Beach Babe

My niece and I have the same taste in ‘kinis (that’s what she calls bikinis). She just happens to pull it off better than I!

But our beachside eats are much different. I go for Corona and lime–with Appalachicola oysters if I’m back home–and she prefers a waffle with peanut butter and jelly (pictured below).


I wonder if I can come up with a recipe to suit us both…

A Cup of Paula, A Pinch of Carrie

I’ve moved away from velvet ropes and stepped closer to the stove. I don’t focus on loft parties as much, instead I think about lamb chops. Miu Miu comes after Wusthof.

My site has shifted, slowly but surely, away from tales of first dates (largely horrific), fresh-out-of-college jobs (mostly demoralizing) and industry parties (all pretension, no fun) to cooking and warmth and love. I’m finally feeling comfortable in my own skin, in Manhattan—amazing. And it’s only taken me 5 years to get here…

Now, I have real friends, a tiny kitchen and a glamorous city that suits me. If there were a recipe for my current life, it would call for a cup of Paula (Deen) and a pinch of Carrie (Bradshaw). And I think my new site reflects that…

Difficult Easy Joy

I want to be the 2 year-old at the birthday party (like my niece, pictured left). That time when not enough chocolate icing warrants a tantrum and joy comes easy. Life is a simplified, play date version of itself.

Now? Work. Work. Work. The personal, the professional, the mundane require near superhuman efforts just to receive a passing grade. I remember how I longed for a difficult, city, adult life for so long. Well, I got it. In spades. Now, I want to go back and I can’t—none of us can. Mom sold my Archie Comics and Dad sold my childhood home by the bay. Press forward…

This morning, just as I start to feel unjustifiably melancholy about my too adult life, I read the best little New York Times “Modern Love” piece that’s ever rolled off the presses. ( “A Signal in the Sky Said: Marry Her” )

Ben Karlin, the author, love seeker and serial monogamist, talks about work in the context of love but his musings apply to everything in my life and yours.

“Moments of pure beauty, I realized, are not handed out like a free newspaper as you dash into the subway. You have to make them. Work for them. Sometimes, it’s a huge pain and you don’t know how or when they are going to happen. But it is flat-out wrong to expect them.”

Maybe I’m not crazy—or a complete Type A New Yorker—for working so hard for everything in my life, I think. Karlin continues.

“…life…had to be cultivated, curated, fussed over. Then came the bliss, in arrhythmic spasms.”
Ben Karlin, if you weren’t married to your gorgeous Italian, Paola, I might make you mine. Until then, keep writing and giving me hope.

Take Home

Who is this handsome fella

sitting across the bistro table from me

on Ile St. Louis?

Waiter, can I get this to go?

Scrumdidilyumptious

Chocolate and

spun sugar and

oh me oh my!

The French know how to do fancy and whimsical when you’re the birthday girl… Now where’s Charlie?

Seeking Pied-a-Terre, Big Kitchen

Apartments to look at while in Paris: 

1. 40, rue de Varenne

2. 17, rue des Grands Augustins

3. 11, rue de Verneuil

Ms. Child’s alma mater to consider…

Paris Notebook- Restaurants

Mark Bittman, Patricia Wells, Alain Ducasse (when he’s slumming) and a SoHo waiter or two are my voices of reason for this eclectic food guide. For my birthday I might be doing a little fancy French at Le Grand Vefour but for the rest of my stay I want rustic, hearty, classic… Yes, this means I will gain ten pounds. C’est la vie. Paris is an occasion and I plan on celebrating!

1. Le Severo

One of Mark Bittman’s favorites… Severo is a small bistro away from the tourists. Very Parisian. Fantastic beef, BEST EVER FRENCH FRIES. I don’t need any more convincing

(14th/ Metro Alesia; 8 rue des Plantes)

2. Chez Georges

One of Ina Garten’s favorites…A perfectly preserved 1920’s bistro. “Every millimeter of the long, narrow dining room, with its mirrored walls and Gothic columns, is packed elbow-to-elbow, filled with carefree, carnivorous crowd that’s there as much for the ambiance as for the cuisine, and enjoying the warm welcome of owner Betrand Brouillet.” “Baskets of perfectly sliced Pain Poilane, steaming platters of steak, kidneys, grilled lamb chops, duck, sole and turbot… The bistro star remains the classic onglet de boeuf with shallots to bring out it’s flavor… Alongside come fine, traditional French fries… The house Brouilly hits the spot… Outrageous Ile Flottante! Exemplary cheese plate. Who could ask for more?”

