A Finger in Every Pie

Upper East Eating

Like most of New York, I'm pretty much always on the look-out for a place to meet with a couple of chums where we can slug back some good wine and eat something delicious and not break the bank.  Not an easy ticket to fill these days. 

So when the charming Bunni suggested that Bakerina and I go with her to try the newly re-opened Panorama (an italianate resto that had moved from the corner of Second Avenue and East 85th St. to a few doors down, into the middle of the block on 85th between 1st and 2nd aves), I was game.  I'm always game for a night out with the girls, despite the grumbles it inspires from G, who doesn't take kindly to having his comfort object (read:  person who makes dinner) taken out of his immediate radius. 

I vaguely remembered the old Panorama.  It was fine, but as far as I could recall, there wasn't a lot to set it off from the rest of the pack of Upper East hangouts that run down Second Avenue from 86th St. down to the mid-Seventies, usually filled with preppyish types who are as scornful of me as I of them, I'm quite sure.  It had whatever bevvies are required by that sort of joint, and a fairly standard menu of Italianish food. 

But the new Panorama is something else altogether.  This isn't a place where overgrown Upper East boys and their molls come to drink and force others to sigh over the noxious behavior of the overprivileged.  This is a place with a great little wine list, delicious standard dishes and creative specials, and very considerate service -- all at excellent prices. 

To start with, our wines were lovely.  I chose a Viognier that was described as have lychee and apricot notes, and it did not disappoint, not at all.  Scented and fruit-forward, but still crisp, it was the perfect wine for a spring evening.  B and B were also fond of their reds (Bakerina's was a Pinot Noir; Bunni's was something I haven't heard of; both were quite good). 

On reading the menu, I received the happy and unusual surprise of a pricing scale that seemed more than fair.  This was certainly a place that, if the food didn't disappoint, would merit more visits.  And no, it did not disappoint.

We shared good appetizers of shrimp in garlic sauce, crispy calamari and a refreshingly creative salad with beautiful greens, citrus, and almonds in a strawberry vinaigrette.  Then we went on to pastas.   Bunni and Bakerina each had one of the specials, Bunni's a good paglia y fieno (green and white homemade pasta in a creamy sauce with ham and peas) and Bakerina's a nice mound of spaghetti in a slow-cooked, meaty ragu.  I made a special request -- I wanted the lobster ravioli from the menu of specials, but I wanted it in the light cardinale sauce described on another dish -- white wine, garlic, cherry tomatoes, asparagus and shrimp.  The kitchen had no trouble accomodating this request, something else that's very nice and not always easy to find. 

In a word -- delicious.  All was perfectly cooked, and my entree in particular was light and lovely, just what I wanted.  No room left for dessert, but that was fine too.  So -- should you find yourself on the Upper East for one reason or another, say after a day of museuming on Museum Mile or parking yourself in the park, give a thought to Panorama. 

ADOURation Society: Revelry Continued

 
Is there ever really such a thing as *enough* when it comes to celebrating your birthday?  I think not.  And apparently our dear friends B & B, who have often figured in these pages, agree with this dictum.  Months ago, darling B asked what we were going to do for my birthday.  "Oh, G will take me out to dinner."  And he did.  "And maybe I'll have a party this year," I said, and I did. 

"But let's do something else too, just the four of us," said dearest B.  "I think the new Ducasse restaurant would fit the occasion."  Who am I to argue with such suasion?

That's how we came to be at Adour last night.  Alain Ducasse's latest project is a stunner indeed.  Ruth Reichl has described the room far better than I, and I really hope she and the rest of the staff at Gourmet will forgive me for *borrowing* the images above from their website (does attribution make a difference?)  I'm still phobic about photographing food in posh restaurants.  I know this makes me a bad blogger, but it just really interrupts my dining experience.  I have this preference for allowing myself to be overtaken by the lush environment and the lovely dinner, rather than documenting it.   

The word that best described our experience at Adour is "balance," I think.  Perhaps harmony, but I'll start with balance.  Everything was beautifully balanced, from the perfect touch of sea salt in the olive butter that accompanied the very, very good breads, to the service -- which was comfortable, with just the right touch of put-us-at-our-ease familiarity.  There was a light lacing of humor, but nary a moment's sense of intrusion.  Everyone who came to our table was smoothly delighted to serve our any and every whim -- and not for a moment obsequious.  It was as if we were all, served and servers, just having a very, very good time.  Which we were.  Well.  At least we the served were, since I can't really speak for the servers.  But it's fair to say that if they weren't, they put on a very good show.

Personally, there wasn't a mouthful I met at Adour that I didn't like -- and in most cases, love.  From my bouche's amusement at a tiny vol-au-vent filled with molten truffled cheese (quite perfect with a flute of Dom Perignon) to the petits fours pictured below, it was an evening of simple bliss. 

The stand-out was my starter.  Imagine tiny round ravioli in a herbacious, truffle-laden broth.  As you bite into each one, the rich filling of foie gras melts and fills you with happiness and well-being -- as do the slices of black truffle shaved generously over the top of the dish.  G's starter of tiny buttery clouds of ricotta gnocchi were clearly at the very pinnacle of their game -- whatever gnocchi's game is.  The normally laconic fellow that is my husband was moved to exclaim their deliciousness, especially with their partnering greens and crisped prosciutto. These were the only starters we tasted, since we're not food critics and therefore not obliged to all order different dishes.  The breakdown was that the women ordered the foie gras ravioli, and the men had the gnocchi.  I don't know what this says about gender, and I don't really need to know, since the one true thing was that it was all quite transcendent. 

Next up, staying gender-true, B and I both had Adour's luxurious version of Lobster Thermidor -- beautifully tender small lobster tails and claw meat in a classic sauce, flavored with cognac and tarragon.  The dish was accompanied by swiss chard, geometric domino slices of delicious albeit indeciferable vegetables, and a gorgeously crusted patty of lobster and mushrooms, baked in a little shell.  The men were meat-eaters -- B had a rack of lamb with piquillo peppers and apricots, and a quinoa risotto, while G had venison accompanied by jewel-like carved blocks of root vegetables.  With the agile help of the sommelier, G found us an excellent red that paired well with everyone's food.

Again, everything was in balance.  There was precisely the right amount of sauce in everyone's dish, never overshadowing the main ingredients, but simply enhancing them.  And everything was luxurious, but nothing was overly rich.

Except maybe dessert, which was a glittering event in its own right. First we had a little intermediary cheese course chosen by our most helpful and gentlemanly server, with accompaniments of red pepper jelly, acacia honeyed raisins, date paste and walnut-raisin paste.  Then the stars came out, in the form of huge desserts.  My chocolate sorbet, under a crust of unbelievably good dark chocolate, was graced with a large feuille of gold-leaf, drenched in a dark chocolate sauce and peppered with espresso flavored brioche buttons.  It was one of the deepest, darkest, most delicious chocolate experiences I've ever had -- and I've had a few.  G's apple soufflé was both gloriously pouffy and seriously apple-y -- and accompanied by a vanilla ice-cream with such an addictive vanilla perfume that the table began referring to it as vanilla crack.  B's pear clafoutis (which was actually more of a pear napoleon) was everything pear -- pear pastry with balls of pear, pear ice cream, and julienne salad of pear. 

