I am a real sucker for an expertly concocted, deliciously dangerous cocktail.  The kind that dances around your tastebuds and might cause a sudden eyebrow raise or a guttural purr.  The kind you sip, savor, then swallow… and realize, depending on whether or not you ate before starting in, that you may not be prepared to finish because you’re already drunk.  Angel’s Share is my favorite place to get these kinds of cocktails, because they never, ever disappoint.  It also happens to be, among the “secret” “she-she” speakeasy cocktail bars, the oldest and most affordable.  Their drinks are also my baseline of comparison for whether or not a cocktail is worth its two shakes.  Why drink this, when you can drink this or even this?

However, no self-respecting restaurant with great food is going to ignore the drinks that accompany it, and one of my favorite boozy pastimes is to sidle up to a restaurant bar and snack while imbibing.  The older I get, the more I prefer a dimly lit restaurant with conversational ambiance to screaming over music that I usually hate in a crowded, standing-room-only bar.  Macondo, the dressed-down sibling of the fantastic Rayuela, is always a favorite, especially if you can snag an outdoor bar seat on a nice day.

I don’t remember which two cocktails these are exactly, because the drinks did their duty well…  But I do know that over my five years in New York, I’ve tried them all.  And most of the seasonal tacos (Hello, Short Rib!), and the skirt steak as well.  It has never let me down, and is always worth the wait.

Try something with a smoked salt rim.

On my last day in town, I wanted a muffuletta.  While Central Grocery is a historical staple, I’d always found it a bit too oily for my tastes, and the line was always too long.  I had my sights set on a newer place that was making a big splash for itself in the city: Cochon Butcher.

The fine dining restaurant, Cochon, was nominated for a Best New Restaurant James Beard award in 2007, the same year David Link, the co-owner of Cochon and the popular Herbsaint, was named Best Chef: South.  Stephen Stryjewski, the other co-owner of Cochon, was bestowed the very same honor this year in 2011.  This butcher shop was their casual brain child – part butcher counter, part restaurant, part supply shop for amateur gourmet – the epitome of everything that modern “fast food” could be in my opinion.  My flight was at 3pm, and I had just enough time to bring back a muffuletta (and a few Hubig’s Fried Pies) to cram in before I returned to New York.

Needless to say, it didn’t disappoint.  It was the epitome of what I would classify as a nouveau-Creole muffuletta; herby, soft bread perfectly balanced with the finest cuts of meat, a distinctive olive tapenade that may have contained pearl onions and other spices…  simple with depth, exactly what would be expected from a Beard-nominee. And in spite of the fact that I was so entirely full that I didn’t think I could fit another bite of food into my stomach, I ate the whole thing.

My stomach was a wreck on the way home, due simply to the fact that I’d eaten entirely too much.  By volume.  I wasn’t hungry at all when I ate that muffelatta.  On the contrary I was quite full.  So I already knew that what I was doing could only be classified under the biblical sin of gluttony.

I sat shifting back and forth in my seat trying to find some comfort, to no avail.  So I made the utter mistake of consuming yet more – a ginger ale “to settle my stomach”.  Less than 30 minutes later, I was fumbling awkwardly in my seat pocket for the bag of terror, which I proceeded to fill to the horror of my rowmate.  I didn’t feel sick before or after.  Only sublimely embarrassed that I’d actually partaken in a romanesque purge.

A fitting departure for a whirlwind baptism, a forceful re-christening of my stomach into the ways of my old world.  Yet an awakening…  into a new awareness of health and balance.  A knowing, that I still craved another bite in spite of my puke mouth and that I wanted to enjoy eating these things forever, so I had to beat back my primal urges and create balance.  You can’t possibly eat rich and gaudy deliciousness for every meal.  It’s unsustainable.  Hence, my neverending quest for…

Sustainable gluttony.

Having your cake, eating it too, and walking it off afterward so you can fit into the skinny jeans.

Follow my quest.

(Start at the beginning? Intro, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5)

At least once a week, both my mother and grandmother would make homemade biscuits from scratch for breakfast.  They’d always make a big batch, enough to freeze into “individual” serving sizes of 2 or 3 (“snack” vs. “meal”).  Grandma would make buttermilk biscuits, impossibly fluffy and light, and I would eat them with Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup and butter.  Mom went all macrobiotic when I was in high school and started making them with whole wheat flour.  Which was disastrous at first and they came out like hockey pucks.  But she gradually learned how to adjust her recipes so they weren’t terrible, and whole wheat or unbleached all-purpose flour became more easily available.  I also discovered the love of my life at that point – Steen’s 100% Pure Cane Syrup – and never willingly ate anything else on a biscuit or pancake ever again.