(2nd/ Metro Sentier; rue de Mail)

3. Aux Lyonnais

Alain Ducasse updated this classic standby… “The place is drop-dead gorgeous, an 1890 bistro that does not feel contrived. It’s one of the bistros of your dreams.” Here, the food is gutsy and prepared with great attention, and the service is better than average. Stew of winter vegetables… “sabodet”—a classic Lyonnaise dish of salami and potatoes served with a sauce gribiche… Strongly suggested to order the pink sparkler Bugey Serdon (you don’t see it often and it’s cheap!).

(2nd/Metro ?; 32 Rue Saint Marc)

4. Chez Denise

Boisterous, smoky bistro near Les Halles…”It’s that kind of place—friendly, truly unpretentious, fun—and filled with meat, mostly off-cuts. The most popular thing is the French fries, served in abundance. Start with something like leeks vinaigrette (starting with pate or saucisson would be overkill)… move to the cote de boeuf served with marrow bones… or kidney, brains, steaks or chops… I’ve yet to find a loser among them… A meal comes to about 30 Euro. Barrels of Brouilly at great prices. Share the Ile Flottante.

(1er/Metro Louvre-Rivoli or Chatelet-Les Halles; 5, rue des Prouvaires)

5. La Closerie des Lilas

Hemingway and Fitzgerald… Here you’ll find a fabulous jazz pianist, the world’s best champagne julep and you don’t even have to have dinner—feel free to sit at the bar and enjoy. The clientele is as chic Left Bank as ever. Freshest oysters…

(6e/Metro Vavin or Port Royal; 171 boulevard du Montparnasse)

6. Cameleon

Near our B& B… Patricia Wells loves this place for a casual meal. It’s equal parts local haunt, store, neighborhood bar and epicurean eatery.

(6e; 6 rue de Chevreuse)

7. Le Epi Dupin

Near our B&B… Not known for interior design, but fantastic food-yes! Francois Pasteau turns out an “endless parade of inventive dishes” based on Pasteau’s early morning trips to the Rungis Market. Tatin of endive and goat cheese…mackerel filets in a hazelnut, fennel crust…There’s a great prix fixe lunch.

(6e/Metro Sevres-Babylon; 11 rue Dupin)

8. Huitrerie Regis

One of Mark Bittman’s favorites (clearly, he’s my new boyfriend…) … The small oyster bar maybe seats 20 and is located right off of Boulevard St.-Germain. “Clean” and “pleasantly-lit,” at this bar you get super-fresh oysters—and not much more. Four varieties of oysters: Belon (most expensive), fines de Claire, speciales de Claire, pousses en Claire. The names describe how long they have spent in the growing pond and how much space they are given.
   
 (6e; 3 rue de Montfaucon)

9. Willi’s Wine Bar
A favorite of many…250 wines, many by the glass and a menu that includes fantastic terrines and Lyonnais sausage in truffled vinaigrette…Lunch is the busiest time, it’s best to enjoy cozy ambiance during the quieter evenings.

(1e/Metro Bourse; 13 rue des Petits-Champs)

10. Au Petit Fer a Cheval

Old Paris in the Marais… This is a “tiny, popular, super-trendy neighborhood café that dates back to 1903.” “Quirky and uncommon.” “Friendly and open—a place where you could actually get to know the French.” “This is the real thing, a one-of-a-kind place, a sentimental favorite, a part of pre-war Paris.” The café derives its name from the marble-topped horseshoe bar (the fer a cheval) that is its centerpiece. Come during the day so you can actually enjoy the ambiance as well as the daily specials…warm goat cheese salad with Poilane bread and other lighter fare. Open ‘til 2 a.m.!