I'm always a little sad when the petits fours appear.  I just never have the capacity for them, and I do love sweets so very much.  Which is why the servers kindly packed up a whole box of lovely macarons (filled with concentrated raspberry gelée and dark gianduja, respectively) and some chocolates for me to take home, so that I could photograph them for you on my much less lovely petits four dishes in the comfort of Chez AFIEP.   

So ends another installment of the feast of love that has been my latest birthday.  And according to some forecasts, even though February has waned, the celebrations have not, yet.  Imagine. 

On Arthur Avenue with the Amateur Gourmet

Cooking is an exercise in communication:  the ingredients communicate their freshness, the recipes communicate their patented formulas, the pans communicate their readiness, and the dish itself communicates the passion of the chef.  What you place down before a loved one is a meaningful gesture, a symbol of your feelings as reflected in the portion size, the placement on the plate, and the thing itself.  What did you cook? Did you microwave a hot-dog, or did you roast a quail? Did you microwave the hot-dog with love and roast the quail with  indifference? These things matter.

         - Adam Roberts, The Amateur Gourmet:  How to Shop, Chop  and Table-hop Like a Pro (Almost)

The email said " Hey Julie! This is Adam The Amateur Gourmet. My book comes out in three weeks! If you're willing, I'd love to send you an early copy and if you're even more willing I'd love to visit your blog on my Virtual Book Tour."

Yes, reader, it really was from Adam, the Amateur Gourmet himself.  I'd been anticipating reading his book.  And now he had asked me and AFIEP to be one of the stops on his Virtual Book Tour.  You can imagine my delighted reply. Six weeks and quite a few emails later, we would set out on a real-time food-crawl afternoon in preparation for this virtual meet-up. 

Adam's blog The Amateur Gourmet has been a favorite read of mine for a couple of years now.  His is the blog I often turn to when I need to lighten up, have a laugh, or find a new idea for something great to cook.  For although I may have been cooking a good bit longer than Adam has, I get a great deal of inspiration from him.  Adam, you see, like most of us food bloggers, is an amateur, in the very best sense of the word.

It’s always been a source of puzzlement to me that the word “amateur” has such a pejorative connotation in our culture.  We tend to use the word to denote a rookie, a neophyte, someone without much experience or expertise. “A rank amateur,” someone will say, dismissing an artist’s life-long body of work.  “Amateurish,” writes a critic, demonstrating his feeling that someone’s chef d’oeuvre should never even have warranted his notice, much less his review.   

What the word really means is that one has passion -- passion enough about a particular art or skill or field or body of knowledge to pursue it without receiving financial gain.  Adam might have described himself in the more negative connotation of "amateur" when he began his food journey  -- when, as detailed in his book, he thought that dining out was going to The Olive Garden; cooking was popping a frozen pie from California Pizza Kitchens into the oven.  With determined self-education, however, he became a dedicated lover of all things delicious. 

Amateur, from the French, meaning "lover;" in turn  from the Latin amare, "to love."  That’s Adam all over:  a person who throws himself headlong into his interest purely for the love of it.  Even now that he's published his first book, Adam staunchly maintains his "amateur" status.  After all, he doesn't earn a living from eating, or even from cooking, but rather from writing about these things.  He's now a writer by trade, who comes to his calling through being an -- or rather, THE -- Amateur Gourmet:  a lover of that which pleases the discriminating palate. 

I had met Adam briefly at a number of food blogger events, but I wouldn't really say that I knew him.  On the surface, we couldn't be much more different.  Aside from the superficial attributes of gender and age, we've had very different upbringings, particularly in regard to food.  Cooking, especially cooking from scratch, with at least some attention to seasonal food, was at the heart of my family's time together; dining out was central to Adam's early family life.  My mother made soups and stews and homemade salad dressing; Adam's glamorous and beautiful mom made reservations. 

So I read Adam's book.  I could see where, despite the differences in our food histories and experiences, we were much alike -- and that I stood to learn much from him.  The Amateur Gourmet:  How to Shop, Chop and Table Hop Like A Pro (Almost) is billed as a book for those who want to become more knowledgeable food enthusiasts.  But it's not just a book for the rookie.  As Shauna says, Adam's book gives more experienced cooks and eaters a chance to go back to beginner's mind.  We can all use a chance to remember where we came from, in order to continue learning.  And now that I've spent an afternoon with him, I think of Adam as the Evolving Gourmet -- in the way that we all should be -- open-minded, curious, continually exploring.

Adam and I decide to have a food adventure together -- to explore Arthur Avenue, known as the Little Italy of the Bronx. The neighborhood, which is actually called Belmont, is well-known to me, since I've consulted for several nearby public schools.  I haven't really spent much time there for a couple of years, so I'm eager to return.  For Adam, it will be completely new terrain.  How does the Amateur Gourmet approach fooding in unfamiliar territory?   

Adam shows up at our home a little after 11:00, where I'm hoping to impress him with a moist, crumbly apple-plum ripple coffee cake ostensibly baked for G, whose love of apple baked goods has been duly documented here.  Such baked goods are also handy to have on hand when other food bloggers drop by to in order to have them admire your baking prowess.  A true food hound, Adam immediately hones in on the baking pan in the kitchen, saying "What's that?"  He has only a small taste, however, since he's cleverly saving his appetite for the delights of Arthur Avenue.  But he further endears himself to me by telling me how much he likes our kitchen and our home -- what I sometimes despair of as havoc and clutter and disorder, he admires as cozy and lived-in.

Dear, long-suffering G is our chauffeur up to Bronx (at this point, I'm going to refrain from telling you my seasonal Rosh Hashanah joke about blowing the shofar).  He drops us right in the center of Belmont, Arthur Avenue and 187th St., and goes off on his own errands.

Like Kevin, I have taken Adam's book along for the ride, but the author himself remains my focus on this tour.  Where to begin?  We go to Casa Della Mozzarella, noting the gourd-shaped scamorza cheeses the size of small asteroids, as well as the guy in the back stretching massive hanks of pliant mozzarella by hand. I point out the Full Moon Pizzeria, one of the spots I used to hit  for lunch.  But I've already recommended that we eat at Mike's Deli in the Arthur Avenue Retail Market; when you're the fooding guide, it's your sacred responsibility to show off all your absolute favorites. 

We pass the butcher shops with entire dead beasts hanging in the window, the seafood and fish emporia that sell freshly opened clams to eat while walking down the street.  I show Adam the Star of David mosaic at the threshold of Teitel Brothers.  It's a shop with a name that seems a bit out of place in this neighborhood of Biancardis and Madonias and Borgattis, but it offers what are probably the city's best prices on Parmigiano Reggiano, prosciutto di Parma, excellent olive oils, and a host of other delicacies. 

