geometry teacher's dream. It wasn't the coziest atmosphere, but something about the energy made me want to come back and sit at the bar.

This was what I found on the way to the bathroom. It wasn't your grandfather's cozy, cavernous wine cellar, but it was cool nonetheless.


I returned upstairs to a French dessert plate of various cheeses...


and this adorable birthday surprise. Winette didn't speak a word of my birthday to our server (she hates unnecessary attention so much she'd never think to subject anyone else to it). The waitress must have seen me digging through my gift bag from Winette that she decided to take it upon herself to wish me a Happy Birthday from the restaurant.

It was a chocolate sundae, but instead of nuts, there were gourmet Captain Crunch-esque puffs surrounding the scoops of ice cream. I had already decided I loved this place and my birthday treat was a bold exclamation point on the evening.


I enjoyed Bar Boulud so much I brought CalGal back one night before we went to see "Rachel Getting Married." We sat at the long bar in front of the glass display case and ordered a couple different pates. They were each delicious. Boulud's other restaurant, DB Bistro Moderne, is one of my favorite spots in the city for a middle-of-the-road fancy night out, and now I'm inspired to go for the gusto and try Daniel, his flagship.

I have to thank Winette for her generosity that evening and her patience. I don't know how she or any of my friends put up with me. I'm like the girl who cried wolf, only I cry man (and in some cases boy).

I've stayed low on the radar for the past few weeks in preparation for our swim meet last weekend (best proved by my lack of an updated Facebook profile picture in ages). Now that the competition is over, the partying and hanging out will recommence. Next week Winette and I are headed to Kefi for a long overdue lush and gush session.

Several months have passed since our wine night at Bar Boulud, and I'm looking forward to sharing another SCU with Winette next week. Now you'll just have to wait till Christmas to see who I brought up and what happened. Will the revolving door stop? Nobody knows...

1900 Broadway, near 64th St.
(212) 595-0303

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All A-Twitter?

I just got home from the first session of Senior Mets Championships. If you're just tuning in to Mona's Apple I'm a swimmer and I compete for the New York Athletic Club (and no that's not me). Today is day one of the three-day, trials-by-morning, finals-by-night extravaganza. I requested today and Monday off from work -- today because I had an event this morning and Monday, well, because I'm going to need a day of recovery (from the weekend's exertion and the after-party).

My co-workers are a nosy bunch.

"Cool you're off, Mona. Where you headed?"

"Yeah, dude, fun weekend plans?"

HA! I think to myself.

"Swim meet?" My answer is given in the form of a question, as if I'm asking for their (dis)approval. I should have put it in my "Out of Office" e-mail. That would have been a huge hit.

I notice those closest to me going confused and cross-eyed.

I've given the two-minute explanation for why I'm almost 30 and still competing in meets like a 10-year-old, but nothing works quite as well as these three words:

"Free gym membership?"

I nearly missed my event this morning. I was in the locker room struggling to get MasterMaven's paper-thin, skin-tight bathing suit on when I heard a prepubescent voice cracking to sing "The National Anthem." I'm still debating offering up my voice to carry the traditional pre-meet tune.

I ran 50 meters in my Rainbows on a wet and slippery pool deck. I almost tripped five times and nearly knocked one of the officials into the water to a "WATCH IT!" Thank god I was in heat two and not heat one. My timer looked at me with a smile and said, "You made it!"

"Yes, yes I did. Barely! It's not even nine o'clock yet!"

In my defense the meet wasn't supposed to start until nine. I think they were trying to make up for all the other metropolitan meets this season that were delayed for hours. Not enough timers, not enough watches, not enough officials, broken touchpads. There's always something.

"Ahh, pssh, you're a rookie, it's OK," he said with a grin.

I was ready to pounce on his words when I noticed he put a big check next to my name and age on his timing clipboard.

"Yeah, sadly, that excuse won't work anymore."

We continued to banter. I released some of my nervous energy. He got a kick out of my sense of humor and I dove in and swam my fastest 100 breastroke since 2000. Not bad.

I was in the warm down pool and BYOWino congratulated me. He always checks in with the blog and he was excited to hear I was thinking about taking classes at the French Culinary Institute.