(4e; Metro Hotel de Ville; 30, rue Vielle du Temple)
11. Mon Vieil Ami*

One of the best eats in Paris situated on Ile Saint Louis… Recommended by Melissa Lafsky (“Opinionistas”), Alain Ducasse and Patricia Wells (no, M. Ducasse and Madame Wells didn’t email me like Melissa did). “Fun, modern, youthful.” High-ceilinged, black & white, modern dining room where the waiters serve you a chilled glass of Alsatian pinot blanc the moment you’re seated. Smoked salmon rillettes…pate en croute…pan-fried foie gras…pan-fried mackerel with leeks vinaigrette. Can’t wait! We have reservations for Wednesday lunch.

(4e/ 69 rue Saint Louis en I’le)

12. Bofinger

Pronounced BOW-fahn-jay, this is the oldest brasserie in Paris and a protected national monument. It’s a Belle Epoque dining palace with polished wood, shining brass, comfortable banquettes and—the piece de resistance—a glass dome over the central dining room. French writers, academics and politicians come here for the two classic brasserie dishes—platter of fruits de mer (6 different kinds of oysters!) and charcroute. Sign me up for champagne and oysters!

(4e/Ile de la Cite, Ile St. Louis; 5-7 rue de Bastille)

13. Ma Borgogne
One of Alain Ducasse’s favorites… Situated on one of the most beautiful squares in Paris, the Place des Vosges, the Borgogne absorbs the beauty of its surrounding architecture that dates back to 1407. Don’t go fancy or complicated here—stick to classics. serves French cuisine de terroir—hearty countryside dishes like Beaujolais sausage and stuffed cabbage.

(4e/Metro Bastille; 19 Place des Vosges
14. Gerard Mulot

Best breakfast pastries and tarts in town… I’m going to skip café and croissants at the hotel and beat a path down the rue de Seine for a still warm pain au chocolat.

(6e/76 rue de Seine)

15. La Verre Vole’

The manager of my neighborhood restaurant, “Shorty’s .32,” recommended this ‘cave a manger’ to me… Situated in the trendy area near the Canal St. Martin, this boite looks as if it will satisfy all cravings! It’s a specialty grocery store, wine cellar and eatery all in one. Salads…roasted meats…all those Frenchy French terrines…

(near Canal St. Martin; 67 rue de Lancry)

Par-eee!

Paris for my birthday! What more could a girl wish for? Well… you know me… I wish that I knew a few locals. I wish that there was someone to draw me up a big list ofcan-not-miss exhibits, boutiques, bistros. Where should I stay? I’m overwhelmed by the art, the beauty–the prospect of seared foie gras for lunch! Enter Paris Notebook. No leather. No gold leaf. But my yellow Steno pad should do the trick. Research sessions at Barnes & Noble and hours exploring the galleries of Rue de Seine, the 18th century brasseries of Les Halles, the Jewish bakeries of the Quartier Latin (such a tough job!) will be dutifully transcribed for yournext trip. I’ll be your American insider–your know-it-all ami francaise– who can’t wait to tell you about Hotel Verneuil, the hotel de charme in St. Germain. You want romance and history with your next 4-star meal? Enjoy a lunch (for half the price of dinner) at Le Grand Vefour, a restaurant that has been around since the reign of Louis XV, a favorite of Napoleon, Colette, Cocteau. So I’ve got a hotel and my one 4-star meal. Now to fill in the blanks… 

Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters

Sitting, waiting, wishing while New York does it’s thing…  

And now I know
Spanish Harlem are not just pretty words to say
I thought I knew
But now I know that rose trees never grow in New York City

Until you’ve seen this trash can dream come true
You stand at the edge while people run you through
And I thank the Lord there’s people out there like you
I thank the Lord there’s people out there like you

While Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers
Turn around and say good morning to the night
For unless they see the sky
But they can’t and that is why
They know not if it’s dark outside or light

This Broadway’s got
It’s got a lot of songs to sing
If I knew the tunes I might join in
I’ll go my way alone
Grow my own, my own seeds shall be sown in New York City

Subway’s no way for a good man to go down
Rich man can ride and the hobo he can drown
And I thank the Lord for the people I have found
I thank the Lord for the people I have found

(Music by Elton John; Lyrics by Bernie Taupin)

Playing Teacher

Twenty curious faces and a cocktail dress. What better to lecture in than a tobacco-colored number and lizard skin high heels?

