Here We Are Again

I definitely thought that with this winter being milder, I would complain less. So far, that's been (just go with me on this) mostly true. However, at the end of February, as always, I am itching for spring again. To put it mildly: this really didn't help.

Made by Hand / No 3 The Beekeeper from Made by Hand on Vimeo.

Listen, guys, I am a curmudgeon. I love to be all "UGH, here's my sustainably-grown, artisanally-roasted Brooklyn joke," as much as the next guy. Because I live there. And while I love it, I do find a lot of it to be kind of insufferable sometimes. But, if you can watch this and not feel the tiniest bit proud of this woman, her commitment to something that definitely seemed crazy not too long ago, and her desire to share it with people, I don't know man. Maybe you're even more of a grump than I am. 

That said, watch all of Made by Hand's videos. They are crazy delightful.

An Ugly Limbo

I will never claim to be the kind of person who does not complain about the weather. I hope you guys can forgive me. There is something about this particular transition of fall to immediate winter that really seems to throw me and the ones I love into a funk. I'm envisioning the next six months of bitter cold, slush on the ground and decreased sunlight, but am not quite to the point where I anticipate cozy nights with hot toddies and braised meats. It's an ugly limbo, October. 

Fried Pickles with Vanderbilt Ranch Dressing

One freak snowstorm later, November is here with its closed windows, boots and early sunsets. I am glad to say that I spent one of our final bonus days of summer a few weekends ago sitting in the window of The Vanderbilt, sipping a cocktail of tequila and grapefruit juice, acting like I will never stop wearing flip flops and sun dresses.

An Open Letter to New York City

Dear New York City,

Hello. I hope this letter finds you well. I'll be direct, because I know you're busy: we get it. It's fucking hard to live in you sometimes. But please, for the sake of the sanity of all of us, warm. UP.

The problem is that you gave us one glorious weekend of sunshine and spring temperatures and then took it away. This, above all things, really, really hurt our feelings. It's lucky for you there is an indoor farmer's market near to me on Sundays. Otherwise, I might go crazy and start threatening to move to the south. For now, I'll occupy myself by roasting pork. But, this is a mere diversion, so please get your shit together. XOXO: Rebecca.

Now, about that pork.

Excellent News

via NY Food Museum

Great news via the NY Food Museum's Twitter:

10th Annual Pickle Day Sun 10/17/2010 - pkg lot at Broome/Ludlow - NYC Lower East Side. FUN. FREE. FASHIONABLE, sort of. Filling, anyway.

The beautiful Jordi Gailard with a Pickle-on-a-Stick, wedding style.

Last year's Annual Pickle Day was where I had the good fortune to meet the guys from Horman's Best, who just so happened to have supplied all the pickles for our wedding. These guys, aside from being incredibly friendly, make a spicy-sour pickle that will knock your brains loose in your head. That is to say, they're delicious.

You can find Horman's at the DUMBO farmer's market on Sundays, up in the Hamptons on occasion (not my department) and also just outside the West 4th street stop in Manhattan on Carmine street & 6th ave.

See you at Pickle Day? You know I'll be there.

Greatest. Wedding. Marker. Ever.

The Last Days of Gourmet

I am slowly coming to grips with the fact that I'll never get to work at Gourmet.



When I first heard that the magazine was closing, I mourned the loss of pretty pictures, thoughtful articles and spot-on recipes. Kevin Demaria's recent photoblog The Last Days of Gourmet reminded me that there was once a brick and mortar establishment that housed all of those fantastic brains I appreciated so much. You should take a look. It's stunning and sad and will make you realize that you just don't have enough gadgets in your kitchen. Thank you, Kevin. I can't wait to see what you get into next.

A Coffee Phenomenon

I'm sheepish.

I know I owe three or four posts of epic structure and meaning.

But I can't give you that right now.

What I can give you is the coolest blog about coffee I've ever read. To be fair it's also about New York and all of the wonderful ticks and tocks that make this city so much fun to be a part of.

Pictures of Cristoph Neimann's Lego representations of things we all love and recognize have been surfacing everywhere I turn. Today I found out that his love/hate/need/despise relationship with coffee is something I totally identify with. Enjoy. I'm going to go make a cup immediately.

In Which I Conquer My Fear of Cold Weather for Love of My Tastebuds.

Hi kids!

It is WINTER in New York. Anyone noticed?

