Gossip Girl and Vouvray

Christmas has come early this year, mainly in the well-heeled shape of an awesomely bad drama. I’m of course referring to Gossip Girl, the show on that random network after America’s Next Top Model—which I of course also regularly watch. Gossip Girl involves Upper East Side dueling debutantes—power struggles rivaling that of Musharraf and Bhutto—an adorably tortured trust-fund kid, middle-aged cocaine enthusiasts, and “poor kids” living in lofts around DUMBO. Hailing from hipster central myself, specifically Williamsburg, I of course watch every Wednesday night surrounded by bottles of wine, random sushi rolls, and numerous roommates, friends, and others just a quick text message away. Although our kitchen table may be littered with the Christian Science Monitor, The Nation, and even the Economist, it sometimes feels so good just to tune-in and zone-out. Watching each “stressful” scenario unfold, which frock to wear at brunch, which Ivy League letter of acceptance to entertain, I’ve found my own problems a bit more justified and just slightly more real in a city that often seems candy coated, and I’m talking about powdered sugar, that which is easily brushed off.

Besides that week’s episode, the real star of the evening was the recently released 2002 Domaine Huet Brut Vouvray Pétillant courtesy of Robert Chadderdon Selections. It was freakin delicious. The bubbles were delicate and flirty, the nose a bit stoney and white grapey, the flavors mostly golden delicious apples. The bottle quickly disappeared, the episode appropriately forgettable. As our thumbs quickly began to fly, frantically typing text messages…“Can you believe Blair’s headband”…“Did Serena and Lonely Boy do IT”…I paused between my texts asking the group…“Since when do New Yorkers climb in and out of each others windows, this isn’t Dawson’s Creek”. Or maybe it is…with a dash of the O.C. and eye-candy courtesy of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Manhattan's Pastoral Tradition

My closet of a kitchen hardly inspires me to open a can let alone prepare a meal. But since it was Saturday morning, and a beautiful day, I decided to make my way to fourteenth street and brave the starving masses at the Union Square Farmers’ Market;I was craving pesto afterall.

Surrounded by piles of bulbous, almost bursting, kaleidoscope colored tomatoes, peaches, and berries, I took a deep breath, and escaped the urban machine. My first task: trying every free sample. My second task: finding ingredients for pesto. While stuffing myself, I entertained Anna with wannabe foodie jargon. “These pretzels are to die for, I wonder what sort of sea salt they use,” “and that cranberry walnut bread is divine” and “that peach is heartbreakingly ripe.” With all my foodie jargon, I was getting on my own nerves and we were getting sidetracked. As we braved strollers carrying passengers far too old to be pushed, their knees bumping their foreheads, we began our search for lovely bunches of basil. Anna, being the fabulous and humble chef she is, offered culinary tidbits along our journey…“the basil grown near Genova is like none other in the world,” “traditionally they use a mortar and pestle,” and “the olive oil in Liguria is so delicate.” My culinary offerings were, “I’ll carry the groceries” and “leave clean-up to me.” As a farmer politely asked me to stop squeezing his peaches, Anna selected some beautiful bunches of basil, and we were on our way.

In typical New York fashion, we stumbled up five flights of stairs with arms full of goodies ready to prepare our meal in Anna’s apartment—apparently she had something called a food processor. As Anna went to work gently wiping the basil with a damp paper towel, grating the parmesano reggiano, blending the lovely olive oil, pine nuts, and basil, I sat brainstorming—what oh what to drink? Do we stick to a Ligurian white? Or, since I’ve been drinking a lot of whites from Campania lately, maybe a Falanghina or Greco di Tufo? I called my boss. “Schiava,” she said. “Yes that’s right, Schiava from Trentino Alto-Adige.” She had never led me astray, so I went with a bottle of Schiava Grigia from Cantina Nalles Magre. It was perfect. The mossy, almost mint-like flavors of the Schiava, with a hint of strawberry, went perfectly with the licorice-like flavors of the fresh basil. The wine’s pleasant acidity was a pleasant companion for the rich olive oil and salty parmesano reggiano. As we twirled our spaghettini, we exchanged a few text messages confirming plans for later in the evening. After such a wonderful meal, five dollar beers sounded terrible, but sometime a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. We lit some smokes and hit the pavement

Gessami

Crawling out of my window onto my fire-escape couldn’t save me from my sweltering Brooklyn apartment moreover that hot August evening in New York City. Beverages were surely in order. My roommate and I assessed our lack of funds, asked our selves again why we were too cheap to buy an air-conditioner, and decided dinner and wine were our best options to cool down and satisfy our late summer boredom.

The wine was “Gessami”, a Spanish white from the Penedes Region, and a blend of Muscat and Sauvignon Blanc, and our take-out dinner venue being Fabianes Cafe in Williamsburg. I decided upon my usual—a grilled chicken salad, tossed with jicama, roasted corn, creamy black beans, and mixed greens tossed with a delicious cilantro, pesto vinaigrette.