My Learning Annex classroom on Madison Square Park reminded me of my Gotham Writer days. But, of course, instead of squeezing my hips into a desk designed for a ten year-old’s slender frame, I was strutting (tottering?) across the linoleum floor, in front of the blackboard, trying to entertain, inspire and answer questions about GoogleSense, AdSense and the like. Technical mumbo jumbo makes me blush—it’s NOT my thing. I admitted such and swiftly transitioned our talk to more important topics like, Martha Stewart and “Who is coming out with me afterward for a fancy cocktail?” I love elderflower and champagne.

There was an Eastern European beauty and a charming woman with a 7-carat diamond (yes, we became such fast friends that she divulged diamond details in our booth at “Eleven Madison”). There were older men just beginning blogs and young, striking Latino American girls who were a few months into the daunting project. A slice, a cross-section, a grab bag of the Big Apple gave me their attention and time on a cool Wednesday evening and I loved them for it.

Tasting

Come sample the Granddaddy of all Southern foods today at Grand Central Station. (A man at last week’s Bleeker Street tasting declared both my product and get-up to be “spicy.” I’ll take that.)

What: Pimento Cheese and Banter w. Brooke

Where: Murray’s Cheese, Grand Central Market

Time: September 12th, 3pm-7pm

Belle in The New York Times

Right now I’m on vacation with my family, trying to explain where my money goes.

I haven’t seen you in a new dress in ages… Chinatown for a haircut?… Honey, mind your cuticles… That shade of lipstick is very Alicia Silverstone circa 1995… You still have a VCR?!

I buy cheese, family. I buy 180 minutes with a lawyer. I buy myself an LLC. And then, y’all know what I do? I buy more cheese and pounds upon pounds of red bell peppers. With my spare money and time, I run up to Union Square and splurge on an heirloom tomato or two and then come back down to Sullivan for a ball of mozzarella from Joe’s. I’ll slip in a glass of wine and call it luxury.

But I do feel like an entrepreneur and I do feel like I’m taking a risk. My products are tucked away on Bleeker Street and stacked on the cooled shelves at Grand Central.That makes me happy. That keeps me going…

On Broadway

I left him at the table and walked north back to my apartment, staring at the sky above my riverbed, the white and silver scales atop the Chrysler Building (the arrangement of lights looking like the fish I’d seen on the walls of Pompeii). Alone and heading home.

It reminded me of my first weeks in the city, walking from Union Square down Broadway after my movies—always alone—past Grace Church, Amalgamated. The education of a girl and her sensibilities. It came to me, finally. “Alone” and “lonely” were very different. Right then, I was by myself yet a part of those around me, Broadway, a river of souls, the echo of heavy heels, sneezes (little orgasms of air), monologues of crazy street poets. I considered all of my romances—the city, my job, the men. Manhattan was real and the only thing that had grabbed a hold of me, never once letting go. So I had that. I’d always have that. Breathe.

Plucked

I plucked their eyebrows. It was my thing, my only thing, the one thing they loved. Arches—haughty French circonflexes—rendered with the utmost care, smooth sweet half moons, serious slashes for the serious eighteen year-old. The line outside my freshman dorm room stretched clear down the grey, linoleum corridor of Richardson Hall out into the common room where Coca-Cola and Mentos and fried pork skins were sold. Well, in my mind anyway. Very Strange Roommate marveled and told me to start charging $5 a brow, we’d split the profits. Who was going to ask for just one brow to be tended to? I wondered.

