The highlights from my New York moments…

Almost as much as she loves playing Octomom and Matisse, Abigail loses track of time when she’s building with blocks.

The Hayden Planetarium might’ve hit the list had the shows not been sold out upon arrival. Oops. Their paternal grandparents were taking the sprouts to the Dinosaur exhibit at the Museum of Natural History later in the week, and there I was, stormy weather, stranded in the Museum of Natural History. Now what? Answer: view nearly every inch of the museum aside from anything even “touching” the Dino exhibit. Exhaust us all, then feed us, Pinkberry style. Chase the food coma with a nap at Aunt Amanda’s apartment (my step-sister), where Luke + Abby met their nine-month-old cousin Hannah. Nap nap nap nap nap. Uncle James arrives. I read, cry, and savor the letter James wrote to his father in The Legacy Letters: Messages of Love and Hope from 9/11 Family Members. Auntie Erica arrives (my other step-sister) in time to bathe Hannah and bring me up to speed on amore.

Girl after my own heart

Lovable Dulce swoops in with macaroon packages, individually-wrapped raspberry cushions. Eyes widen, coy smiles, that very quiet, very controlled, sweet sweet beg. Then Dulce and I hold onto the sprouts for dear life as we cab it to Serafina to meet Smelly, her daughter, and facially fantastic Amy (the girl makes the best faces). The whole NYC cab situation with young kids, no booster, no car seats, terrorizes me. This is a horrendous comparison, but top-of-mind? Pull and pray. Emerging safely from a New York City cab with small children is like being one partner away from an STD.

Crayons and paper tablecloths mark the moments of our night, and although we mostly now have children, it’s as if no time has passed at all. It’s as though I never moved to Austin, never owned a house, never ever married or left. We’re transported back to our earliest shared moments.

When I think of “the past,” I think I always rewind too far.

Coralia Leets Necklace

Seeing the sun-kissed faces of first cousins (and first cousins once removed) made me thankful for family, wishing we were all closer, the way I was able to grow up in their backyard, how our childhoods were spent over lasagnas and under awnings,  all our heights marked on a wall, bubble wands and afternoons of Old Yeller. On the whole, spending the afternoon at North Hills Country Club was.. a soul frenzy. North Hills is a version of home—the water-logged Speedo version—that despite the Long Island accents, springboards me to a time of comfort, with Mom in tennis whites, Dad elbowed up for a game of gin, Lea criss-cross-applesauce, a paunch, a ring of blue icy lips, wheeling and dealing, calling dibs on the next round of Nok Hockey. Years where lawn chairs were homes, pine needles fed imaginary babies, shade felt like a cool cola, and summer was something we both lived and dreamed.

Walls Wharf, Bayville, NY

As a total aside, it was wonderful having Alexandra and her honeydew sweet boy spend the afternoon with us. She is, after all, family. Also, I fell in love with Alexandra’s necklace. Leave it to her to coordinate jewelry with her bikini. Seriously. But who could think in bikini with Walls Wharf on deck?

More to come later. For now, I must sleep. Then, off to preschool orientation because these things are complicated. And for what it’s worth that was said without even the faintest dab of sarcasm.

Other favorite moments: running into former coworkers at the Ace Hotel, seeing my favorite coworker and sharing our favorite stories at The John Dory Oyster Bar for west coast oysters (Fanny Bay oysters are by far my fav), semi-frizzante wine (good luck finding that at a wine shop), then the topper: old school everything. Captain Jack and Brandy’s. Just love.

QUESTION FROM A GREEK TRAGEDY READER: I’m currently visiting my boyfriend who lives in Austin. This is my second extended visit, and when I come I typically stay for a couple of weeks. I still feel like I haven’t gotten a taste of what Austin has to offer. We went to First Thursday, and I love Trudy’s. Per one of your older blog entries, we visited Mozart’s last night, and I really enjoyed it. Are there any other places you can recommend? They can be things done during the day alone while he’s at work or things we can do together.

