Back to Brooklyn

Tonight I decided to play the up-on-shit socialite.  I wanted to make my dining experience at one of Tribeca’s new restaurants a conversational ice-breaker for social situations over the next few months, whether I had a good time, (“restaurants are learning to cater to a more budget-savvy crowd”) or a bad time (“how can they charge that much for X”).  From the blog reviews I had been reading hours before on said restaurant, it seemed like acceptable food at acceptable prices, and that it could go either way.

Fortunately, it went the way of giving up on the place entirely. Because like many dining destinations in Manhattan– or non-destinations– the restaurant was packed, overwhelmingly loud and full of, what we would have called them in middle school, preppies. Preppies making too much money and drinking too many fancy cocktails.  I walked in and right back out, pissed at the food blogs for making me want to go there, the people who got there before I did, and at myself for caring at all.

In the netherworld close to Manhattan’s west coast there isn’t much between bad sushi and very upscale dining.  The prospect of hiking back to Chinatown seemed like a waste of time.  Going anywhere else in Manhattan seemed like an even bigger waste of time.  I was beginning to think of my 2009 stand-by Motorino, an honest pizza place where I’ve never been let down.  I started to whine about getting let down in Manhattan, with no end of the let-downs in sight.

Then we took the train back to Brooklyn, resorting to a safer, more comfortable and affordable Plan B.

Plan B(rooklyn): A quiet back patio of a neighborhood restaurant still waiting for its liquor license.  A $10 bottle from the local wine store, a Zweigelt rosé from Austria.  Simple food, reasonable prices, friendly service, noise-level contained.  Two hours later I have nothing to complain about, and I start to think that Plan B is a secret that I probably shouldn’t tell anyone about.  Well, at the least not the preppies.

The real deal at Fette Sau

Ramps are here

Whatever California.  You can keep your fresh fruit and vegetables year-round. Here in the Northeast we’ve got a little something called ramps.  That’s right.  Wild, potent, slightly sweet greens that bring the joyous message of winter’s end. I didn’t know what they were until last fall, when it was impossible to taste them, of course.  Now I’m making up for lost time: I’m having ramp three ways in three days.

Wednesday: Polenta and sautéed ramps. Yesss!

Thursday: Ramps pizza at Motorino. I think their fior di latte sauce would have been better than the tomato one they chose.  Still, it was delicious.

Saturday: Scallops with garlic, parsley and ramps.

I’ve become a big fan of this funny-name vegetable, and I don’t think I’ll get enough before the season ends.

Aw Yeah

more spring on flickr

Rogue Onion

The shoots started on their own, now I’m encouraging them to see how long they can make it. The whole thing frightens Nick because we have a living onion in our window-sill.

Saturday Bike Ride

Last Saturday the heat didn’t come on, so I knew it wasn’t below freezing outside.  We pumped the flat tires of our neglected bikes, as a bike ride was the obvious way to celebrate such unusual February weather.  That once familiar feeling of bicycle joy, a mix of adrenaline, curiosity and playfulness, returned to me as we pedaled south to Prospect Park.  I had forgotten about cycling and began to miss it terribly. 

I noted improvements in Brooklyn bike infrastructure during the ride, giving me hope of more pedaling this coming summer.   The break in weather, trains and boots made me think beyond the coming months of cold, darkness and potatoes.   And that is certainly worth a post.

This Year We Got a Christmas Tree and We Decorated It

Emily and Chris from Seattle taught me a thing or two about having a good time.  They inspired us to make crafts for the Christmas tree, play cards, play Pictionary; basically how to have a good time at home without sitting in front of the computer.  Now there’s nothing I look more forward to than coming home and looking at the multi-colored Christmas tree sipping a glass of wine and playing gin rummy until it’s time to go to bed.  The wind roars and the cold bites you when you’re outside, but I can’t help but think that this is the best time of the year.

Pink Hour

birthday on B43

Around Rockefeller Center

Yankee Stadium

Unless you live in the Bronx, there are very few reasons to go to there. Yankee Stadium appears to be the main reason people venture to the borough, especially now since there are TWO stadiums. Well, not quite. The original stadium was built in 1923 and is the site of major baseball history, which I have to hear about all day from male coworkers. Although there is nothing structurally wrong with the original stadium, a new stadium built across the street is scheduled to open in April 2009. Why? Money, of course. The new stadium has fewer seats, 60 ‘luxury boxes’ and more commercial space. Giuliani was a major player in getting the plans through and making taxpayers dish out the dough.

I’m not a big fan of luxury, and I was pleased to see that the original stadium has nothing to do with luxury. Some paint is needed, the seats might need replacing and the locker room (the clubhouse or whatever) has slightly moldy ceilings. The row spacing speaks to a time when people were smaller, and a few people on the tour had to maneuver sideways up from the field. There were only 3 or 4 private boxes and they looked bombed out.

My favorite part of the tour was when my boss Jim got yelled at for touching the grass on the field. Another person from our party got down on her knees and smelled the grass, but she was promptly scolded as well. My other boss demonstrated his allegiance to the Yankee’s foes by depositing a small sticker of the Red Socks in monument park, which is as close to blasphemy as you can get.