They came to me before every big dance, banquet or dinner date. Girls that I had ignored or those that had ignored me (inevitably members of the lacrosse team hailing from South Carolina and Virginia) sat on the narrow little bed, lit by my 100 watt desk lamp, next to pictures of my Italian boyfriend, his hand-written letters and recipes, my official rejection letter from Ruth Reichl (kind and concise). They glimpsed what I’d never reveal. And what did I see? Pores, clogged pores, brilliance and light. I’d never have observed any of this at the Sigma Alpha Epsilon Crosby Stills & Nash mixer. But if I caught them looking too closely at me? I’d pull a hair beneath the white, virgin skin of the arch, make them tear up a bit. Don’t worry. It was brief and they learned a lesson and they always came back.

Plucked from obscurity. That’s how I look at it. I was a one trick pony but that was enough—more than most people have. I leveraged and I maneuvered and I met all the Alpha girls that way. I never much cared for their cocktail parties and mindless banter but the invites felt good. Meaningless invitations had a way of staving off loneliness—still do.  

A college campus, my New York City… nothing more than big buildings filled with vulnerable people. You can expose them, they can expose you. Garner their respect for one thing, no matter how small, and move on.

The First

How do you forget the boy who gave you your first cast-iron skillet?

Meet Your Meat

Like a kid in a candy store… or a downtown girl in the ”Jeffrey” shoe department…

I just can’t get enough of Pino Cinquemani and his Sullivan Street butcher shop! I feel like I’m always wiping sawdust off of my heels. Is it a crush on the big boy from Castofilippo, Sicily? Has my palate officially been spoiled by the grass-fed sirloin and lean bison? Anyone, anyone?

Check out my latest episode, MEET YOUR MEAT, to get acquainted with the man behind the chopping block and all of his best cuts of meat. Come back tomorrow and Wednesday to learn how to pair your stellar sirloin with a boldly flavored, Catalan salad. Lean meat and deconstructed romesco… mmmm… makes a girl smile. I’m feeling that B-vitamin rush all the way down to my fingertips. Wait, or is that Pino?

Two Lives

Riding the subway to Per Se . Mmmmm… love the duality of my New York City life… 

Chef’s Tasting Menu for Belle

“Oysters and Pearls”
Salad of French White Asparagus, Hop Shoots,Green Almonds
Seared Hudson Valley Foie Gras, Poached Brooks Cherries, Frisee
Crispy Skin Fillet of Dorade, Garbanzo Beans, Confit of Cuttlefish
Pan Roasted Maine Sea Scallop, Globe Artichokes, Sweet Carrots
Liberty Valley Pekin Duck Breast with California Strawberries
“Cervelle de Veau,” Laurel-Scented Pain Perdu
Rib-eye of Veal “Roti a la Broche,” Potato Gnocchi, Cepe Mushrooms
Hoja Santa Cheese with English Cucumber and Grilled Tomatillo Salsa
Apricot Sorbet
Per Se “Tarte au Chocolat Noir”

(Back to PluckU wings and a thrifty Sicilian red tonight?)

Southern Comfort

The season is upon us. Wham bam, two wedding weekends in a row, one smack against the other. For one girlfriend, I jetted (okay, I flew three hours in what was essentially an upright fetal ball position on a Delta commuter plane) from New York down to the Gulf and back up again only to turn around and speed off (or creep along the eastern seaboard at the pace of a Schwinn, courtesy Amtrak) to the Maine-New Hampshire seacoast for the wedding of another. Low-hanging lanterns, raw bars, difficult-to-identify spring buds and California “Champagne” abounded. Restrained elegance. There might have been fifteen years and variant levels of estrogen in the bloodstream differentiating my two lady friends (the Yankee bride was glowingly, unapologetically 5 months pregnant at her nuptials) but they both knew how to pull off their memorable evenings with aplomb.