The Arthur Avenue Retail Market is really the heart of the neighborhood.  It's the closest thing in NYC's five boroughs to a European-style covered market. At Mike's Deli, where the old LIFE magazine cover of Il Duce glares at us from the back wall, the much more welcoming counterman banters with us for so long we're not sure he's going to let us go eat the sandwiches he's bullied us into having.  He makes us a gorgeous prosciutto/fresh mozzarella creation with roasted peppers, and a delectable veal cutlet with baby peas and minced peppers in a wine-laced sauce.  He insist that we have two glasses of homemade red wine (which we're sure Lenn would say tastes, ummm, well, homemade).  When we demur, he asks if we're driving.  Adam blurts, "No -- her husband is," pointing to me.  "Her HUSBAND!" the counterman snorts in mock outrage.  "So you two are off here having lunch, without her HUSBAND!"  He thinks he's got us figured out.

Almost satiated, we continue on to the dessert portion of the tour.  Everyone has their favorite pastry shop in this neighborhood, but I'm a hold-out for the crisp cannoli at Madonia Brothers, filled with fresh ricotta cream only when you order.  We get large ones to eat as we continue walking down the street.  They're obscenely delicious, and Adam agrees -- by far the best cannoli either of us have ever had.  The lady from the flower shop stops us and we have a long conversation with her as we eat cannoli.  She convinces us that we will both have to go to Sicily -- probably the only place we'll ever find better cannoli.

Incidents like this one are commonplace on Arthur Avenue.  Everyone is friendly, and disposed to chat.  No-one seems to think twice about striking up a conversation with strangers.   It has almost the feeling of a village, but one that's disposed to be open and warm to outsiders rather than the opposite.  The flower lady tells us her life story, and describes how she, recently arrived as a businessperson on this strip, was overwhelmed by the outpouring of holiday gifts for her little daughter from fellow merchants.  "It's like a family here," she says. As we continue our walk, Adam and I agree that there's something wonderful about this neighborhood. Despite the way it attracts tourist and day-trippers like us, it maintains the quality of a place that hasn't been changed all that much by time.

It's a gorgeous day, the last of summer shading into fall, and Adam and I continue our lunch conversation as we walk.  We do have a lot in common, really.  Of course we both love food.  God, do we love food.  But there are other things as well.  We're both romantics at heart, with strong ideas about what make relationships work; we're both very attached to family, but sanguine about the players in our respective family dramas; and we're both strongly pulled toward social responsibility.  When I talk about my dream of reforming NYC public school lunches, Adam says excitedly "Let's do it!  I'll do that with you!"   

Going fooding with Adam, I really do get to know the guy who wrote this charming book.  His enjoyment of the moment, his endless curiosity and boundless enthusiasm would make anyone an amateur of the Amateur Gourmet.  As my own mother would have said, what's not to love? 

 

The Cupcake Conundrum

If only they were half as good as they look.  This has been the sad truth that we've faced as we've gone about tasting cupcakes from venue to venue, all over New York.   Perhaps it's not as difficult to find good cupcakes for a nuptial cupcake tower for our May 12th family party as it is to find an affordable and yet delicious and pretty wedding cake, but still.  It's been a bit of a trial, and not nearly as much fun as you might imagine.   

Not fun because when the cupcakes aren't anything like as good as you imagine, you're stuck with a box of partially-eaten or even barely tasted cupcakes which neither of you feel the inclination to finish.  And as dreadful as it is to throw away food, we've been throwing them out rather than "throwing them in", as the old dieter's dictum advises.  I got to the point where I was practically ready to toss in the towel and decide to bake a hundred or so cupcakes myself.  However, I was gently dissuaded from this particular act of insanity, among others (I was going to cook my own wedding supper for our private ceremony in a couple of weeks at my Dad's apartment; instead my in-laws are generously hosting a supper at a beautiful French restaurant.  Then I was going to bake my own wedding cake and bring it to the restaurant; again, it was suggested to me that I might want to relax and get my nails done rather than work myself into a baking frenzy on my wedding day.  But I still have a trick up my sleeve for our May 12th party.  Despite the fact that one or the other of us may have to sell a crucial internal organ to pay for our catering bill,  I still can't have our families come from Boston and Chicago and Denver and Baltimore and Tennesee and England, for crying out loud, and not cook anything for them).   

Judging New York City's cupcakes:  I know I'm stepping into treacherous waters here.  All over the city, various cupcake shops have their devotees.  Magnolia's habitués are legion; Sugar Sweet Sunshine has almost as many fans.  The beautifully decorated floral gems from Cupcake Cafe are highly touted by many as well.  Perhaps it's because I bake my own more often than not, and because I've spoiled G with a fair amount of home baking, but none of those mentioned seem to ring our cupcake chimes at all.   

Worst of all were the cupcakes pictured above.  They come from a relatively new shop in Chelsea called "Burgers and Cupcakes".  I was under the impression that this was a branch of the Hell's Kitchen "Burgers and Cupcakes" shop owned by Mitchell London, whose velvety golden-vanilla cupcakes with deep dark fudgy chocolate icing I have often purchased from Fairway and eaten with great happiness.  So I bought a box from this 23rd St. store that included chocolate peanut-butter, chocolate-raspberry, vanilla with vanilla icing, vanilla with chocolate icing, cream-filled chocolate, and lemon meringue.  Sadly, each one was worse than the next.  The cake was tough and flavorless; the icings were gritty and insipidly sweet.  Then I found out that not only was this shop NOT owned by Mitchell London -- it was opened by his former business partner after a rift.  Always a bad sign.  The partner used the name of the shop and even the signature brown and pink awning and storefront coloring -- but obviously didn't get the recipes.  Or else s/he just doesn't have the touch.   

So for our May 12th "family party", the cakes for our cupcake tower will come from Mitchell London's original Burgers and Cupcakes shop on Ninth Ave. near 36th St., not to be confused with the copycat shop on 23rd St.  Our caterer will then arrange them on tiered trays and decorate them.  We can choose from strawberry shortcake, raspberry bavarian, cream-filled chocolate, chocolate peanut-butter, carrot, red velvet,  blueberry-vanilla, and the usual suspects of vanilla with chocolate, vanilla with vanilla, chocolate with vanilla, chocolate with chocolate.  I'm thinking about an assorted bouquet, since I imagine all the kids (both little and adult-sized) will probably want to taste a few different kinds.  But I'd love to hear from readers:  what do you think we should get by way of cupcakes?  and should we go for more of the small size, or fewer of the big ones?  Help us out here. 

Madeleines Mendiants

"Those look like some sort of big Klingon insects or something," G commented as he passed the cooling rack on the way to his second cup of coffee.

I didn't take it personally.  Neither did the little cakes.  Nor did the Klingons, as far as I know.

Sometimes I like to get up early on a weekend morning and bake.  I feel like I'm stealing a march on the day, as if I've gotten something accomplished even before breakfast or Saturday morning dance class.  This weekend I had more motivation than usual -- three motivations, in fact.  I was headed to a party later on, and then to a dinner (another opportunity to meet with a remarkable blogger).  And a colleague's mother had passed away.  All of these are events that, to my mind, call for baked goods.  Something homemade, something delectable, preferably; something chocolate is almost always a good choice when bringing a party platter, a friendship token or comfort to the bereaved. 

I've been working on a nutty chocolate chunk madeleine for a while.  I first made them last spring for a dinner party, and had liked them very much.  But I never noted down my recipe, and it had gotten lost somewhere in my memory.  It was one of those "I'll base this on my tried-and-true madeleine formula, and add a little bit of this, a little bit of that..." 