We all know I'm a desert kid. New Mexico gets snow, on occasion. By 'on occasion', I mean that one inch of fresh powder on the sidewalk shuts down schools and businesses city-wide. I have no idea what my fair hometown would do with the snow-rain-sleet-hail combo blanketing NYC the last three days.

But I, my friends, am determined to adapt. So, yesterday my sidekick and I decided to venture out into the 27 degree day for a little adventure. First stop: another one of Kathy's ideas.

The day we met Kathy and Mitzy at the Brooklyn Flea, she mentioned a great patisserie in Park Slope called Trois Pommes. She offhandedly mentioned that they make killer doughnuts, but only on Saturdays. This is information that I promptly forgot. However, my sidekick, failure of many a sweets-12-step-program that he is, has been pining away every weekend for a trip down 5th avenue to this fabled patisserie.

Don't ask me why yesterday, a Saturday in Brooklyn where I saw fewer people on the street than may have been out in Albuquerque after a snowstorm, was the day we decided to do so. I am, however, extremely glad that we did.

Exhibit A: Coffee and House-made Rasberry Jelly Doughnuts.



I'm back on coffee for the first time in years. And it's a good thing. Trois Pommes uses Gorilla Coffee, (a local favorite, which just so happens to live a block away from me) which I've decided is fantastic.

Exhibit B: An Extremely Pleased Sidekick.



So, with the boyfriend happy and sugar-ed, we decided to go for a little romp around Williamsburg and do a little (much procrastinated) Christmas shopping. Our plan was to kick around until afternoon for a late lunch at Fette Sau (famed Brooklyn beer bar Spuyten Duyvil's BBQ brainchild), as we've heard raves about it and are both meat fans, in general. I mean, pork is important. Disagreement with that statement baffles me.

However, much to our and our frost-bitten noses displeasure, we discovered that Fette Sau is dinner only. They open at 5pm to dispell their carnivorous gospel, and not before.

Instead, by very, very happy accident, we wandered into a diner. Well, not A diner, rather, a joint simply called 'Diner' at the corner of Broadway and Berry. Now, rumor has it, this mildly renovated 1920's dining car once held an actual greasy spoon.

I thank whichever restaurant god bestowed it's latest incarnation upon us.



It is a tiny, cramped, possibly architecturally unstable hovel. Which, if you know anything about me, you know appealed to me instantly. The menu, which I would guess changes daily, comes to you hand-written on a piece of cash register receipt. These are market-influenced offerings. You can just tell. That being said, it is a BARGAIN. Not ridiculously cheap by normal diner standards, but this is FAR from a normal diner.

Exhibit A: Sidekick's Sausage 'Sammy' (their words, not mine).



Soft, butter-griddled bun. Like the best bulky roll you've ever tasted. If they're not house-made, they get them from somewhere VERY close. Perfectly seasoned, home made sausage patty (I tasted rosemary). Two, perfectly over easy eggs. Runny yolks, tender-but-set whites. House-pickled onions (are you noticing a pattern here?). So simple, so perfect.

Exhibit B: My 'Market Salad'.



House-made buttermilk dressing (I am a fan of the newest Ranch come-back). Herby, leafy salad with chives, green onions and radishes. BACON LARDONS. And the most perfect (while maybe not traditional) Scotch Egg that's ever existed. Allow me to expand upon this (as if you have any choice):

I think Scotch Eggs are gross. They're usually a pretty stodgy amalgamation of hard-boiled egg, greasy sausage, stale bread crumbs, fried to death.

Diner's Scotch Egg defies physics. In order to... Scotch an egg (?), it has to be boiled first, at LEAST soft-boiled, so that you can shell it and add the crispy coating. It is then cooked again. The yolk inside that Scotch Egg is RUNNY. What does this mean?

This means that Diner has cooked an egg TWICE better than most mortals could cook an egg ONCE. And for that, I salute them. I believe the egg was missing the requisite sausage component, but aside from that it was a Scotch Egg for all others to aspire to.

Oh and GREAT coffee. Did I mention I'm back on coffee?

Happy Eidachristmahanukkwanzikah everyone!



Trois Pommes
260 5th Ave
Brooklyn, NY 11215
718-230-3119

Diner
85 Broadway (Berry St.)
Brooklyn, NY 11211
718-486-3077

Tastebuds: "What a great weekend!"