But a party’s not a party if Mamma’s not there. She and her cast of “wedding friends” (yes, these people are a subset) remind me that “Steel Magnolias” is not some histrionic take on Southern quirk and culture but a damn fine portrayal of what really goes on in our backyards and on our front porches. At the Yacht Club wedding celebration down South (“yacht” definitively needing to be sandwiched between a pair of quotes like pimento cheese between two slices of crustless white bread), I saddled up next to the whirring Bushwacker machine just a moment too long. I missed Mamma’s opening harmony. You see, I was too busy tapping my thigh, enjoying the altogether pleasant sound of Kahlua and “151” rum being rhythmically folded into vanilla ice cream and half-and-half to hear the “Drifters” lyrics escape into the dense twilight air.

“This magic moment, so different and so new was like any other, until I kiss you…” Mamma, in her dusty rose and black pantsuit, was doing a duet with the lead singer.

Naturally.

But back to that alcoholic Dixie milkshake of ours… Tacky and a godsend, that’s how I’d describe it. I suppose that it’s okay I didn’t hear Mamma at first because those moments standing, sipping next to the big steely machine might as well have been a therapy session; my shoulders descended from up around my ears down to their proper place, my brow unfurrowed, my mind stopped racing and asking New York kinda questions (i.e. “Does that agency really merit 20% of gross net earnings?” “Is in-house publicity sufficient or do I need to hire an independent contractor?” “ConEd CAN’T raise electricity 17%–I need my manicures!”). I was utterly content. 

Sucking down my weekly calorie allotment, I looked over at the over-sized Southern boys next to me—deep-sea fishermen, big game hunters, lawyers—acting the same. They stopped talking about the marlin and the ten-point bucks that got away and considered the new wallpaper in the guest bedroom, the delicate remoulade sauce they enjoyed with crab cakes last weekend at the Club.

Alcohol and dairy—the teat of southern comfort.

“And then it happened, it took me by surprise, I knew that you felt it too, by the look in your eyes… Sweeter than wine, softer than the summer night, everything I want I have…”

Sweeter than wine is right. Dust off the blender and make this absolutely decadent, over-the-top milkshake your first warm weekend out in the Hamptons (or on the fire escape!). Channel Mamma and tipsy wedding receptions on the bay.

Bushwackers

8 oz cream of coconut
4 oz coffee liqueur
2 oz black rum
2 oz creme de cacao
8 oz half-and-half
vanilla ice cream

Combine all ingredients in a blender with 2 cups of ice and blend until creamy. Enjoy (and don’t plan on being hungry for dinner)!

Maiden Lane

I’m trying to tiptoe off the island. I’m sure of it. It’s gotta mean something that South of Houston just isn’t cutting it anymore. Lower, lower, I want to move as far south and as close to the water as I can go. Everyday for a week now, I’ve taken hour-long walks down to the South Street Seaport and back. “I could live here,” I think, “rent out a space over an oyster bar, hear the tugboats, smell the saltwater in the morning, watch the obscene oranges and pinks melt into the horizon at night.” I’d force those sensations to be interchangeable with memories of docks jutting out into the warm, brown bay waters at sunset.

Andalucia, Spain, Puglia, Italy—I’ve written before that I’m drawn to the southernmost points of all countries. New York City and I’m trying to do the same…

“Move to Maiden Lane, move to Maiden Lane…” It’s actually a lovely little chant, isn’t it? But I have to think, “Wouldn’t it all be a cheap approximation of the South that I really yearn for?”

A piece of land and a home, something that looks just like this (Hampton Plantation). Longing for “Tara” and all that picked over, Dixie nonsense? Yep, and I’m unapologetic in my desires. I’ll finish my book, its movie, do wonders with my new cooking “show,” and then I’m going to get her. And hopefully by then “maiden” won’t fit into the picture—I’ll be a Mrs.

(pre-emptive strike at smart ass comments: yes, i realize that the South Street Seaport is not the southernmost tip of the island, Maiden Lane and the surrounding streets lie south east while Battery Park City is the southernmost point of the island.)

Cookin’ Up Something Good

Y’all have not been forgotten! I’ve been cookin’ up something good (but very labor-intensive) for your springtime enjoyment. Promise. Tune in this week for the delicious details.

(And I’m sorry if you left a comment and it was never published–I had to delete all comments from the last 2 weeks due to major spam problems. Now I’m back in business!)