the whole plate. » dinner

butternut squash and apple cider soup.

leslie — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 21:15:34 +0000

raw brussels sprout salad with hazelnuts and cheddar; butternut squash and cider soup.

I think my biggest personality fault is trying to do too much. I have a lot of interests, and I like to indulge them all. My relationships are important to me, which means maintaining an active social life. I want to do well professionally. I want to learn. I need to sleep.

Every week, I try to do it all. I try to cook and dine and read and write and see art and see my friends and do yoga and stay active and run my errands and answer my emails and go to work and keep my apartment clean and…yeah. You get the idea.

Sometimes, however, one item on my to-do list has to take precedence. Two weeks ago, the theater I work at reopened after the first renovation in its history – a history that dates back to 1923 – and I found myself with work-related commitments nearly every evening for two weeks straight. In week one, my dinners ranged from an 11PM appetizer of spinach cannelloni with a glass of champagne to leftover passed hors d’oeuvres to a hummus sandwich eaten in a subway car. Office politics grated on me. Work stress happened at 9PM one Saturday night. This wonderfully full and balanced life that I try to lead disappeared under special events and ticket envelopes and lists of VIPs.

And yet, one night I told myself, “You are not doing enough. That book you are reading for pleasure hasn’t been opened in eight days. You’ve been to two yoga classes in twelve days, and that’s been it in the way of exercise. You paid too much money for a cab home to Brooklyn; you forgot your lunch on the kitchen counter and now you have to buy it. You need to set up appointments at the schools you might want to attend next fall. You also really need to get your eyebrows threaded before a Frida Kahlo situation sets in, and your laundry basket has spilled over into not one, but two piles on the floor. And you miss your friends, and god it’d be nice to go on a date, and wouldn’t you also love to have a long phone conversation with your mom and dad?”

But at the end of another fourteen-hour day, all I could do was lay in my bed and watch the pilot episode of Felicity on Netflix.

Which is when I realized: I last watched the pilot episode of Felicity when it premiered in 1998, and I was 12 years old. And now I’m 26, and I wasted 45 minutes of my life watching something that entertained me 14 years ago when my only responsibility was my homework and practicing the melody of my Haftorah for my upcoming Bat Mitzvah.

Welcome to my brain since October 24th.

Halfway through the craziness, I got one day – a Sunday – to take a breather. In the afternoon, I met my friend Shayne for a cup of tea and a couple hours with our respective writing assignments for the fiction class we are both taking. The next day I would have to work, but the theater would mercifully be dark, so I’d have the evening off. I planned to finally go to a yoga class that night.

As I complained to Shayne that I can’t seem to get a handle on life when work is so busy, she said to me, “You need to take a night off. Go home tomorrow night. Make soup.”

The next night, I didn’t go to yoga. I went home, opened a bottle of wine, and covered my kitchen counters with vegetables from end to end. I ate a beautiful meal, and I went to sleep early.

For the rest of the week, I had this soup. Work was still crazy and I never got to yoga and I didn’t read my book and my to-do list didn’t get shorter. But I felt better. And I think, now that life is calm again, I am beginning to learn that every week, I don’t need to do it all.

♦♦♦

butternut squash and apple cider soup [serves 4]

2 lbs butternut squash, peeled, seeded, and chopped into 1″ cubes
1 T extra virgin olive oil
1 small onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 t curry powder
1 t cinnamon
1.5 c apple cider
1.5 c low sodium vegetable broth
1/2 c whole milk
2 T lemon juice
few pinches sea salt

1) In large pot, heat oil over medium heat. Add onion and sauté until golden, about 10 minutes. Add garlic and saute 30 seconds. Add curry powder and cinnamon and sauté 30 seconds.

2) Add squash, apple cider, and vegetable broth. Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer, partially covered, for 45 minutes. Squash should be very tender. Remove from heat and let cool.

3) In batches, pureé soup in blender or food processor. Return to pot.