I made another stab at it recently, and didn't like it quite as much as I'd remembered.  It was the pistachios.  Within the context of the melting almondy chocolatey little cakes, the pistachios were still flavorful but had turned a bit soft.  It must have been true last spring as well, since my experience is that when you bake nuts into a cake, even if you toast them first, they invariably soften in the moist crumb.  Madeleines, and other cakes, are simply not like a crisp little cookie, where nuts will almost always maintain  their crunch and snap.  On a confessional note, this frustrates me.  I have a hard time accepting it.  I want the soft cakey madeleines, and the crisp, crunchy nuts.  Together.

Why not bake the nuts on top of the madeleines, I thought.  And so I gave it a try.  For this run, I used a mixture of pecans, almonds and pistachios.  Considering the nutritional value of nuts, and the health-giving properties of dark chocolate, this would make my madeleines practically a health food.  Especially since the batter has a base of almond paste, which makes the flavor of these not unlike the lovely Chocolate Nut Loaf of Pierre Hermé.  Once I sprinkled the nuts and patted them lightly into the batter so they'd stick, I was struck by the resemblance to one of my favorite confections, the mendiant: a chocolate disk (or in some cases, a bar) studded with any combination of nuts and dried fruits that strikes the confectioner's fancy.  The word mendiant means beggar in French; the confections are originally named for mendicant monastic orders.

G has decided that he prefers the original pistachios-inside version, since he's not as wild about nuts as I am (you may construe this last sentence however you like).  For my little party platter, I mixed both kinds.   For those whom I'm quite sure are as nuts about nuts as I, I gave the nuttified version.  Personally I'm very fond of these madeleines mendiants, with their crunch-nutty tops (or feet, depending on how you look at them).   It's true that after a day under wraps, the nuts have softened a bit. They're still crunchier than when baked inside the cakes.  And I feel sure that if I go to a little trouble and heat the madeleines a bit before serving, they'll crisp up.  This will have the added benefit of giving the dark chocolate chunks inside the cakes a chance to become melty again.  Crunchy little cakes with soft interiors, running with melting chocolate, crisp with nuts -- something for those in distress, good to have at a party, and a warm gesture of friendship. 

And Klingon bugs or no, you may want to consider that they wouldn't make a bad Valentine at all...

Madeleines Mendiants au Chocolat

5 ounces bittersweet chocolate (85% cocoa solids works well here)
7 ounces almond paste, cut into small pieces
1 cup granulated sugar
5 eggs, room temperature
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 cup sifted unbleached all purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
10 tablespoons(1 1/4 sticks) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
7 ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate (something you like to eat; I used 70% for this purpose)
2 cups assorted nuts ( a mixture of coarsely chopped pecans, crisp pistachio halves, and slivered almonds, for example)

1. Preheat oven to 350 F.  Brush madeleine molds with melted butter and dust lightly with flour, or spray lightly with baker's cooking spray.
2.  Melt the 5 ounces of chocolate over boiling water or in a microwave.  Allow to cool.
3.  Cream the almond paste and sugar in a food processor fitted with a steel blade. Transfer to a large mixer bowl and add the eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the melted chocolate, and blend.  Add the vanilla extract and the salt and beat until light and fluffy, 1 to 2 minutes.
4. Sift the flour and baking powder together and fold lightly into the almond-chocolate mixture. Gently fold in the melted butter just until combined. Stir in the chopped chocolate pieces. 
5. Spoon the batter into the molds, filling them three-fourths full. Sprinkle nuts to cover each madeleine, and pat them lightly onto the batter, so that they stick. 
6.  Bake just until they spring back in the center, 8 to 10 minutes.   Do not overbake.
7. Let cool for 5 minutes, and then gently remove to wire racks to cool completely. Allow the molds to cool before wiping clean and rebrushing with melted butter or cooking spray.
8.  Repeat the process with the remaining batter and nuts.

These madeleines keep very well for 4-5 days in an airtight container with waxed paper between layers.  They don't dry out as quickly as many others, due to the high proportion of almond paste.  They also freeze well wrapped in wax paper and sealed in airtight bags.  In both cases, it's advisable to refresh them slightly in a warm oven for several minutes. 

Approximately 48 large madeleines.

 

Meetings With Remarkable Bloggers

Obligatory disclaimer about a post which, as is often the case, should have happened a while ago:  I'm WAY behind. On everything.  But as I look around me, taking a gander at a few other blogs, I realize that pretty much everyone else feels exactly the same way all the time.  I'd very much like to find someone on whom to blame this feeling, so if you can think of anyone, please let me know. 

That being said, it's been ages since I had meet-ups with three quite wonderful bloggers, one of whom is known to me quite well, one whom I had the pleasure of seeing for the second time (this time in her city, not mine), and one who was new to me and utterly delightful.  And I've been meaning to write at least a bit about these meetings for some time, and am only just getting around to it now.  So finally, in chronological order,

Tale #1:  Seattle Sojourn

Quite some time ago, at the tale end of my Cascade Mountains retreat, I had a day to spend in Seattle.  Who would be the best possible person to a) recommend some great places to go on a free afternoon in Seattle and b) to be one's dining companion in that fair city later on into the evening?   Yes,  I know you know.  None better than Molly, the darling doyenne of Orangette.  Since it was a Friday, she had to work, but kindly allowed me to drop my bags at her office and then made maps for me to have my own little walking tour.  Following her suggestions, I walked to Salumi, where I'd long dreamed of going and which was a perfect walk from Molly's office.  I waited happily on line to buy a gorgeous, drippingly delicous porchetta sandwich (which is long gone, of course) and a salami (which still resides in my fridge, waiting for an occasion of some sort or other, since it apparently lasts a long long time).

I then made my way to Elliott Bay Books, another brilliant Molly recommendation, where I proceeded to spend the greater part of my afternoon, even sacrificing time at Pike Place Market (books win out, even over food) in order to lose myself in a big, beautiful, wandering, multi-storied, multi-roomed, funky, independent bookstore-cum-cafe, the likes of which really doesn't exist in NYC, to my ongoing dismay (it's true that there are independent bookstores in NYC, of course, but all of them are missing something -- atmosphere, selection, a café, a certain bookstore je ne sais quoi.  My favorite is probably the HousingWorks Used Bookstore, which has the best atmosphere -- but a somewhat limited selection, since they sell only donated books.  Why is it that the books I buy at bookstores like these and lug home in my suitcase are always better than other books?  I try saying to myself that I don't need to add 15 pounds to my luggage, I can order these on Amazon or buy them at the dreaded B & N, but somehow or other I always buy good books when I have an afternoon to browse in an independent bookstore and leave my money there.  So far, this is what I've read in my haul from Elliot Bay Books:  Perma Red, Resistance, and Truth and Beauty, each of which was, in its own way, so remarkable and so compelling that I had trouble returning to the world when I was done).   