Firstly the wine, notes of almond, honey, peach, with a slight effervescent finish went perfectly with the earthy yet almost cucumber and celery-like fresh flavors of the jicama. I also added to my plate some of Brooklyn’s finest— mainly some vine-ripened tomatoes grown on my fire-escape. The tomatoes, little bulbous treasures of the summer heat, were bursting at the skin and drizzled with extra virgin olive oil, and topped with sea salt. The sea salt sparkled through the olive oil which shone like rays of sunshine. The vibrant acidity of the tomatoes with a touch of richness from the olive oil added structure to the wine’s soft fruit aromas creating an almost nutty flavor. The sea salt enhanced the wine’s soft acidity just enough to brighten the wines delicate finish.

As we polished off our last glass and began our search for chocolate, we solved our apartment cooling predicament—finding boyfriends with air-conditioners.

Gamay: My Favorite Plain Jane

Lately, I’ve been so pleased with Gamay from the Loire Valley. With its structured fruit—notes of strawberry and tart cherry—and its entertaining acidity, Gamay wines have added some variety to my mid-summer Rose woes.

The other night, I enjoyed a wine called “Le Carre le Prieur” with my friend Anna at Tartine in the West Village—our favorite BYOB spot. I decided upon the evening’s special—sesame encrusted escarole with a citrus vinaigrette, atop of green beans, braised fennel, and summer squash. The wine’s young, round fruit and vibrant finish, paired perfectly with the light fish. The vinaigrette of lemon, pink pepper corns, ginger, and sesame offered South East Asian flavors to my bistro fare. I enjoyed notes of licorice courtesy of the braised fennel, while the perfectly seasonal sautéed yellow squash and green beans complimented the young wines playful acidity.

Yet, this wine’s brilliance is it’s purity of flavors. Its naked simplicity is refreshing and honest. This wine yearns to be a guest at the dinner table, enjoyed along side simple, classic food, cigarettes, and bars of chocolate offered from hand bags.

The Boy Next Door

I'm convinced that everyone in New York City spys on their neighbors...at least the ones that walk around shirtless displaying their perfect mid-sections. Luckily my roomates and I have some delicious eye candy across the street to admire...and admire we do...all the time. Watching the guy across the street is like tea time... it happens everyday and it usually involves cookies. We wave at and dance for him , we parade around-or at least I do- in our undergarments. We are not quite sure if he watches us, but he has on occassion waved back.

We like to pretend that he's incredibly gorgeous and single. My roomate constantly insists that"we are all delusional"...but we like to joke that he fantisizes about us...three gals living together in a far too small apartment. But instead of Three's Company, our living situation is reminiscent of Old School meeting Sex and City...mainly frat girls that love Dave Chappelle and fantasize about Veuve Clicquot and Christian Louboutin.

Our last stalking session involved my roomates, returning from the Dane Cook show a little tipsy and craving pizza. As we chowed down Ray's Pizza we opted for our favorite autumn pastime... and no not the Bears vs the Giants...but watching the hottie across the street.

A Hang-Over Fix

It had been a long night. Celebrating with my roommate upon the finding of an attractive, heterosexual, man in New York City-he even had an accent- I happily crashed on the couch.

Upon rising, I realized that our overnight guest had multiplied. We suddenly had multiple English gremlins one of which I nearly tripped over on the way to the bathroom. Apparently, male English twenty-somethings have maintained their pack mentality...even when hooking-up.

Resenting the sexy bartender that had talked me into another shot of Makers Mark...I eventually got myself together and headed to SoHo....I needed something to get rid of this hangover.

Meeting a friend at Dean and Deluca, we wandered... stumbled... along the cobbled stone streets of SoHo. Past the credible posers at Felix, we found...to our surprise... a total gem of a chocolate shop. Called Kee Chocolatier, this cozy shop was comfortably filled with hungry SoHo denizens along with the smells of chocolate and other pleasant aromas. Because of the exposed brick walls, the small shop needed little decoration apart from the glass shelves displaying the lovely handmade bon-bons. Kee herself was to my excitement busy at work in the exposed kitchen stirring and mixing, folding, and shaping. "Isn't a drink the best thing for a hang-over"... I asked my companion. Agreeing with myself...I confidently purchased a champagne infused dark chocolate bon-bon. I took a bite and declared... "freakin delicious".

Heading up to Union Square, I insisted that we stop at Max Brenner:Chocolate By the Bald Man. The large, multi-level space with an assembly line kitchen as its focal point, would seem more at home in Times Square or a sub-urban mall food court. Yet, the incredible smells of chocolate fondue and fresh waffles, of all things, made me giddy and lifted my spirits. As I wandered toward some truffles, I quickly settled upon a dark chocolate truffle infused with whiskey. As I picked up additional truffles for my roomates, I had a thought, and decided to grab a few more....just in case our overnight guests were still around.

Anyone for a Night Cap?

"We're going out for just one drink" my roomates announced...I've heard that one before. I was sick at home with a cold and the gals were hitting the town.