Anyhow, I can’t shake the weekly biscuit habit.  I use the JOY recipe, with unbleached flour, sometimes with buttermilk, sometimes drop biscuits instead of rolled (only if I forget and flub up the recipe).  I take great pleasure in kneading, punching, and making little shapes with the dough.  The problem is, with my singleton status, I end up eating them all myself.  Between that and my potato habit I’m likely to ruin my bid for bikini shape.  I’ve started walking an average of 10 miles a week to try to justify my carb intake.  Because I will forever be entranced by those fluffy little bites of love.

biscuits

a first iteration, the goal being to eventually replicate Grandma's fluffiness w/increasingly more hearty whole grain flours

 

Reunion – Day 5

Sunday was July 4 itself and my gracious hosts brought me out to the sticks to their family home for dinner.  Lucky for me, they ground their own approximation of the Pat LaFrieda burger mix and made St. Louis gooey butter cake to bring for dessert.  I pretty much ate only that the entire day.

That night at Essence festival was my very reason for attending.  Mary J. Blige was headlining, with none other than Jill Scott opening for her.  Two of the most incredible voices of our times.  Jill tore the house down and Mary built it right back up.  Jill channeling Isaac Hayes or George Clinton with crazy pychedlic 70s fashions and silhouetted go-go dancers, with a marvelous Afro, dancing and laughing and being her all around radiant self.  And being at a Mary J. Blige concert is like being in church.  Laughing, crying, celebrating, and most importantly singing along every single word.  The entire audience – all 50,000 concertgoers – clings to and sings every single word, probably just like they do in their cars, showers, or anywhere else.  I didn’t take any pictures.  I was literally caught up in the rapture of the moment. (Except when I was elbowing chicks in the VIP for the chicken satay.)  It didn’t disappoint!

Right after college, I had the pleasure of residing in the not-yet-trendy but just quaint area of Los Angeles called Echo Park.  Just past Los Feliz and Silverlake if driving down Sunset from the West.  I had a part-time non-profit job that allowed me to audition and work in production, and spent much time working on my choreography and going to the beach. But one of my favorite places to gab with gal-pals or catch a quick hot breakfast (while dodging annoying screenwriters camped out for the free Wi-Fi) was Cafe Tropical.  The coffee is ridiculously strong and delicious; the turkey, egg and cheese on a croissant is perfect with Tapatio hot sauce, and the pastries are…  well, you’ll see here that one of my dearest gal pals took it upon herself to bring me a guava con queso pie straight from the redeye.  Guava paste and cream cheese layered with perfectly flaky crusts…  The dear girl brought a tear to my eye.

Interior, Guava Con Queso Pie from Cafe Tropical

Interior, Guava Con Queso Pie from Cafe Tropical

If anyone knows where I can find one of these in New York City, I’ll be eternally indebted.  Meanwhile, I’ll just have to keep finding reasons to head out west and make a drive-by visit.

When I’m on my way from home each day from work, I have a very standard routine.  Flexible, but with a forthright goal: get home from work as quickly as possible.  That usually means taking the express train, but most times I get on the first thing moving; local to get a seat, walk a shorter distance to my apartment, or grab a bite on the way home.  Tonight around 8:00pm, I quickly found a seat, nestled in with my journal and pen, and began to reflect on a pleasant recent conversation with my 85-year-old, sharp-as-a-tack grandfather.

I’m thinking hard, struggling to remember in detail the things he told me, because these are cherished words not to be taken lightly as he’s makes a successful recovery from liver cancer.  So I barely notice when a somewhat elderly gentleman sits at the opposite end of my L of seats with a giant suitcase.  I’m slightly annoyed that he appears to be singing, although at first it sounded a tad like Ol’ Dirty Bastard (you know, “Shame on a n*gga…“) and a snicker escaped my lips.  So I glance up to try to play it off, and realize that it’s a homeless black man.  Guilt poured over my head like hot oil and I buried my head back into my journal and played dumb.  Tried to finish my journal entry.

But by then, I couldn’t even concentrate anymore, the homeless man was so fascinating.  Clearly out of his mind.  Stark images recalled from Barry Michael Cooper‘s essay “Requiem for the Zooted” made me speculate whether or not he was the modern day legacy of that tumultuous NYC combo of the 70’s.  PCP + Thorazine + Jail – Family + Mental Hospital = Him.  My heart became wrenched and immediately I was struck by his humanity and refusing to recoil.  He was telling an elaborate story, partially to his suitcase and partially to the wall between us.  Cussing and exclaiming and growling and purring and hissing and… more frustrating than any of it, mumbling.  So I started to try to write down what I thought I could hear, thinking that he deserved someone to listen, even if he wasn’t aware it was going on.