From there I walked up to Pike Place Market, stopping along the way to buy a slightly extravagant mud-silk kimono jacket (one of those purchases that you make, knowing it costs more than you'd like to pay, but secure in the knowledge that if you don't buy it, you will keep remembering its beauty, perfect fit and suitability-for-many-occasions and gnash your teeth in regret later on).  I meandered in the market, buying luscious local apricots but forgoing the seductive-smelling doughnuts, since Molly and I were to meet for drinks and then hook up with Brandon for a what turned out to be a perfectly lovely meal at the Boat Street Café.  Although Molly and I have only met once before, and we have about a generation between us in terms of age gap, we seem to have no trouble chatting an afternoon away.  After all, when you both find writing, food, work and love to be utterly compelling topics, time flies pretty fast.  And there are always personal histories woven in, so no one needs to resort to recently-viewed movies.  Take it from me, Molly is every bit as dreamy, smart, funny, and elegant in person as she is on her blog. 

Our dinner, too, was marvelous -- as was Brandon (and yes, Orangette readers, he IS worthy of your treasure -- if indeed a worthy suitor exists).  We shared plates, talked, laughed, and then they took me on a little driving tour of some favorite Seattle spots before leaving me at the airport to catch my red-eye flight.   It's a glorious thing to see a city through the eyes of those who love it and know it well, even when it's just for a day.  You know your hosts have done a particularly excellent job when you begin ruminating on the cost of living in that city, as compared to your own much more expensive and population-dense hometown, and noting the "For Sale" and "For Rent" signs as you peruse the various neighborhoods.   Thanks so much, Molly and Brandon. 

Tale #2:  Of Cell Phones and Cellophane Noodles

It's my great pleasure and privilege to call myself friend to the adorable and talented Jen, aka Bakerina, who is deserving of more praise than I can find to heap upon her.  Out for drinks, in for cooking and baking, on a shopping crawl, it's all better when Bakerina's there. 

A few weeks ago, as I set out for a Saturday mid-morning market ramble, it occurred to me that maybe Jen was there at Union Square too, and we could, perhaps, meet up for a nosh and some prattle.  I called her, and left a message on her cell phone.  A few minutes later I felt my phone vibrate, but I'd missed the call.  The message, however, said that she was indeed in the neighborhood at her favorite yarn haunt, and would return to the market to meet up with me.  Somehow or other we kept missing calls.  I finally realized that my phone was not ringing -- and neither was hers.   It seemed that yet another monster corporation was conspiring to ruin our day.  But we were victorious, finally just leaving message after message that said things like "I'm on the West side of the market, at Mountain Sweet Berry Farm.  It's 12:00."  Or "I'm approaching the market from 17th Street.  It's 12:10."  And finally, "I'll meet you at the Coach Farm stand at 12:15."  We had triumphed over the hellishly evil technology that seeks to rule ever more of our lives. 

We swaggered across the street to Republic (which, for some reason, I always think of as Revolution -- maybe the red star logo?)  for glasses of restorative basil lemonade and bowls of noodles, to finally have our chat.  To spend time with Jen is to laugh, to swap horrors and victories, and to feel truly heard and understood.  Add all of that to someone who's endlessly erudite, witty as all get-out, and has a real gift for putting things into perspective, and you've got yourself one hell of a friend.  I know, I know.  I am a lucky girl. 

Tale #3:  Just Deserts*

The email subject line said "are you around this weekend?".  It was from none other than Shuna Fish Lydon, phenomenal author of eggbeater and pastry chef par excellence, who had come to NYC and wanted to know if I were game to meet up.   I have long been an admirer of Shuna, whom I find fascinating and extraordinarily moving as a writer and photographer, as well as a consummate teacher of all things culinary, particularly in the realm of the sweet. 

Shuna suggested that we meet at Room4Dessert.  I was excited both to meet her, and to have an eating adventure into the realm of molecular gastronomy, which amuses me but about which I take a kind of "now kids, don't try this at home" attitude.  After all, it's only a bit over a year ago that I got my humble little ice-cream machine.  I'm not really set up for a pacojet. 

Shuna was standing outside the restaurant, wearing the eggbeater t-shirt.  We went in and sat at the long bar -- which, incidentally is the only kind of seating the restaurant offers.  It's a lot of fun to go to a dessert restaurant with a pastry chef, since you'll get to taste almost everything.    We tried two of the dessert "glasses", which had layers of various tastes and textures, and three of the tasting plates, each of which were composed of four little things in various sorts of precious little dishes, bottles and cups. 

After we left the restaurant, we walked and talked for a while.  It was Shuna's perspective on the food we'd shared which really helped me to understand what they were doing -- and not doing -- at the restaurant.  When she talked about her disappointment that at this time of the year, there was so little fresh fruit on our plates, I thought about the connection between food and values (I know I've been writing about that a lot recently).  Through much of what she said, I saw that what we value on our plates is easily a metaphor for what we value in our lives.  Do we sacrifice freshness for convenience?  Value innovation over quality?  Look for novelty instead of authenticity?  Create luxury at the price of ethically produced food? 

Later we spoke of teaching, and found ourselves united in our contempt for scripted curricula; my experience has been in public schools and universities, and Shuna's in the world of culinary classes, where some of her employers wanted her to teach from a script rather than from her experience, her instincts, and what she knows to be true -- which is what all real teachers should be permitted to do. 

What I'll say about the evening is that I enjoyed Shuna's company far, far more than I did the desserts -- which isn't nearly enough praise for Shuna, since the desserts were fun but didn't knock me over.  Of all the many things we tasted, there was really nothing there that made me feel I'd have to go back to this restaurant to get another taste of this or of that.  But I would certainly enjoy more of Shuna's company -- and I hope to next month, if schedules collide, when G and I visit the Bay Area again this summer for a couple of weeks. 

So ends this installment of Meetings With Remarkable Bloggers.  With any luck, it'll become its own category...

Oh, The Horror

It was like a bad dream.  Less than 48 hours had passed since my return from the glorious Southwest of these here United States, Santa Fe to be exact, and I had already met up with friends twice at places that pass for Tex-Mex/Mexican restaurants in New York City -- at their behest, of course.   I guess it's summer and people want margaritas -- I can't really think of a better excuse.

It's true what they say.  You can't go home again; or for  a more literal interpretation, going to places where food originates turns you into a snob about that kind of cuisine once you DO go home.

For example, to your left is a sopaipilla.  Perhaps you knew that already, in which case this paragraph is for the uninitiated.  At many, many restaurants in the Southwest, these puffy, flaky, crunch, doughy pillows of fried bread are brought to your table along with your entree.  Tortillas are good with chile; so is cornbread.  But a piping hot sopaipilla elevates your   bowl of red or green to a whole new level. 

Trust me, there weren't any of those babies at Mary Ann's (shudder) on Monday afternoon, or at the (hah!) Santa Fe Grill in Park Slope on Tuesday night.  To be fair, it wasn't anyone's fault, really.  My teaching partner suggested that we meet at the Upper East Side Mary Ann's for our planning meeting.  This suggestion was really in order to make it convenient for me, since I live only 12 blocks away.  It was pouring down rain, so after our meeting I ordered some take-out and brought it home to G.  We agreed that oatmeal has more zip than Mary Ann's enchiladas.  The next night some girlfriends suggested the Santa Fe Grill for our Brooklyn drinks date, and I just didn't have it in me to come up with an alternative.  So I quietly went along with the cruel irony of it all.   I did have a slightly better quesadilla there at the Grill, but anyone who has had recent contact with actual salsa and real green and red Chimayo chiles would simply sneer. 