4) Stir in whole milk, lemon juice, and sea salt to taste. Simmer 5 minutes. If necessary, add water to reach desired consistency. Serve warm.

dear twentysomething, you’re not old.

leslie — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 19:25:29 +0000

first helpings on rosh hashanah day one: chickpeas in star anise and date masala; roasted carrots and parsnips with thyme; challah; green beans with ground almonds, garlic, and butter; quinoa-walnut pilaf

homemade baklava for dessert

rosh hashanah day two: halibut with red pepper and olive tapenade; quinoa-walnut pilaf; green beans with ground almonds, garlic, and butter; roasted carrots and parsnips with thyme; snow peas with lemon-tarragon butter.

first helpings of yom kippur break-fast dinner: mom’s famous cheese blintzes, honey-glazed wax beans, arugula salad with a mustard vinaigrette, mark west pinot noir.

On the second day of Rosh Hashanah this year, a friend of mine gave birth to her first child. She is the first of my real friends to be a mother. When I received the photograph, I could barely believe that my middle school cafeteria buddy had officially started her own family.

Whenever I receive news such as this – someone from high school is engaged, pregnant, married, promoted, published, a PhD – the statement is generally accompanied by the exclamation, “God, we’re getting old!”

I’d like to know: if we twentysomethings are already old, what will we be in 20 years? In 30? In 50?

Last week was my 26th birthday. I don’t feel old. Actually, I feel quite young. I was given an excellent bill of health on a recent doctor’s visit. I like to think I’m pretty strong. Most of the time I have tons of energy, keeping me going through long and full days. Three weeks ago I started a 10-week writing course, and I was just as alert and engaged in class as I had been at work during the day. I was out celebrating my 26th year past 4 AM, and yet somehow I still rallied myself to meet my Brooklyn neighbor Megan for a late morning run in Prospect Park.

I am not old. Old is my grandma, whose hands always shake, who can no longer walk her dog past the end of her street. Old is the recipe for my mom’s blintzes, a part of our family for generations. Old is my apartment building, with its chipped paint, its cracked countertops, its creaking doors.

Back in my first semester studying abroad, my classmates and I used to discuss in awe the ancient European cities we visited throughout those four months. Their histories went back hundreds and hundreds of years, while our native United States was barely more than two centuries old. And then I went to Turkey and to Israel, and I saw landmarks that had been around for millennia, and even Europe seemed young.

Old is not 22 or 26 or 29. We’re babies. We’re just getting started.

All around me, my peers are knee-deep in post-baccs that will lead them to grad school, beginning to study for the GRE, or wrangling with their first jobs post-grad school. People are moving in with significant others, getting engaged, or even having children. This doesn’t mean we’re old. It means we’re old enough. Old enough to do all of this and more.

I recently made a rather big decision [hint: it starts with "g" and ends with debt]. It was just two years ago that I realized I wanted to switch my career path and go back to the performing arts, and now I am confident in saying that I want to devote my life to them. If I were old, I would be nearing the end. But my life and my career are just beginning.

As I work towards my professional goals, my friend that is now a mother will see her daughter say her first word and take her first step. Her little girl will go to first grade, write her first essay, have her first kiss, take her first college class. That doesn’t sound like an end to me. It sounds like a lifetime of beginnings.

On my dad’s 61st birthday last year, he made the comment that with every decade, his life has gotten better and better. I love that perspective. It means we can’t ever really be old, because there is always something undiscovered ahead.

hurricane weekend.

leslie — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 12:44:29 +0000

zucchini marinated in cumin, lime, and sea salt; cilantro-lime quinoa; mango salsa; taco with avocado, sautéed bell peppers and onions, chopped heirloom tomatoes, mexican-spiced shrimp with lime.

The scene in Lower Manhattan as of 3 PM on Saturday:

Don’t worry, we got the last loaf of bread.

So, some lady named Irene decided to swoop in last weekend and bring the lives of everyone residing on the East Coast to a standstill. As a New Yorker, I don’t often feel the effects of life interruptions such as this: even in a blizzard, restaurants are always ready to serve, grocery stores and Duane Reades keep their late night hours, piles of snow get vaporized into nothing, and the subway runs all night and all day.