“Yooooooo, son! Shiiiiiit my shit is FULL, son!!”
“Tell y’all to come to bed w/me son”
“Yo, erytime I loot, I go to sleep right after.”
“Yo, I’ll F*cking…” mumble mumble

He was definitely a son of the streets, although his slang placed him as a young adult squarely in the 80s.  I was alternately emotionally devastated and wanting to reach out to him, and quite tickled as he sounded exactly like ODB.  And he mumbled on, increasingly animated by his own story/conversation.  (It was clear that in his mind he had some sort of narrative structure.)  To the point where he started rocking back and forth in the seat, near toppling when the breaks to the train slammed, fumbling with a cup in his suitcase…  getting louder and angrier.  By this point his musings were no longer amusing, and several folks originally sitting near us had moved to another part of the car.  I feverishly continued writing, until he screamed “F*CK” again and two voices of my own started screaming at each other:

“You know, maybe you should move too.”
“But what if you actually *attract* his attention by moving? He doesn’t quite “see” you right now…”
“Yeah well, if he decides to jump up and “see” someone or even DO something to someone you’re also first in proximity, first in line.”
“Well we’re almost… Okay there are four stops left.  Surely he’s going to move.”

And he’s steadily getting louder and louder, more animated and frenzied… at a controlled pace though, as if he could snap at any moment and go for my jugular.  My heart feels like it’s about to jump out of my chest.

“You dumb b!tch!  THIS is how people get stabbed by the crazy person on the train.  Because they don’t move when they see ‘DANGER’.  You know, I’m telling you this one last time.”
“You’re being f*cking irrational and dramatic right now.  He. Is. Not. Going. To. Stab. You. Period.”
“Worse yet what if he tries to bite you or something. Or rub his. Ew. Just go!!!”
“Oh now you’re just.  This is ridiculous.”
“This *is* ridiculous.”

Just that second I heard the Ding of the subway train doors opening two stops before mine and I calmly exited the train (without attracting any undue attention, of course).

“F*ckit, I’ll walk. But it’s just because it’s nice outside, not because that poor man was going to kill you.”
“Whatever.  Let that gambling go!  Live to see another day!”

Another ridiculous day in the NYC life.

Did I mention that I walked from Harlem to 59th St. this glorious morning down Central Park West?  While munching on the most amazing Granny Smith apple turnover from Patisserie Des Ambassades?  Chewy, honey-glazed goodness with skin-on apples, dusted with cinnamon-sugar.  Delicious cold-brewed iced coffee (or at least it tastes like it!).

I love this town.

La Frieda Burger + Fries @ Black Market, East Village

La Frieda Burger + Fries @ Black Market, East Village

I used to spend many a late night at the Tiki Bar in the basement of Niagara right next to Black Market…  As well as in the Pizza Shop next door that now houses Black Market.  I was worried that they’d gone all “grown up” at first, but then I had the burger. Delicious, although that’s the least I’d expect from a LaFrieda patty.  Not necessarily as “hypeworthy” as folks exclaimed in the beginning, but I’ll take it, especially to line my stomach before those delicious cocktails at Lovers of Today…  I’ll be back for oysters.  I appreciate these guys, all in all the upgrades seem only to contribute to that most elusive of nightlife goals…  to get the singleton laid.

Chicken Burger from STAND, Union Square, NYC

Chicken Burger from STAND, Union Square, NYC

STAND is a reliably good burger, reliably strong cocktails, reliably perfect fries. It’s like my therapist, a consistent guiding hand for those moments when a hunk of meat and bread is calling your name, but you don’t want garbage. Never a disappointment.

 

Veggie Omelette, Il Caffe Latte, Harlem

Veggie Omelette + Mimosa, Il Caffe Latte, Harlem

If you can beat the weekend rush (by going super early or super late), Il Caffe Latte is a totally worth it, a great, relatively quiet place to nurse a hangover or catch a nice strong latte.

Saturday I had the pleasure of entertaining a dear friend who’d never visited New Orleans before.  Doing double duty, I offered to let her tag along as I visited my old homes and haunts that I’d avoided for so many years after the storm.  There was also a restaurant that I wanted to visit that is way out past the burbs, that has a peculiar local appeal.