I'm having a bit of trouble wiping a tiny, microscopic sneer off my face as I write this; maybe what all our mothers said was true, and my face has frozen this way.  Doesn't really matter about the sneer, as long as my mouth still opens so that when I go BACK to New Mexico later this summer, with G in tow, I can shovel in as much food from the Plaza Restaurant as humanly possible.  The Plaza, a humble dineresque venue right on the central plaza in Santa Fe, serves marvelous food at (surprise!) diner prices.   

Carefully peruse the picture to your right.  I know it looks sort of like a big mess, but it's actually only part of the wonderful plato combinación that I consumed on one of my days in the actual town of Santa Fe.  Most of the time I was at a lovely resort/retreat/conference center about 25 miles from Santa Fe, where the food was delicious -- much of it organically grown on the premises.  It was a bit spa-like and austere, which was fine.  The only problem was that there was nothing even vaguely Southwestern about the soy-glazed salmon, quinoa-millet pilaf and sauteed vegetables that we ate with some frequency over the week-long stay.  I managed to wangle my way into  Santa Fe 3 times (I was like a kid at camp, begging to go to town) and I ate at the Plaza twice.   I stumbled upon them my first time in town and suddenly remembered that I'd read a glowing review in Roadfood, so my choice for lunch was set. Now I absolutely crave their food, but I'm back in NY, where people seem determined to subject me to the likes of some kind of nasty faux texxy or mexxy or who knows what, but nothing good. 

Back to my plato combinación.  On that fateful first day in town, I had a challenging morning of shopping from the independent vendors on the Plaza (spending wa-a-a-a-ay too much money on quite a few items of very beautiful jewelry that would cost the earth here in Gotham but were very reasonable in Santa Fe).   I was in need of fuel.  After all, I still had more shopping to do:  blue cornmeal and chilies and cooking ingredients as well as other little souvenirs.  So I ordered this meal, which was comprised of what you see in the second photo (perfect chicken enchilada in green chile, cracklingly crunchy chile relleno filled with hot molten cheese, yummy rice and beans and salad garnish); what you see above left:  a carnitas taco with two sauces; and the heavenly sopaipilla at the top.  It was all wonderful, and I took plenty of leftovers back to the compound (I mean the resort) with me.   

Oh, and when it came to deciding upon what to drink, I took a leaf out of Heidi's book.  A while ago in her beautiful blog 101 cookbooks, Heidi mentioned iced tea made of jamaica (aka hibiscus) flowers.  So when I saw "Jamaica-lemonade cooler" on the menu at the Plaza, I knew just how I would cool down.  What a treat.

I have no recipes for you yet, but I did bring back lots of ingredients.  Whatever I come up with, it can't possibly taste as good as the bright hot dry weather, the endless sky, the mesas, and the dramatic scrim of the Sangre de Cristo moutains.  Santa Fe,  I miss you already, and I'm coming back...

Return to the Bread Bar -- Now With Pics!

"It's kinda hard to take pictures in a restaurant.  People look at you like you're a tourist.  And the people you're with are hungry and want to eat their food, not have it pose for a damn photo-op."
    - Julie

Last night we went, not to Manderley, but to the Bread Bar at Tabla again.  And it was no dream, but once again a delicious reality.  G and I haven't been there together, just us, for quite a while.  Last time for me, as you recall, it was with a gaggle of girlfriends who had ordering issues.  The time before that, we went with friends for a celebratory dinner.   Previous to that, we  went with G's parents, when they were in town a while ago.  But it's been quite some time since it was just us.   

We had a few things to celebrate.  G's had a breakthrough in the start-up business that he and a friend are putting together.  And it was an anniversary of sorts, though not a formal one -- but one we like to acknowledge.   So we decided to treat ourselves -- and treat ourselves we did.  We sat outside on the patio, and looked contentedly out at verdant Madison Park, enjoying the slightly chilly but still blessedly spring-like evening.  We ordered all our favorite dishes plus a couple of new things to try.  Above is my delightful Kumquat Mojito, and in the background, a plate of huge and delectably fire-roasted Black Pepper Shrimp.  G was drinking a fave cocktail known as a Ginger Drop, and we were also eating the insanely good Cheese Kulcha, a hot bread dripping with cheese and red pepper, and fragrant with toasted cumin.  It comes wrapped in a white cloth napkin, which picks up drips of melted cheese here and there.  G tried discreetly to pick as much cheese off the napkin as he could.  He loves it so much he couldn't stand to see it go to waste.   You can see a corner of it here at the bottom of the pic, along with the shrimp, some addictive cumin-and-spice-dusted popcorn, and a little dish of extraordinarily flavorful Tomato Kalonji Chutney.

Here to your left we have
one of the evening's specials:  Samosas made with Kobe beef.  They were incredibly crisp in their thin, fragile wrappers, bearing no relationship to the doughy fried pyramids called samosas in most places.  The filling was beautifully spiced, and the side of fresh yogurt made a perfect dip.  The only quibble was that they were rather pricey for two such small triangles.  I'm not complaining; we just wanted more.  It's the greed talking.  But I did wonder why they should use such costly beef in a filling where the spices dominate anyway.  I'm sure they'd be just as good with organic ground beef from a local producer.

Then came what is always the pièce de resistance at any Bread Bar meal, particularly for G.  You see below the Chicken Tikka, sided with a bittersweet fruit chutney and a generous tangle of light, lemony-dressed watercress.  It can only be thought of as a miracle of grilled chicken breast perfection.  You can tell it's been coated in a thick green marinade that chars to create the crisp, aromatic exterior as the chicken cooks to moist succulence within.  We used to call this the best Chicken Tikka in New York.  It was then promoted to the best Chicken Tikka in the United States.  Shortly thereafter it graduated to the best Chicken Tikka anywhere, ever.  Last night it was announced as G's favorite all-time chicken dish.  I hope that Chef Floyd Cardoz is coming out with his cookbook soon, since I can't stand up to this kind of competition and will obviously need to try to replicate this dish for the health of my relationship. 

It was at this point in the meal that G said "If we were to leave New York, this would be the place I'd miss most."  Wow.  Not that we're leaving any time soon, but we've been talking about futures in other places, in years to come.  We agreed that no matter what, we'd always come back to the Bread Bar on trips to New York, if indeed we ever leave.      

Our final dish was the one I've always wanted to order and never managed to have:  the Pulled Lamb and Mustard-Mashed Potato Sandwich (in New York foodier-than-thou parlance it's called a "naanini", which is a panino grilled on naan bread).  By this point in the evening, both my picture-taking abilities and my capacity for food had waned.  So G ate a chunk (there were actually three large triangles on the plate) , despite the fact that it's all anti-climactic for him after the Chicken Tikka.  He loved it, though.  I took a tiny bite and could tell how extraordinary was the crisp yet tender lamb, the spicy potato and the crunchy naan.  I knew how much I would want it in a couple of hours, and had our server wrap it up.  Indeed, a moment or two in the toaster over to restore crispness, some of the lemony cumin yogurt dip and the tangle of salad, and my midnight snack was sheer heaven. 