Well, that used to be the case.

Last weekend is one I will likely never forget. I spent it drinking, eating, and slumber-partying, which shouldn’t be especially noteworthy. But I’ll remember this one, because for the first time ever, we New Yorkers were without public transportation. As the city screeched to a sudden halt on Saturday afternoon, my companions and I couldn’t shake the sense that we were experiencing a piece of history firsthand. Many of us had been skeptical about the intensity of this storm, but once I saw the New York Times tweet about the subway shutdown – well, hysteria may have set in.

I made the decision to weather the impending storm at my sister’s apartment, accepting that I would be stuck indoors for an indefinite length of time. It seemed like a sane idea to leave behind my Brooklyn digs and spend the weekend at hers, which are located exactly one block from an area that was evacuated. Two of her friends thought so too, and so the four of us had a hurricane sleepover in the financial district, just steps from the soon-to-be-flooded Battery Park.

After I traveled on the second to last 2/3 train to Manhattan, the four of us stocked up our food supply – vegetables, fresh herbs, berries, chocolate with sea salt, Greek yogurt, and seven bottles of wine [the essentials] – and took a photo-taking stroll around the neighborhood to fight off cabin fever before it hit.

At 4:30 PM, we uncorked bottle number one of wine. And that is how I spent the most relaxing weekend I’ve had in months: drinking glasses that never seemed to empty, cooking a Mexican feast and an indoor brunch, watching a movie, reading a book, playing Scattergories, refilling a tub that kept draining its water, giggling. Even in Maine, 10 days that defined calm, I was still out and about, moving from the beach to dinner to ice cream to family activities. But this weekend, thanks to Irene and the shuttered MTA, I stayed put.

It wasn’t the weekend I had planned, but it was every bit as satisfying. In the end, we in the five boroughs were spared any harm, and I was out meandering by late Sunday afternoon. I consider myself one of the few lucky ones; while those in the suburbs are suffering from lack of power, lack of running water, and flood damage, I can actually thank Irene for her presence. She helped me slow down.

pizza, ice cream, and that august fresh start.

leslie — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 19:08:55 +0000

pizza with mozzarella, artichokes, and rosemary from olio pizza e piu.

mud pie ice cream and chocolate ice cream with rainbow sprinkles [guess which is mine] from emack and bolio’s.

I always associate the return from vacation with a new start. I think it’s the timing; no matter how many years past academia I may be, the dog days of August still feel like back-to-school season. As a kid, I always ransacked the pile of mail that greeted us post-vacation immediately upon returning home, hunting for the Trumbull Public School System envelope that would inform me of my teacher for the upcoming year. I would leave for Maine a fourth grader, and two weeks later, I would return to Connecticut one year older.

I may not have a new teacher’s name to ponder or a book list to buy this year, but I still can’t shake the feeling that in the coming weeks, I am at the beginning. Oh what exactly, I haven’t quite figured out.

Last week, my first week back to post-vacation reality, felt different. The peace of the beach stayed with me, and I seemed to be seeing life through wonderfully fresh eyes. I took things easy. Got enough sleep. Nearly finished my third book of the month. Cooked some lovely farm fresh food. Saw an indie movie, bought a bunch of theater tickets, and signed up for a writing seminar.

Wednesday, then, felt almost novel. After work, I attended an event that began at the new Athleta store on the Upper West Side: a group run in Central Park. The leaders were rather disorganized, and so a few of us [that would be Sofia, Shayne, Sarah, Steff, Ashley, and I] broke off from the crowd to run on our own. It was my first time running in Central Park and my first time running with these friends, and I truly enjoyed myself.

Post-run, gift bags in hand, Sofia and I took our sweaty selves downtown for dinner at Olio Pizza e Più, where we ate a late [free!] meal outside on the West Village street: two so-so pizzas and a carafe of house red. We sat and talked long after our plates had been cleared, until finally meandering further south for ice cream at Emack and Bolio’s. I made it home close to 12:30 AM and slept for a short six hours.