I grew up in the Ninth Ward of New Orleans, an area that stretched from Fauburg Marigny all the way past the Industrial Canal (near the first levee breach) and beyond toward Chalmette (commonly referred to as the “asscrack” of the city due to the proliferation of gun-toting KKK recruits and white welfare queens in that area…  I digress).  My grandparents lived on the corner Louisa Street and Derbigny Avenue, square in the middle of the 9th Ward, off of Franklin Avenue and in what was once a middle class enclave for up-and-coming black professionals in the mid-20th century.  They were proud homeowners who had a constant stream of extended family and neighbors coming in and out of the kitchen.  During the 80s (*Disclaimer: when I was born) when things got “really bad” due to crack and subsequent crime hitting the streets of New Orleans, they remained in spite of most younger families moving to a more modern suburb, New Orleans East, also known (and disputed) as the “Upper 9th Ward” as it was northeast of my grandparents’ neighborhood and Chalmette.

My mother continued in the family tradition, building her own home from the ground up as well, albeit in New Orleans East: near Eastover, the ill-fated Jazzland theme park, and other normal suburban families and attractions.  Plenty of strip malls, bowling alleys, chain restaurants, etc.  While I was happy to grow up in a charming home, I was always terribly bored by the monotony, and as soon as I was able to began hanging out “downtown”, a place that my grandmother avoided purposefully and my mother visited only at my urging.  “That’s for *those* people” they’d say, meaning white people and tourists.  But I could think of no better thing than to explore the city as a tourist in my hometown!

As soon as I could, I moved onto Tulane‘s charming campus dormitories, and shortly thereafter to a drafty old home on Carrollton Avenue, where the streetcar still runs.  Later, after a short stint in Los Angeles, I moved further down Carrollton Avenue to Palmyra Street in Mid-City, near Canal Street and nearby a lost culinary legend of greasy goodness…  Manuel’s Hot Tamales.  But more on that later.  I said all of this to say that I wanted to go to two places during my driving tour: New Orleans East and Mid-City.

The first thing that people ask me when I tell them I’m from NOLA these days is, “How is it?”  And no one is ever quite prepared for my response, which is always the same:  “The touristy areas, they’re fine, back to normal…  But the more residential areas, not so much.”  Yes, five and a half years later, there are still some blocks you can drive down that have no residents returned, spray paint still on the doors marking where emergency rescuers found residents in need of help, or help that came too late.  There has been very little concerted effort to reorganize the city, or rather, too many conflicting stakeholders wrangling for the city’s future bureaucratically, while exhausted residents burn through their hard earned savings.  So I wanted to see who, of my neighbors, had returned and if my old favorite spots were still there.  We’d sold my family home (after 6 feet of water flooded it) to a developer who’d renovated it quite nicely, so although I missed my home, that wasn’t the main attraction.

It was We Never Close.

On a desolate strip of Chef Menteur Highway aka Highway 90… past truck stops and strip clubs and hooker, I mean hourly motels… past malls of auto parts and dollar trinkets and churches and skating rinks, was a joyous place in a former McDonald’s (didn’t really bother to change much except the sign) called We Never Close.  That is the open and shut to it.  They serve pretty much anything you can think of deep fried and slathered on a french bread loaf w/mayo.  We opted for a soft shell crab po-boy and a hot sausage po-boy.

On the way back, we tried to take the Lakeshore Drive back to mid-city which is a delightful drive, but unfortunately the Lakefront was still closed to the public.  Yes, five years later.

The other important stop in Mid-City, after seeing the locked gate to my old apartment, was Pandora’s for snowballs.  Not snow-cones, people.  One of those might crack your tooth.  A snowball is a syrupy concoction made of the most finely shaven ice you’ve ever had – think a Colorado powdery ski slope after a nice blizzard – topped in things like blood orange or wild blueberry flavored syrup, with condensed milk, whipped cream, cherries, gummy bears, pretty much anything you can think of.  The perfect remedy for a ridiculously hot and humid day as it was that day.

I slurped away and quietly questioned my decision to leave such a comforting place.

Later that night, I’d wanted to check out another old haunt, Port of Call, a legendary burger and pizza shack that was the demise of my short-lived vegetarianism.  But a local buddy of mine insisted that I try a new place called Yo-Mama’s.  Impressive, but they didn’t have the amazing loaded baked potatoes or Huma Humas that are Port of Call’s staple.  Yes, it’s much cleaner and probably more likely to pass an inspection than Port of Call, but if you’re worried about cleanliness…  I just don’t know what to tell you.  I will say that I barely finished this burger and was almost satisfied.  Can’t find the pic, but…  my pics aren’t that great anyway! So, imagine…  The Yelp photo is pretty impressive.

 

Catching up?  Here are the first installments for you…  Reunion – Day 1 / Reunion – Day 2 / Reunion – Day 3

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