Here’s what I can offer as someone who’s lived in Austin for the past SIX years (am I the only one who’s just realizing it’s been that long?): a sense of miss. I know what I miss about Austin already, just a few weeks out. Aside from missing my friends, I can say this: the people in Austin are all smart or interesting. I’ve never (aside from NY transplants) met anyone living in Austin who isn’t really interesting. Yes, huge sweeping generalization, but huge truth. So, I say, go meet some people!

The shops on South Congress are a great way to spend a day alone. Aside from American Apparel, the stores are unique and have that special Austin flavor. Austin, above other cities I’ve frequented, is whatever you want it to be. It’s granola, old school country, lots of ink, live music black jeans – anything goes, old Dallas gone Austin Country Club, fundraisers up the waz. So, I’ve asked this very question of one and all in Austin, and here is what was shared with me:

Blues on the green in Zilker park
Mana Culture on South First (add feather or sparkle hair extension, etc. to your hair)
Texacana Café on 360
The Drag – Guadeloupe (I have personally never understood the draw)
Toy Joy
East Side Café
Ride the Train at Zilker Park
Kayaking on Ladybird Lake (Lake Austin)
Barton Springs
Amy’s Ice Cream (local version of Cold Stone Creamery/ Steve’s Ice Cream)
Trudy’s
Chevy’s for Creamy Jalapeno Dip
* Alamo Drafthouse – ABSOLUTELY, and you must order fried pickles
Salt Lick
Sandy’s for fries and frozen custard
Hyde Park Grill – people rave about the fries, but this place (and its fries) do nothing for me
Perla’s – yes and yes. Holy fcuk, go now. Frozen drink special each day is almost always fantastic. Get the lobster roll and split it as an appetizer.
Mayfield Park – special place in my heart from my time with the Girl Scouts. It’s a park with koi and peacocks.
Capitol
Lake Travis, skip Oasis and head to Iguana Grill

GOT QUESTIONS? NEED ADVICE?
If you have questions or need advice on anything from where to eat to how to get over the bastard, just email your question to my advice email address.

i once made a Georgia peach pie with a cinnamon lattice crust and served it alongside home-spun brown sugar ice cream. But I cant recall with whom I’d enjoyed such a summer pleasure. And that’s when my obsessions made perfect sense. My memories were, sometimes are, about the food, not the people.

Other times, magical memory moments, are all about the connection, a look, a squeezed knee under a table at an Italian restaurant. The restaurant name escapes you, but you remember the exact table and then something vaguely about salmon. But you can’t recall if it was that you were at a carb palace of a restaurant, and you thought to yourself I should order the salmon. I should order the salmon. Or, if maybe you’d said aloud to this could-be soul-mate across from you that there’s no way you’re ordering the salmon. Maybe you caught a sliver of conversation from an older woman, a woman who wears skirt suits to dinner, and you remarked to your date that this was exactly the place you’d thought it would be, that no matter where you go in New York, no matter how luxurious the food palate offered, there will always be someone asking for dry salmon, no oil, lemon on the side.

My memory for food is remarkable to me. The way some people can be standing across the world, in a tony town they’d read about all their life, saved for, seen in photographs, and now there, in the mix of smells and sounds, a feast of look at this, did you see that, they’ll suddenly smell The Catskills. “Oh my God, I smell camp.” And memories of not wanting to touch the bottom of the lake with his bare feet are unavoidable. You’re re-planted in familiar soil, no matter how foreign you get.

People say that relationships work this way. That there will be familiar strains and patterns, no matter how foreign this new type of person you’re with is, you take yourself with you everywhere. So, unless you change, nothing really will. I’m just not one of the people saying this. 

The fact that I associate a magical snow day, stowed away in a dark bar, playing Connect Four with drinking Shiraz  will never change. We can’t control what we remember, only what we choose to make of those shiraz-tinted memories. I think I hold them just a little too close, idealize a then, because it’s easier than pushing myself to find the magical moments worth capturing now. That, or I just need to eat at better restaurants.

Fino is now Fin. As in, the end. No more. Never again.

