Food. (or, A Weekend in NYC)

I love New York. Even when it's July steamy--stinking, slippery wet with summer--there's this frenetic movement of people and ideas that make the place pulsate with cool. I love seeing how people are dressing themselves nowadays. I love how shoes can give away exactly where certain people will get off the subway train. I love that you can have a $16 cocktail in a gorgeous bar, then go across the street for steamed dumplings. Five for a dollar. I love how anytime I come back, every little thing has changed, but all the big things, the important things, like landmarks, intersections, and people are all the same.
I would guess in fact that little has changed since Nick Carroway wandered into a drunken revelry at the Plaza. Even as every facade adapts its outward appearance to keep up with the times, the City at its heart remains: distinctive, robust, gritty, and gorgeous, with a razor-sharp and enticing edge. When I am not in New York, I feel like I'm missing something breathtaking; it is something beyond the realm of mortals, for which real life simply must be suspended.

And by "real life," I mean "normal diet," so bear with me as I recount the gastronomic exploits of the weekend... we did well for ourselves.

We arrived at LaGuardia on Friday morning, and went downtown to check into the hotel. It is the first time I have stayed in a nice hotel in the city, so that in itself was a special treat, certainly an upgrade from my old East Village apartment or my friends' couches when I was back for visits. First stop on the tour was a rustic little eatery near Gramercy Park called "Friend of a Farmer," which uses exceedingly fresh ingredients and is intended to evoke country inns from upstate. I don't think I've ever eaten such delicious carrots. From there we wandered south through Alphabet City before heading west to Greenwich Village. I mused along the way at the new shopfronts and favorite parks. The Village is great for interesting doorways, which make a good distraction on walks. From there we meandered into Soho, briefly braving the Broadway throngs to go smell cheese in Dean & Deluca and looking for jeans in a couple boutiques. We stopped for a Masala Dosa snack on Prince St. Delicious.

Friday evening was all set up to be spectacular. Back at the hotel, we decked ourselves out and took a cab up to Lincoln Center to see a fantastic staging of Rodgers and Hammerstein's "South Pacific." I was enthralled by the performance; lost in the music and I was transported back to my sailing days, melodiously nostalgic for those endless sunsets and the undulating blue upon blue.

After the show, we went for wine and cheese at Caselula, one of my favorite little spots in midtown. They have an extensive cheese list, paired with an equally interesting wine selection. Each cheese arrives accompanied by a nibble of fruit or nuts or sauce or popcorn... an assortment of flavors to set the mind ablaze. Add a charcuterie plate with cornichons and more nuts, plus some bread... I was in heaven. We ordered a leafy salad to aid in the digestive process.

Saturday we slept embarrassingly late in that luxurious, deep, feather bed. Around 2pm, we made our way to Chinatown and ended up lunching over mediocre Vietnamese food. The hardest thing about traveling in Southeast Asia is knowing that the Pho will never be as good again. I got stuck on a desperate, poorly-timed hunt for a dress, so after lunch we headed up Broadway trying to accomplish that. There are few things dumber than buying a dress (a) in New York (b) on a Saturday (c) in the summer (d) when you really need it (e) for that evening. In one store, to the beat of pounding hip music, I nearly succumbed to the multiple layers of wrapping and ties on a piece of clothing that looked devastatingly chic on the in-store model (possibly also the manager), but looked on me like a poorly-cut rag collection. Maybe I was just moving too fast because of the music, but I swear that thing started growing and tried to choke me. I emerged from the dressing room feeling like I'd snorted cocaine, had a seizure, and lost all my self-confidence. (nb. I know nothing about cocaine. I conjecture based on popular media interpretation.) As I exited, the statuesque dressing room attendant smiled condescendingly. "So, how did everything go?" Several hours later, we'd missed cocktails with friends (SH and RK, I am so sorry), and I was triumphantly sporting a new white frock... at a cost that makes me go as pale as the fabric itself.

We did manage to make it to dinner with my friends John and Marina, and catching up with them over good food and drinks got me back in an amiable mindset. I also wanted to see an old buddy/colleague(?), Brian, who's now cooking at a wildly popular and acclaimed place in Brooklyn. He bent over backwards to make our experience deliciously memorable, and we sampled through a menu including a zucchini tart, corn salad, beets, duck-crackling (!!) encrusted tilefish, and perfectly tender octopus served with olives and cauliflower. Especially notable was the tender braised lamb shoulder, which had a spicy rub offset by a delightfully sour yogurt and a Greek-ish salad. The house-made pasta, which we tried both as a primavera and with a bolognese, was a great lighter plate, offset by the rare-cooked pork chop with cheese grits. Apparently the pork has been getting a lot of positive press, so much so that people don't venture any further on the rather eclectic and earthy menu. Their loss. Even on that busy night, our service was stellar, the wine delicious, and the atmosphere buzzing with conviviality. I felt like I was perhaps in some friend's backyard birthday party in France. And that was before the desserts arrived: chocolate cake, a heavenly bay leaf and blueberry (panna cotta? pudding? mousse?), and a crumble...
The whole situation was unspeakably flattering and generous. We left suitably impressed and thoroughly satisfied, and for my part I was beside myself with happiness to be in the company of old friends.

After dinner we scooted into the Lower East Side to meet Matt, who was kind (and persistent) enough to procure a reservation at Milk & Honey, my favorite bar in town. It's a tiny little speakeasy with an air of reproachable cool, lit by candles and serviced by the most talented bar men one can hope to find. The waitress, perfectly hip in her own laid-back way, comes off as a bartender understudy. She's knowledgeable about the cocktails in the manner that a Civil War buff is conversant about personality traits of dead generals. This is not a place to order my usual "G&T." I was talked into a Sidecar, the holy-of-holy cocktails in a goblet as far as I'm concerned, and everyone else rounded out the orders with an East Side Cocktail, a Penicillin, Prescription Julep, and a Sazerac. Drinks for small sipping, particularly at $16 a pop. A couple hours later, feeling very posh and chic and cultured, cool, and broke, we traipsed out into the night for more drinks, revelry, etc. It's a city where anything can happen, and thank God, usually does.