FOOD BABY GONE WILD!

Try as I may, I cannot seem to find the balance between indulgence and over-indulgence. If I ever do, I will certainly share this coveted secret, and if you're privy to this priceless information, please tell. Until then, I’ll have to be content to fluctuate between fit and fifteen.


There has been an upside to consuming “lotsa pasta,” and that’s that The Boobie Fairy came to visit! Not that I was hurting in that department, but let’s just say that now, My Cup Runneth Over. The downside is she got a little clumsy and spilled her magic dust over my waist and thighs, too. I went from a woman with curves to one with few new speed bumps thrown in for good measure (or bad measure, come to think of it). Yet, I continued to party on, as Bill and Ted advise. What was my turning point, you ask? No, it was not the daily tug of war I was having with my zipper, but my good friend Murph's reaction to me when we met in Chicago to dine at Next. He looked at me point blank and asked, "Who's been baking the biscuits?" (I feel this question needs no translation.)


Now my dilemma begins: Do I cut back on the cheese and penne, or find a guy who's into Rubenesque women?

The fear of my derriere increasing to proportions that would cause it to beep like a truck when it backs up prompted me to decide on the former. But before I cut myself off, I had to indulge one last time and hold my own personal foodie Mardi Gras. I gave myself permission to feast on all my favorites. (Even though the term “Fat Tuesday” has a different meaning for most Christians, for me, it was sadly apropos.) Who better to share this last meal with than Shane, my comrade in arms, tummies and all things delicious? And to make things even nicer for me, it was his turn at the dining wheel.

I donned the white sundress which, before the Boobie Fairy’s visit, used to fit a lot differently, and set off for the island of Manhattan armed with a bottle of 2003 Mazi from my cellar. (Side note: don't you hate it when girls get pissy at guys for beeping their horns at them, when meanwhile, they’re wearing skirts so short you can see their personality?) Anyway, I texted Shane to warn him that the twins were out in full force! (For the record, he didn't seem to mind.)

On my taxi ride to the restaurant from Penn Station, the traffic came to a standstill on 7th Avenue, so I decided to ditch the cab and walk. With time to kill, I stopped off and had a Prosecco and OJ (my new favorite summer drink) at Bar’rique, a local wine bar that recently opened on Bleeker Street in the West Village. Boy was I happy I did! Not only did they have a lovely Italian red from Umbria (2006 Di Filippo Sagrantino di Montefalco DOCG) on the list, but they also had a great selection of cheeses and cured meats. Shorty after Shane arrived, we were off to L’artusi, a gem of an Italian restaurant that gives Babbo a run for its money.

The pastas that chef, Gabriel Thompson created at L’artusi were tasty, tasty, tasty, but the one dish that lingers in my thoughts (and the one that I will reward myself with when I shed these undesirable side packs) is their Olive Oil Cake. Seriously, it’s to die for, or at the very least, maim for.

The lineup of wines was also scrumptious, and paired perfectly with all of the chef's creations.

P.S. Shane thinks that he's got the edge in what is rapidly turning into a "Can You Top This?" restaurant competition. I beg to differ, Shane. Like my buddy Napoleon said, all glory is fleeting, so watch out. That’s not to say that the food at L'artusi wasn't kick butt good – it was – but I still have a few tricks up my soon-to-be-shrinking sleeve.

One more piece to this dinner of “last but not least” - we ate at the bar! :)

When an Apple becomes a Tomato

When I first moved from the Island of Staten to the lovely Garden State, I felt a bit out of place and, at times, lonely. Where were the sidewalks, and why did Jerseyites insist on calling tomato sauce “gravy?” But as I settled in and began turning lemons into lemonade (or in my case, tomatoes into puree), I switched gears and focused on the wonderful aspects of life in New Jersey (click here), such as having deer graze on the front lawn, beautiful starry nights, total privacy, and the quaintness of local farm houses selling produce. All this country charm was right in my backyard, and still within striking distance to civilization (a.k.a. New York). What a great place to raise a family!

The only thing missing? Female wine enthusiasts! You know how they say, “Ask and you shall receive?” Well, who should happen to move in two houses down from me but a fellow oenophile – oh, happy day! Please indulge me while I quickly describe our first wine encounter: it was Easter Sunday. Stevie had opened a 1975 Petrus (click here) for me to taste, but wasn’t feeling like having any (I KNOW! I couldn’t believe it then, and I still can't believe it now)! Anyway, I asked him if he would mind if I brought the wine over to share with our new neighbor, Maralice. Since dinner was over, and it was just him and I and the monkeys hanging out at home, he said, "Sure, go ahead." Happily, I walked over, decanter in hand, and rang her bell both literally and with the wine :-) She has been my WFF ever since (Wine Food Friend)!