Before we left, I got into a chat with our server, who, unsolicited, told us how great it was to work at the Bread Bar.  "Danny Meyer knows who everyone is on staff.  Even though he'd met me just once, he remembered my name and greeted me by it."  I asked her about the staff meal.  "It's good, better than at most restaurants.  It's not the food we're serving, of course.  But we get to eat this food too, when we go out.  We get vouchers that are good for any of the Union Square Hospitality Group restaurants.  And during Restaurant Week, they bring in a masseuse to give us all massages, because it's so incredibly busy and we get so exhausted." 

G looked thoughtful.  Vouchers for meals that could include this Chicken Tikka?  Massages?  "I wonder if they're hiring," he said.   After all, we're not leaving New York any time soon.

modern life

We really don't go to restaurants very much, contrary to what my workmates seem to think.  I'm constantly being asked for restaurant recommendations by people who actually eat out much more frequently than I do.  I'm not bad at finding places that are a good value -- interesting ethnic places with good fresh food, fun neighborhood joints, swank restaurants that have great lunch deals or places that you want to try during Restaurant Week.  G and I actually missed Restaurant Week completely this year -- both installments.  I was probably making something at home...maybe enchiladas with green sauce or Russian shepherd's pie.  I would estimate that about 95 percent of the time, we eat at home.  And we eat reasonable, interesting, fresh, home-cooked food. 

Every now and then, however, perhaps a couple of times a year, I go out for a really wonderful meal.  This year, as a belated birthday treat, my brother suggested that he take me to the Bar Room at the Modern, Danny Meyer's latest venture/adventure.  It's the main restaurant of the newly expanded and gorgeously refurbished Museum of Modern Art on 53rd Street, although you can enter the restaurant directly from the street, and so don't need to purchase entrance to the museum if, like some, you're really there for the food.

I'll cut to the chase.  We had a phenomenal meal in a wondrous setting. 

But before I'm quite there, you'll need to allow me the leeway of a moment to dwell upon the setting.  At least I hope you will.  We grew up in a milieu of 20th century modern motif, since my parents had a contemporary design shop which was the first of its kind in the exurb where we lived.  In fact, their shop pioneered Scandinavian, Italian and German furnishings, table and kitchenware.  They were also a venue for selected artisan American crafts of the 60s and 70s.   It was not unusual for us to go into "the city" to MOMA just to look at the design collection, which had many pieces in the permanent collection that my parents sold in their own shop. 

Although both of our own current household styles are decidedly eclectic, it was a delight for my brother and me to dine in this space. It is an homage to the purity of line that was the premise of great 20th Century modern design.  From Thomas Demand's lush photorealistic forest mural to the amazing glass bar wall in which the bottles form their own work of art, it's all quite lovely.  Difficult, even, not to exclaim over the beautiful striated metal bread "basket" or the artful composition of the cocktails.  Lest you assume this sort of environment to be cold or forbidding, let me reassure you that it is not.  The lines may be pristine, but comfort reigns supreme.  The black leather chairs are cushy, and tables are generous.

Another extremely likeable feature of the Bar Room is that it's not defined by any particular group of people -- other than those who can at least occasionally afford a moderately expensive meal by NYC standards.  It certainly draws a hipster crowd, but there were plenty of elder museum patrons, and lots of families with young children, some of whom were seated in the most stylish high chairs I've ever seen.  You could put on your latest fashion-victim purchase, come to the Modern and feel right at home.  On the other hand, you might be wearing your more downscale duds, and that too would be okay.

But the food, yes, the food.  The menu is composed of small plates in three pages -- small cold dishes, small hot dishes, and half-portion entrees.   The more formal dining room has both a series of tasting menus and an a la carte menu.

We ordered three small plates, two half-entrees and two desserts, sharing everything.  I actually love eating this way, since I'm something of a grazer by nature and prefer to have many small tastes.  Our three small plates came first.  To start, we had the celebrated Tarte Flambée, a nod to Chef Gabriel Kreuther's native region of Alsace.  This interpretation is certainly the best I've ever had, with a tender, wafer-thin flatbread crust topped with onions, deliciously smoky ham/bacon/some kind of good pork product, and crème fraîche, which is a stroke of genius.  Those of us who tend to err on the side of excess often assume that cheese is necessary in a dish like this, and the more cheese, the better.  Wrong.  The subtle creaminess is perfect here, playing gently to the other flavors. 

Then came Sweetbread Ravioli in a flavorful sage and balsamic sauce.  The ravioli was tender and toothsome, with an unctuous sweetbread filling -- accompanied by crisply fried sweetbread nuggets.  I couldn't resist ordering the Torchon of Foie Gras, a round of meaty foie gras paté with a foil provided by the crystalline side of muscat gelée.  Unfortunately I was still drinking a cocktail, and this dish cried out for a glass of good red wine.  Next time, I promised myself.

After a nicely spaced interval, our half-entrees arrived.  We had Pistachio-Crusted Black Bass  with a side of wilted spinach.  In all honesty, this dish was pleasant but not a stand-out.  The fish was impeccably fresh, but wasn't highly flavorful; the pistachio "crust" was really just a sprinkling of chopped pistachios, rather than a baked-on crunchy top layer.   The quail, however, was just about perfect.  Subtly seasoned with star anise, to heighten rather than overwhelm, it was crisp and brown, atop a bed of perfectly cooked tiny lentils, vegetables, and tiny green spaetzle that exploded with flavor. 

And then came dessert.  We had thought to share one dessert, but in my greed there were two I really wanted us to try.   I'm so glad we did.  The Modern Chocolate Tart is an exemplary chocolate dessert -- chocolate pastry, pure chocolate, a chocolate cream filling, and a crisp caramel shell on top -- all served with a scoop of house-made vanilla ice cream.  You're right.  It couldn't be bad, and was in fact divine, managing to be both rich and light.  But the winner, even in a company of chocoholics, was the Citrus Macaroon with Vanilla Pineapple Sauce and 10-flavor Sorbet.  This was a delicious almond macaroon with a creamy coconut filling, drifting on vanilla-scented pineapple coulis amid a confetti of chopped fruit -- perfectly ripe papaya, citrus and other things it was too dark to identify.  I don't know what the 10 flavors of the perfect little oval of  sorbet were, although our server told us there were 6 fruits and 4 spices.  The predominant flavor was passion fruit, which was lovely in the composition of the whole.  Both of these desserts were exquisitely plated in a linear fashion on white porcelain rectangles.

Another plus to my way of thinking is that while you may eat rich dishes at the Modern's Bar Room, you're unlikely to overeat or become overly full.  The portions are small and jewel-like, which is why the prices are also moderate for this elegant, highly satisfying cuisine.  If you're hosting relatives to whom the mark of a good restaurant is how full their doggie-bag is likely to be, take them elsewhere.   But do go with a group.  My one regret is that I didn't get to taste more dishes.   I think next time I'd like to go with perhaps three other people -- preferably brave tasters who won't wince at the idea of marrow or octopus.  There are so many things on this menu that I'd love to try:  Venison Terrine, Charred Octopus, Potato and Marrow Cassolette, Tagliatelle with Chanterelles and Black Truffles, Poussin with Caramelized Vegetables, Hazelnut Dacquoise, Papilliote of Hot Fresh Berries.  And at some point, perhaps when that winning lottery ticket shows up, it would be fun to have a full-scale meal in the dining room.