I mentioned I'd read about Restaurant Girl (the blogger turned Daily News food critic who, back in the day, had postcards in bathroom stalls) landing a book deal and how extremely envious I was and he asked me an odd question.

"Do you Twitter?"

"Ugh ... no? Should I?"

It was as if he asked me if I flossed.

"Yeah. I'll help you set up an account."

"What is it, like Facebook? You have friends who can see your status updates 24-7?"

"Exaaaaaaaactly."

Hmm. This does not appeal to me.

I've been reading story upon story about Twitter, but I still can't grasp what its benefits are. Don't I do enough with Facebook, multiple emails and dozens of IM accounts?

I guess not. BYOWino works in marketing so I should probably listen to him. OK, BYOWino, set me up and I'll try it.

If I had a Twitter account today it would read something like this:

Great day for a swim meet. STOP.
Psyched with 100BR time, but bummed missed sweet 16 by half a second. STOP.
(Wait. Am I wrong thinking it's like a modern-day telegram? Probably not, but I bet I can leave out the STOPs.)
Came home, couldn't figure out what to eat until walked into Silver Moon Bakery. Where have you been all my life, SMB? Best damn tomato soup period. Along with best damn gruyere cheese bread period. Made for an awesome lunch combo. In heart bigtime!


How'd I do?

If I swim well tomorrow, I'm going right back for round two of the tomato soup. If I don't, well, I'm still going right back for the tomato soup ... and maybe my first ever round of Twitter.

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The Return of FTDC

A Tuesday afternoon Facebook status:

"Fashionista is pumped for dinner club. It's been toooo long."

Comments in response to said Facebook status:

Me: I forget what wine I'm bringing...but at this point I don't think it really matters.

TriGirl: I wanna be in dinner club. Love you girls.

Tuesday marked the long-awaited, highly-anticipated return of FTDC. Thank God! As LoveLight put it, we'd all been going through serious FDTC withdrawal. We've been waiting for months and months to be together again and last night's feast was well worth the wait.

Go to Kuma Inn. Go now. Load up on the BYOs (you can only bring wine, beer and sake - no hard alcohol). It is now among my favorite restaurants in New York City. And I like Asian food, but it's never my go to choice for dinner. It's only been a little over 12 hours since we finished eating at Kuma and I'm already seriously craving the coconut rice and edamame.

Full review TK.

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Gemma

Acu-Woman and I bonded over our feeble attempts to juggle athletics and Greek life at UVA. We were in the same pledge class a little over ten years ago. Scary. We liked to snack late night post-barhopping on the Corner, in the Theta house, and though it's no longer considered stealing, we still like our snacktime.

We decided to catch up over a couple glasses of wine and Acu-Woman suggested Gemma.

"At the Bowery Hotel?! Yowsers." It sounded a little too fancy pants for what I was feeling that night. I'd been to a couple events at the Bowery Hotel and each time I was all duh-duh-duh and still didn't feel chic enough to be partying there.

"Yes, yes. Don't worry. It's not shi-shi. It's super casual."

Ok, then. Gemma it is.

After Wednesday's tease of a beautiful day, I'm going to continue with the theme of outdoorsy, al fresco spots. As soon as the weather starts to really warm up, you'll want to hit up the sidewalk tables of Tartine and Gemma.

Acu-Woman used to be a big eater. I used to be one and I still am. Whenever we go out together I can appreciate her willpower and self-control to eat like a human being and not like a rhinoceros. I know when I join her for food it's going to be a healthy night. Come to think of it, I should be meeting her more often.

When I arrived at Gemma, I couldn't have been more ecstatic. It was outdoor seating without the mania of being outdoor seating. Acu-Woman and I cozied up to a two-top against the window and underneath the sweeping green and white awning. Heaven.

We ordered a couple of glasses of wine and zucchini flowers. I first fell in love with these suckers at Il Buco. Gemma's flowers were so light and fluffy I forgot I was eating something fried.

We also ordered the crostini with black olive tapenade and goat cheese, or three of my favorite items all in one.


Mid-crunch, I glanced inside to see what was going on. I was nose to nose with a silver fox, probably in his late thirties, early forties, sporting his wire-rimmed glasses and reading a book with utmost concentration. Good thing or he would have caught me --

Crap. He looked up and I turned away from admiring his sexy studiousness.