The next morning, stumbling from bed, my chest sticky with vapor rub, I heard the soft lullabys of someone, hopefully a roomate, vomitting in the bathroom. While I politely waited to pee, I entered my living room which to my suprise, was not in the condition I had left it. Instead, the clues detailing my roomates' escapades from the previous evening littered our small apartment.

Clue #1- bottle of resolve Clue #2-chocolate penis cake Clue #3-dried brown substance Clue #4-bottle of diet root beer, stalks of asparagus, and half a tuna steak -had I stumbled onto the set of a CSI episode? And what's with the penis cake? "I need some coffee"... I thought to myself.

As my roomates began to stumble out of bed...and out of the toilet...I waited for the evening re-cap...it of course began with... "I'm never drinking tequila again"...followed by..."I volunteered to make a penis cake for a co-worker's bachelorette party"... and finally..."I felt like some late-night tuna steak topped with soy sauce and steamed asparagus and chased with a diet root beer"...

My roomates obviously have incredible motor skills. Firstly, I didn't even know our oven worked properly. And while drunk, roomate #1 somehow managed to make a chocolate penis cake-which I later heard was delicious. Secondly, since our stove top-which also hardly works-had the remnants of tuna and steamed asparagus, it was apparent that we actually owned a vegetable steamer, and that resolve does indeed work wonders on soy sauce stains. And who ever heard of tuna steak satisfying the late-night munchies...this gal's got taste.

"But how did you get the ingredients for the cake...and the tuna"...I asked. "Food Imporium"...they announced. I pictured the two of them stumbling through the store looking for frosting, sprinkles, diet root beer, and a tuna steak.

I nodded my head...everything seemed to make sense, and wasn't too out of the ordinary.

My roomates finally left for work, hung over, and one with a penis cake in her hands. "Be careful"... I said as she closed the door..."today is not the day to get mugged, hit by a car, or caught in a hostage crisis". I can just see the police report now.."the victim was found with a blood alcohol level of .08 and a penis cake".

Loving Mario and the Easy Tour Guide

Great wine, pizza, calamari, Matt Dillion...that really was a great dinner.

I've visited a few of Mario Battali's restaurants, but I really love Otto. While holding my "destination" ticket...we were boarding a train for Messina, Italy...actually waiting for a table of three...I glanced around Otto's welcoming bar and felt completing relaxed and content. Patting myself on the back...I acknowledged my skills as a tour guide.

Sometimes having guests is a bit stressful. Where should I take them for dinner, which tourist sites-yuck-should we visit, and which neighborhoods to trot through? My sister was in town, and dinner on Monday night was on my mind. Italian's always a good pick, but I wanted a bit of a scene, and not too expensive. Otto proved to be a great choice.

Firstly, Otto was comfortably packed for a Monday night. People having wine at the bar with antipasti, tables strategically cluttered with plates full of pasta, pizza...it was game-time. While waiting for a table, the bartender took charge, gave us a few tastings and suggestions, and planted a quartino of a Montepulciano in front of us.

Finally seated, our waiter suggested a $30 bottle of wine-another Montepulciano that is appartently one of Mario's favorites. It was easy to drink, and went well with all of our courses. We happily settled with two pastas-carbonara and ricotta with eggplant- pizza topped with fennel for the table, a "flight" of pesce-calamari, anchioves, shrimp, mussles-and an artichoke salad. Gelato followed-olive and pistachio-and chocolate sauce appropriately served in a shot glass...I drank, yes drank, all of the chocolate sauce.

But where was Mario? Maybe at the Spotted Pig, or Babbo, or Bar Jamon? I searched for a red head wearing clogs and shorts, and to my suprise spotted Matt Dillion. "Isn't your big sis cool" I said to my sister. A New York visit just isn't complete without a celeb siting.

Cold Turkey

Last night my roomate announced... "I really need to have sex...and I'm craving chocolate". I nodded and replied... "me too".

Sex and chocolate had indeed been on my mind, and not in that order.

After our conversation, I started to think about cravings in general.

I unfortunately live near Times Square, and am constantly stimulated by lights, people, noise...with this incessant pollution, I often find myself numb, and not really seeing, hearing, or feeling my surroundings. Without acknowledging my surroundings I find myself seeking sensory satisfaction elsewhere. In food, an I-Pod, intimacy-if there was any to have....

New Yorkers experience too much, too often, and too quickly. Our senses are overwhelmed by noise, other people, smells, and yet my mind doesn't seem to absorb much. And that's when my cravings creep up. It's as if I'm starved, needing genuine satisfation. Perhaps that's why New Yorker's are considered impatient people...because we are starved for a real connection between our mind and senses...and we need instant gratification...a cab now, coffee now, the train now.

One craving always seems to outweigh another. And that craving triggers the others. Everyday, I encounter dozens of strangers while walking to work, waiting in line, and yet I seldom make a connection. I suppose I'm craving intimacy most of all...a connection... simply a conversation with someone outside of my circle of friends and co-workers.

The abscence of intimacy....sex even...has led me to crave distractions in general. Maybe an autumn fling is in order.