I arrived at Fino ready to get my drink ON. I plugged in the laptop, whipped out the glasses, and got ready to write. Only, first, come on. Drinks. My bee sting, please. “Sorry, uh, that bartender no longer works here, so we don’t have that drink.” Or any other drink that doesn’t taste of rubbing alcohol.

Fino, you try hard to be a cocktail-savvy bar, but you’re not. I’m sorry, but it’s true. The “Brotherly Love” cocktail composed of bluecoat American gin, cocchi americano, st. germain elderflower, canton ginger and orange bitters smells like a freshly squeezed tangerine. Bright. Promising. New Year’s Day. But it tastes like bathtub gin that maybe got to rub up against a cutie orange as she made her way past you in line for the loo. “It’s a real favorite,” isn’t the line you should be pitching to patrons. But, hey, you were really good sports when I let you know, as hard as it was for me, that it really hadn’t grown on me, and that I would, indeed, try something else instead. Good sports.

I ordered up a lovely Muscadet 09 Luneau-Papin, Clos des Allees because I saw the word “Bourgogne” for $10. And it was just that, lovely. Perfect temperature. So ideal. I’m in a good mood now, the air singing of spring, pink in the night. I ask about happy hour specials. Happy hour begins at 5pm. It’s 4:45. I peck at my Bourgogne and wait it out. At 4:58 (I looked at my laptop), (let’s call her) Rachel, my waitress, asks if I’d like to order any appetizers.

I go ahead and order FROM THE HAPPY HOUR MENU, holding it up, asking about different offerings. I order the blistered peppers and pork skewers, both sans carbs, sans sugar. Good girl.

Then, the everloving check arrives, where my wine is the expected ten-spot. But the appetizers are not at all happy, itemized as full-price. Ugh. Must I really dispute the $2 per order? I was just gypped four beans. Does it matter? Principle, good friends, principle. I say so, sheepishly, to a waitress passing by. She’ll tell my waitress. And tell her she did, or so I must assume, when Rachel returns with a revised check and all but smacks my face with it.

“Here,” she says, simply leaving it on my table, doing “the walkaway.” Mind you the place is as dead as it’ll ever be. So, she’s in no rush. No sweet words, no, “Gosh, my mistake,” no nothing. My point isn’t to berate Rachel or the people who trained her, but to say this:

GO OUT OF YOUR WAY TO POINT OUT YOUR OWN MISTAKES.

People appreciate it. We are human, too. We make more and don’t always fess up to them, so go ahead and be the person to say, “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m so sorry about the slip up. I really hope you enjoyed everything, and please let me know if there’s anything else you need.” Kill me with kindness, and I’ll be back. Slap the check down, admit nothing, do “the walkaway” and that’s what you’ll get… potential business walking away.

I think we could change lives just by doing this simple thing. I’m going to go home right now and admit all my mistakes. Not to humble, not to hear how silly I am, but to come clean. Because good luck at being angry with anyone who comes to you without expectation, without ego, and just lays it out there. I’m not perfect. I mess up. I mess up a lot. And you still manage to love me. Thank you.

Know what else I’m thinking, just a little bit? You mess up too, motherfcuker, and I still manage to love you. So why don’t you take a page out of THIS BOOK and fess up and admit all the things you get terribly wrong with every right intention there is. I guarantee, you’ll get more from me than a 20% tip.

With Kids, Hit Up Serendipity III : The Foot Long Hot Dog

Being asked, “If you could eat ANYWHERE in New York, where would you go?” is like asking me to plan a dream vacation. My mind slips into a state of bliss, a place superior to dreaming, and I begin to hopscotch my way across the city, touching off at the sweetest spots, for things as simple as cocoa and as complex as a twice baked upside-down Comté soufflé. So when a friend posed this question to a sea of Facebook friends, I felt it was my duty to step in and set things straight.