"Umm, look inside," I urged Acu-Woman.

She grabbed her wine glass with some sass.

"Girl, please. Where have you been?"

We giggled with pleasure.

"Can we take this inside?" I asked.

"Ha, seriously."

I normally don't go for older guys. In a city that's filled with them, I somehow can't seem to graduate from boys my age or younger. Is it because I'm really 29 going on 21? Maybe. My mom says she suffers from the "Peter Pan complex." I wonder how young is too young to be diagnosed with this age-defying (denying?) attitude.


I snacked on focaccia after our appetizer plates because to be honest, I was still hungry. I decided to fill up on another glass of wine rather than order more in front of my bird friend Acu-Woman.

At one point our friendly server was carrying over our wine glasses and one of them decided to take a nap on his tray. Out came the vino all over my leg and my purse. Ick. Cold.

"Miss. Miss. I'm so so sorry. Pleeeease." He said in a sweet European accent.

I looked up at him as he brushed his dark, wavy hair out of his eyes. He could have dumped it on my head for all I care.

"Oh my god, it's totally cool. Do NOT worry," I insisted.

He quickly wiped up and ran inside to bring me another glass.

I never thought about it again until I saw the bill and realized he didn't charge me for the wine I drank that afternoon. This gesture was completely unnecessary, but sweet and highly appreciated. It's a treat when you don't have to ask for favors and the restaurant just doles them out. Gemma's service went from good to great.

I can't wait to return to Gemma to try more of their food. I've since been back but it was for a pre-game bottle of wine with Bradbury and company.

The inside is all kinds of romantic: dark, cavernous and candlelit. You can cozy up to a booth or one of their many tables. If the Phantom of the Opera cheated on Christine Daae you'd find him here. I half expected to go to the bathroom and fall into one of his dungeon-like canals.


Valentine's Day is right around the corner (click here to read my post on suggestions), and if you're still flailing to come up with the spot from which all your romantic dreams (fantasies?) will come true, Gemma makes a great addition to the list.

335 Bowery at 3rd St.
(212) 505-9100

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Tartine

Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow this morning so here's a bright, summery post to wish us to warmer weather.


I received the following e-mail from my dad last week, moments before I posted about Fette Sau:

"Hi, Mona. Seems like you've given up on your blog. How are you? I'm busy as hell. Won't be getting much sleep for the next week or so. I love you. Cheers."

My chin dropped to the desk. I stared at the e-mail blankly for two minutes before I snapped out of my shock and disbelieving laughter. What? Is he crazy? Yes, it'd been almost a week since I'd written, but I've hardly given up on my blog.

"Oh, Dad," I wrote back. "Always so dramatic. I had a posting prepped for today. I've been super busy and it sounds like you have been too. With my second New York Magazine listing I have HARDLY given up on the blog. Don't give up on me, Dad!!"

To which he responded, "Very funny ... I didn't think I was being dramatic ... just an innocent observation ... and great news on the mag listing ... which one ? and ... btw ... fear not, Miss ... I will never give up on my two great kids."

"Ohhh, Daa--aaaaad!" I exclaimed at work out loud, wiping the immediate stream of happiness tears that fell from my face. Crying on a dime was the theme of my week.

"I need air!" I shouted, forgetting I was in a newsroom with about two dozen people. I grabbed my coat and my seatmate and took off downstairs.

While waiting for the elevator I heard, "Mona, you OK over there!?!?"

"Ye-eeeeees!" and down we went.

I was having one of those days at work: missed the bus, took a cab, had no cash, cab wouldn't take a card, had to get cash, was late to work, couldn't log into computer, boss in a mood yelling and looking for news, dealing with angst among friends, had to put out fires and I just wanted someone to put out mine. Then this e-mail and all seemed OK with the world. My dad's simple words of love and support snapped me out of my funk. I am a lucky girl.

Like my dad, I hope you, my readers and friends, haven't given up on me either.

***

Fashionista had dinner with a girlfriend last week and when I read her e-mail, "I freaking love Tartine," it reminded me I owed a special somebody a blog post.