My brother did his standing gag of a hair-raising double-take when he looked at the check.  But that's an old joke between us -- and he assured me that it was actually quite reasonable for all that we'd had.

With thanks and kisses, I took myself off home, where G had embarked on making himself a bowl of ramen for dinner.   He added herbs and vegetables, curry and condiments.  It smelled quite good, so I took my head out of the lofty culinary clouds where it had been, and evinced some interest in his dish.  He brought his tray into our room and stretched out next to me, offering me a bite of his bowl o' noodles.  It certainly wasn't dinner at the Modern.  But in its own way, it too was delicious -- and the contrast between decent home food and lush restaurant cuisine enabled me to appreciate my glorious meal all the more.   

The Bread Bar at Tabla

At first I was at a complete loss as to how to write this post.  You see, our only digital camera is G's video camera.  So I lugged that giant with me in my purse, if you can imagine, out to dinner with four girlfriends last night.  And each time I aimed it at the plush and lovely restaurant setting, the delectable food, the fun drinks, the adorable wait-staff, the delightful friends -- it didn't work.  It stayed dark.  Way too dark.  I called G for a quick consult, and realized that it was basically just too dark in the restaurant to get a real picture.  G said there was probably a setting that we never use that would alleviate the problem, but at that point I was beyond experimentation and into my first passionfruit cosmo (which carries the embarrassing title of Lots of Passion.  Such a name causes a moment of unseemly coyness when ordering from the aforementioned attractive wait-staff).   In any case, I comforted myself with the fact that many a restaurant review is posted without photos -- and this is actually more of a restaurant anecdote than a review. 

So I have no pictures for you tonight.  But I do have a tale.  The Bread Bar is one of my favorite restaurants in New York -- and it's probably G's absolute one hundred percent favorite.  We don't go there often;  we reserve it for the occasional special evening, and so end up having a meal there perhaps twice a year.  But we love the Indian street-food menu.  Chef Floyd Cardoz seasonally rotates and reinvents both the Bread Bar's menu and the more formal yet extraordinarily creative Indian fusion cuisine upstairs at Tabla.  That too has been and still is wonderful, but truthfully we're hooked on the Bread Bar's fruity cocktails, hot cumin-spiced popcorn at the bar, and the ritual of sharing a mix of "small plates", "large plates" and luscious hot Indian-style breads -- nibbling the evening away with spicy food and spicier conversation. 

Last night's adventure was not without bumps in the road.  When I called Adrienne to make sure knew where the restaurant was, she reminded me that we'd been there for a drink late one night a few weeks ago.  "Yeah, it's the one next to that Potter's Field," she said.  "That field with all the rats."  What she's referring to is Madison Park, a nice little green space beautifully refurbished by the city several years ago.  It certainly spent a long time in a state of disrepair, but for several years grassy borders have been maintained and trimmed, paths have been paved, flowers have been planted, benches have been replaced, and many people who are still among the living spend their lunch hours there in good weather.  It's not quite the Jardin du Luxembourg, but it's really a fine little park for the neighborhood.  On our brief sojourn to the Bread Bar several weeks ago, Adrienne made us walk around the perimeter of the park, on the other side of the street.  I wasn't quite sure whether we were avoiding the souls of the undead or the rats that she insisted were rampant in the area.   I have to say that as a descriptor, the whole Potters' Field thing is vastly unfair.  Both Tabla and Eleven Madison Park, another of Danny Meyer's beautiful restaurants, are in the old Metropolitan Life building.  The glorious art-deco architecture of the building exterior has been preserved, and the interiors have been re-created as magnificent, soaring spaces where your senses dine on more than just food and drink.  In fact, they'd both be worth going to even just to look; even if you weren't going to eat and imbibe.  However, refraining from those activities would be rather a shame, and is not recommended. 

Susan and Lourdes were given confusing directions, but arrived in good time.  Some of the ambrosial house cocktails were ordered and served:  the Tablatini, a lemon-grass/pineapple infusion; Lots of Passion; the Kumquat Mojito, and the House Sidecar, made with pear cognac and other sumptuous ingredients.  Each one was extraordinary.  After toasts to birthday girl Marcela had been made, I explained the Bread Bar sharing ethos.  Everyone appeared enthusiastic -- at first.  Then they perused the menu.  "Well, I want this salad just for me."  "No-one else wants this dish?  I really want to try it."  And suddenly it seemed as if we would all be ordering separately.  This simply isn't done at the Bread Bar.  I wrung my hands and gnashed my teeth, but quietly -- not to attract attention or anything.  Suddenly, like a savior on the horizon, our waiter appeared.  As if the previous ten minutes had never even occurred, he explained that all dishes are meant to be shared, and that they're brought out in no particular order, but as each one is ready.   I looked at him and shrugged.  "I tried, Lord knows I've tried," I said.  And so began our many laughs of the evening.  Everyone ordered what appealed to them, but we all ended up eating from all the dishes, just as it should be. 

The first dish to arrive was a lightly spiced roasted beet salad, which was delicious, but perhaps not unlike a beet salad you might make for yourself.   Close on its heels, however, was the dark horse of the evening, a salmon ceviche that provided an arresting combination of flavors and textures.  It had zing, zip, tang, crunch and bite, all in and around silky slices of salmon.  I can't even begin to analyze what was in it other than some shreds of delicious crunchy root vegetable and peanuts, which proved an unexpected but perfect partnership.   Next up was a bowl of Sindi Sai Bhaji, a comforting, gently seasoned puree of vegetables and chickpeas.  Breads appeared, addictive cultural cross-overs:  a cheese-oozing kulcha, and a puffy sourdough naan.  Then plates of tried-and-true favorites came out -- huge, smoky tandoori shrimp with black pepper and coriander;  saag paneer pizza, a crunchy whole-wheat crust covered with a spinach/chickpea mix and topped with goat cheese, and finally the Bread Bar's signature chicken tikka, spiced marinated grilled chicken breast, which is served with a fresh green tangle of watercress and a luscious chutney --  definitely my pick for the best chicken tikka in NYC.  At this point we were well into delving for the dirt on current relationships, and dishing past amours.  We were also well into our second round of large drinks.  We shook our heads at the ghosts of our occasionally unpretty pasts, drank up, and kept nibbling.   Later we shared a delectable plate of tiny cookies, more to have something to put a candle in and sing a Happy Birthday for Marcela since none of us wanted much dessert by this point.  But the little sweets were irresistable: teensy macaroons and brown sugar bars not much bigger than dice, chewy chocolate buttons and chocolate chip bites, and a surprising cardamom oatmeal cookie.

Finally, sated with both comestibles and conversation, we ventured into the night.  It was cold outside, especially for March (we've been getting more snow in this month than during all the rest of the winter).  As I climbed into a cab with Adrienne, I noticed that she didn't say a word about Potters' Field or make any other unsavory references that might cast aspersions on where we'd just spent the evening.  Instead, she waxed appreciative of the marvelous food and drink, and we relived some of our best laughs as we sped uptown.  Such is the power of Girls' Night Out in the right place.

Tabla/The Bread Bar
11 Madison Avenue (at 25th St.)
New York, NY 10010
212-889-0667