Maralice was not the only NJ crony to indulge in the fermented fruit - Debbie and Yvette were also apostles of the vine. So it soon became a triple play for me and my cellar of plenty!

Today, all three came over for a long overdue get-together. What was the on the menu for a day of girls and giggles? Veal chops, pasta and more pasta! Debbie is not a big fan of veal, so Yvette brought salad and Maralice made grilled chicken. I, however, enjoy a good chop every now and then, especially when it’s made with an 85-year-old balsamic vinegar (click here) drizzled on top. You could almost cry with happiness. One of the pasta dishes was a variation on the rav recipe I wrote about a few blogs back. (Check out my website for this one by clicking here, along with a very simple pasta with pomodoro sauce – that’s sauce, not gravy.)

The wine for the truffle buttered pasta was a 2001 Climens (click here). Bob (Parker - click here) was right for giving it 100 points, as it deserves every single one of them. The red sauce was paired with a lovely, light and extremely affordable Chianti, ( A 2008 Farnetella Chianti Collli -click here- to be exact and if you’d like I’d be happy to send you both the wine, and the Pomodoro sauce recipe.)

What’s left to do after a meal like this but lie by the pool, exhale, digest, and perhaps sip a bit of grappa…Mmmmmm!

Next - it ain't!

Ol' Blue Eyes was right: Chicago is a hell of a town, but only in the summer. Otherwise, I think that Frank's sentiment is a little less endearing. We're talking winter wind blowing so hard that your eyeballs freeze over. But July is a different story, and with that same wind blowing off the lake via “the summer wind, comes blowin’ in” ( sing it with me), it will put a little skip in your step. (BTW, who knew Chicago has a beach?!)

Friday, we flew out to America's Windy City not to sightsee but to dine at Next, Chef Grant Achatz latest craze, courtesy of Chicago’s Mayor (no, not Rahm Emanuel) Bill, our “unofficial” official and Midwest hero who seems to know everyone who’s anyone in Chi-town . Bill used his magic and got us a table at the hotter-than-hot eatery, and for less than the $3000 as a Google report claims some have happily paid to experience this unique concept.

(Pre-dinner drinks at Maude's Liquor Bar)

Are you familiar with speed dating? In a nutshell, it’s a fast paced approach to meeting your soul mate. The idea is that each potential partner has 60 seconds to wow you on a mini-date. After the minute is up, a buzzer sounds, signaling that person to quickly move onto the next date, while another takes their seat, and so on. It’s like musical chairs, but with a matchmaking twist. The thought behind it is clever: you have one shot to make a good impression, and whether you do or you don't, once the buzzer blares, you’ve got to pull up stakes and am-scray.


Dining at Next (get it?) was sorta like speed dating, minus the buzzer. As hard as this restaurant's menu and service tried to impress with all the bells and whistles, it fell short... in other words, there will be no callbacks. All the place was missing was a dog and pony show (come to think of it, that might have helped). The theme this month is Thai, and not to disparage Thai food, it's just not a cuisine that usually impresses on the level Next intended. But I applaud the risk Chef Dave Beran took in his attempt to do so. (Btw, if you’re looking for great, honest Thai food without the hoopla, check out either Umi Nom or the Kuma Inn Kuma Inn! Plus they're BYOB, whereas Next tells you what you’re going to drink with each course – sorry, but I'm not likin' that one bit, even more so when what is offered tastes awful OR is just plain off.)

(I think they fed us Audrey II for dessert)

Remember Kevin Kline’s character, Otto West, in A Fish Called Wanda? His reaction when he cracked open the empty safe? That pretty much sums it up for me and my experience at Next.

Next tries too hard, but as far as brilliant business models go, it’s impressive. The restaurant’s marketing is unusual but smart, with patrons buying dining tickets as they would tickets to a Broadway show. This allows knowing exactly how many overly-doughy dumplings to order; plus, if a patron doesn’t show for the Pomp and Circumstance of a meal, Accounting needn’t worry since it's paid for in advance, and with a “no refunds” policy. My guess is that we'll be seeing a lot more of these types of restaurants opening up. Let’s just hope their hype will be worth a plane ride.