"Stay right there, HarvardBack! I'm taking a picture! Stay RIGHT there!"

He looked at me cross-eyed as I skillfully flew across the street exercising my best skills in jaywalking.

"One second!"

HarvardBack visited New York late last summer. We swam together at the Wilton YMCA and we'd been good friends for a long time. After school, HB moved to London before he was accepted to Stanford Business School. I know thou shalt not covet your neighbor's hometowns, but if I could move anywhere in the world tomorrow the first place would be London and the second would be my birthplace Palo Alto, Calif.

"Can I be in the blog? Can I be in the blog?"

"Yes, HB, we'll do dinner and you can be in the blog."

My blog has turned into a sort of friends' version of Page Six, or a "Who's Who?" of my life. FunStar was the first to make the comparison. Some have the false belief they're not really my friends unless they've been written up in the Apple. This is all very amusing, but hardly the case.

FunnyGirl is one of HB's best friends from high school and she arranged dinner for the three of us at one of her favorite places in the city Tartine. FunnyGirl is a downtown girl through and through. She braved the Upper West Side for my New Year's Eve bash but that was the first I'd seen of her north of the Columbus Circle line. She has introduced me to a couple charming restaurants in her neighborhood. The first was Malatesta.

"Make sure to bring wine and cash. It's BYOB!"

I got out of work and met up with HarvardBack in search of some vino. All three of us arrived at Tartine in the nick of time. We scored a four-top table inside with no wait. As soon as we sat down a server dumped a tin bucket of bread on the table and I went in for the kill. It wasn't the best French bread I'd tasted but it did the trick.


Tartine is the French version of La Lanterna di Vittorio, a small Italian cafe near NYU. Both ooze country charm and simplicity. Like Lanterna, Tartine also boasts a great big display case of pastries. My back was towards it at dinner. Good thing or I would have been drooling the entire time.

Tartine's floor to ceiling, wraparound windows give the space a light and open feel. I enjoyed being in the fish bowl as we watched people stroll by, peek in and plan their return to Tartine on a less-crowded summer evening -- if that exists.

We were seated for not 10 minutes when a couple walked in, did a double take of HB then mini-chaos broke loose. They were in HB's business school class at Stanford. What are the chances!? I can't take him anywhere. Of all the restaurants in the city and he meets classmates in a small corner cafe in Manhattan. The world is an awfully small and mystifying place.

Our server got the A+ for being a first responder. Before we even asked HB's friends if they wanted to join us for dinner she grabbed two extra chairs and swung them around to the end of our table with two extra place-settings.

HB ordered the spicy chicken with guacamole and French fries.

I couldn't make up my mind what to order so I went with fries ...

mussels ...

and the Bibb salad.


FunnyGirl ordered the French onion soup ...



and we all shared some escargot.


Do you want the good news or the bad news first?

I wasn't blown away by the food at Tartine. The mussels were good, but hardly the best ever. I like my mussels drowning in broth and the mussels on the top of the pile were dried out. I'd eaten the best mussels I'd had in the city a few weeks prior at Esperanto so maybe I was ruined for all other Manhattan mussels. The French fries were also disappointing. They looked way better than they tasted. Too much crisp, too little potato.

On the other hand, my Bibb salad, HB's chicken and the French onion soup were well worth the trip. I loved the sour lemon vinaigrette on my salad. I tried a chunk of HB's chicken and it was tender and juicy and the guac was surprisingly right on. I tried a spoonful of FunnyGirl's soup and it was the perfect amount sweet and savory.

Last but not least we went with a berry crumble for dessert. This was the best thing on the table that night. We had three spoons and scarfed it down faster than you can say merci.


I'd only been to one BYOB place in the city with Swimster ages ago. What's not to like? I think there will be a surge in popularity of the BYOB concept within the coming months. One of the easiest (?) vices to cut out of the budget is booze and if you're tightening your wallet, a BYOB dinner is the perfect solution. Next stop for FTDC is TheDude's pick, and another BYOB spot, Kuma Inn. I hope to make it a habit of finding more restaurants like Tartine in the future. God knows I could use a little tightening of the wallet and the belt buckle...

253 W. 11th St., at 4th St. 212-229-2611

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