Moving to a new city can be so stressful. You start over in so many ways. How to arrange the apartment, which spices to start re-filling cabinets with first, how on earth you'll ever find a job, which neighborhood spots are worth becoming a regular at... The possibilities are truly endless. Now move to Brooklyn and multiply those possibilities by 5,000.

We moved in on Saturday and everyone kept saying, 'How excited are YOU?'. And for some reason, I just couldn't muster up more than a half-honest, 'Soooo excited'. We found a great apartment, with an even better roommate, in an amazing part of Brooklyn that's convenient to everything, and I couldn't even find the energy to elaborate? To be honest, I was overwhelmed. I've wanted to live in New York since I was old enough to decide such things, which my sidekick and I determined last week was... about five or six.

It's like Chanukah (insert Christmas, Goyem); I'd wait and wait and wait for one specific present EVERY year, let's call it 'Hot Shots Basketball'. And every year I'd tear through my presents hoping for that ONE present to be unveiled. But every year my parents saved it till last, hidden away under their bed or something, just to see me squirm. They'd bring it out in this triumphant 'We got you' moment at the very end of the night, but by then I'd worked up so much agita about not getting it that I was exhausted! This is kind of how I felt about New York last week.

Now, let me be clear, this is not New York's fault. New York is wonderful and I love her. It's not you, New York, it's me. But don't worry, I don't want to break up. I still believe in us. Even more after this weekend. And New York, you and I have my tastebuds to thank for this...

Well, to be more specific, New York, my tastebuds and my loyal and supportive sidekick have another person to thank. Her name is Kathy.

Kathy writes a blog called 'A Passion for Food', which I was introduced to by a certain benevolent-food-and-booze-appreciating uncle, and I'm beginning to suspect that Kathy's tastebuds and my tastebuds have an awful lot in common.



This is a bowl of beef noodle soup. The beef, probably neck-meat, but 'parts' to be sure. The soup, a salty, murky, oily broth of dubious origin that achieves that perfect, blissful state of umami. But the noodles are the real star.

They're hand pulled.

The phrase itself really doesn't do the process justice. Here's what happens: When you walk into Lan Zhou Handmade Noodles at 144 E. Broadway -- if you are lucky enough to have someone clue you in on what this magical address holds -- you are greeted with the distinct feeling that you don't belong here unless you speak Chinese. Ignore that. It's a stupid reflex that will keep you from enjoying heaven on earth for your tastebuds.

There is a very short English menu, a noticeably larger Chinese version, an array of condiments unfamiliar to most and, in the back of the room, a man beating the truth out of a long glutinous strand of dough. When you order, this man in the back of the room interrogates the dough, slamming it down on a metal table like it owes him money. Twisting, adding flour, adding water, slamming, twisting... and then suddenly, out of absolutely nowhere, the dough confesses, falling into perfectly uniform strands between this artist's hands.

My friends, we call these NOODLES.




And we call this: BLISS.

And this: SIDEKICK BLISS.

But Lan Zhou isn't quite done with us yet. There are DUMPLINGS. Doused with my new condiment of choice: Chinkiang Vinegar. Or black vinegar. Or... I don't know, mother's milk. I threatened to drink it off the plate with a straw. It sounds silly, but LOOK at the plate:



It's blurry, Mitch, I know, but you can only take so many pictures before things get cold. And that's just not in my nature. These things are piping hot, crispy and tender on the outside and filled with exactly the right ratio of pork : chive. Trust me on this, I've investigated, there's no other word for this but SEXY.

Now here's what happens when you leave the noodle bar on East Broadway: You know a secret. A very delicious, very cheap (noodle bowls max out at $4.50, I think), very share-able secret that will make people who love you only love you more. And if you're a recent New York transplant struggling with your ability to enjoy your favorite city in the world, you walk out of the noodle bar feeling warm from the soup and ready for anything. Because if you've found a place like this and enjoyed it, then my friends, you get it. You win. Your tastebuds, and possibly your sense of life-purpose will thank you. Don't thank me for this.

Thank Kathy.

It was all her idea.

Coming up next: Kathy's next contribution to my tastebuds, Parisian macarons a la Mitzy of Itzy Bitzy Patisserie. I'll let 'A Passion for Food' introduce you, as she introduced me, and in a few days, after I've devoured all dozen of them, I'll report back.


Lan Zhou Hand Made Noodles
144 East Broadway
New York, NY 10002
(212) 566-6933