From her friends, she received the following recommendations:

“Lupa, Gramercy Tavern, Blue Hill, Lincoln, Peter Lugers.”
“Abc kitchen will not disappoint!!! Also, brown cafe on the lower east side- yummy!”
“Hotel griffou. My new best ever.”
“Luna Piena on the east side or Asia de Cuba”
“I’ll agree about Hotel Griffou and it’s nice to have a drink before or after in the bar area. Also Da Silvano, Morandi or Lupa for Italian, Old Homestead for Steaks.”
“Da Silvano is still my favorite! Bar Pitti, Il Buco, Little Owl, Blue Ribbon and Prune are all great too!”
“Shake Shack!”

Then another question popped into the conversation, revealing that the diner in question would be eating with his lawyers and wanted an “awesome restaurant he hasn’t been to.” And all I’m thinking is Shake Shack?! Look at the cow jump over the over-rated loon.

Here is where I elbowed my way into the conversation: Literally, this is what I wrote on facebook

I am a foodie. I know my shit. And these Facebook friends of yours, and this is said with love, have no idea what the concept of “anywhere” is. Gramercy Tavern is good for lunch, in the bar area. Sit at the bar, even better.

At Lupa you’ll basically get “country” Italian, like a lamb shank that kinda melts away in your mouth, but it’s nowhere I’d send someone.

Asia de Cuba is outdated; not even a consideration.

I haven’t been to Hotel Griffou.

Da Silvano is a no. Know why? It’s not special. It’s casual. It’s not memorable (sorry, but I’ve been several times and I can’t remember what we ordered, only that I sat beside Dr. Phil).

Also, sorry, but Little Owl and Prune are a poor man’s special. Little Owl is great for cocktails, though.

Blue Ribbon, however, is consistently good.

I would go to Balthazar for breakfast or brunch (goat cheese onion tart, or eggs with soldiers for breakfast).

The Meatball Shop for lunch (Thank you Carole for the tip about the homemade ice cream sandwiches), but it’s on Stanton Street, which is a hike and a half.

Where would I, personally, go if I could go anywhere when someone else is paying? Anything by Alain Ducasse. I’d try Benoit or Adour Alain Ducasse at the St. Regis hotel. Also, you can never, ever go wrong with Gotham Bar & Grill. It’s an old standby.

Anything by Joel Robuchon, namely, L’Atelier at The Four Seasons.

Or if he wants chic, hip, people watching, Minetta Tavern. And if he’s jonesing for Italian, he should consider Danny M’s new Maialino at Gramercy Park Hotel or Sorella on Allan St.

And, if anyone suggests Má Pêche, they’re not insane, but they’re not on the mark, either. You don’t go there if you’re looking for an “anywhere meal.”

The restaurants I’d most like to go, personally, are Sho Shaun Hergatt and Aldea (I haven’t been to either yet). Stuck up rant over. Smooches.

Pork Jowels with Polenta at Parkside

At first smell: it’s as if apple pie had a one night stand with Wilbur
At first bite: Wilbur has been one lazy porker, sunning and snacking on Fern’s corn

The pork is soft, as it should be. Not ropey, not spreadable. Appropriate. The accompanying molehill of polenta lacks seasoning, but the sauce is vibrant—a dinner companion of a sauce, one you’d imagine is comfortable asking for a table of one, reading a book, smiling at the people who shoot glances of “party for one” pity. It stands on its own with wisdom, technique and a sense of history.

The meat feathers, like an outstretched wing. All the flavor is in the glossy wine sauce, a reduction of veal and chicken stock, mirepoix, thyme, fete (a Moroccan spice?), and to my surprise, chardonnay.

The polenta is a good ole country girl with farm values, who can drink the milk from a cob of corn, milking everything for what it’s worth. Appropriately toothsome—each grain easily separated, garnished with celery leaves.

No one likes to talk about it, but there’s something to be said for fat. It’s round. It’s soft, it’s basically the womb. And it’s safe to say, it’s comfort. This dish tastes like the kind of home you see in happy cartoons with red barns and roosters. It’s home, not mine, not yours, but a universal home built around the communal table, where people gather, hold hands, bow heads in prayer, and recite blessings, not rote, but gloriously sung out in praise of the bounty.