Yes, this is typical Leslie. Food. Friends. Sweat. Drinks. Long nights, early wake-ups. Rinse and repeat.

Except, this was the only night I did this last week. My other nights were full, but in very different ways.

Sometimes I think I get overly caught up in the whole foodie/healthy living thing. I realize pizza and ice cream are not exactly salad and kombucha, but I do feel guilty of too often letting my other passions fall to the wayside in favor of sweat sessions and foodventures. And while I love [love!] those two things, I care about a great many others as well. I could wear a lot of other hats if I’d only remember to put them on.

My memory of those other pursuits has come alive again, and I suppose that is why I feel back at the beginning. I’ll happily keep eating and drinking and sweating and socializing, but I’ll be giving everything else that makes me “me” a lot more attention too. If it means a bit less exercise-eat-repeat, I’m ok with that. The fresh start feels good so far.

summer eating in.

leslie — Thu, 18 Aug 2011 17:54:36 +0000

roasted corn on the cob; cucumbers braised in butter; homemade “falafel” burger with hummus.

Whenever I see people at the farmers market buying sweet potatoes this time of year, I always want to yell at them. “There’s corn, you crazy people! Corn on the cob! It’s fresh! It’s sweet! It’s local! Eat your potatoes later! We barely get corn for eight weeks of the year!”

I am very passionate about this issue.

Project Relax-A-Little has combined with Post-Vacation-Need-To-Eat-In, and the mix produced some lovely cooking from my Brooklyn kitchen earlier this week. With my many dining adventures of late, I had almost forgotten how much I adore spending a night with a glass of wine and my stovetop.

After a first uneventful day back in the office, I stopped by the Union Square farmers market, hoping a stall or two would stick around past closing time. I was in luck, as several farmers were still happily peddling their goods at 6:45 PM. I scooped up August’s finest: heirloom tomatoes, okra, cucumbers, eggplant, zucchini, peaches, raspberries, blueberries. And corn, of course.

Last summer, I discovered my very favorite way to eat these summer ears: roasted in the oven. Thanks to my friend Megan, I recently learned that they don’t even need to be shucked before going into the heat. Who says cooking is hard?

I served my roasted ear with another seasonal delight, braised cucumbers, courtesy of Julia Child. These take ten minutes to prepare and taste incredible. Butter. Cucumber. Salt. Make them. Trust me.

There was also a mediocre falafel-inspired veggie burger in this particular dinner, which I smothered in hummus because the recipe needs work. The cucumber and corn were my favorite part. Vegetables at the height of their season always are.

spring pea and fennel soup, and eating real food.

leslie — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 22:15:07 +0000

Three and a half weeks ago, I moved out of the apartment I used to share with my older sister, Ally. I’m beyond happy in my new place, obviously, and I think my sister is content with her new situation too: she has a new roommate, a friend of hers, and her friend brought along a little dog to share our old FiDi digs.

Since moving, I’ve integrated “my food” rather seamlessly into my new kitchen. One of my roommates happens to have as strong an affinity for fresh produce as I do, and so the only adjustment for us both has been finding space in the refrigerator to fit an overbundance of kale. My sister, on the other hand, has suddenly found herself with the new status of being the one who eats “differently.”

My philosophy on food these days is simple. I ask myself, “Is it real?” If the answer is yes, I eat it. If the answer is no, I might still eat it, but I’ll think about it a lot more. It still baffles me that this is considered an out-of-the-ordinary way to approach eating, and this was a topic my sister and I discussed often as I cooked in our shared kitchen.

A week after I moved out, my sister called to ask how I recommended she cook the asparagus sitting in her fridge. She later sent me a photo of scallops she had made, cooked in an orange sauce she had prepared herself. No, she’s not cooking oatmeal on the stove every morning or overthinking nutrition, and she’s not eating the quantity that I tend to consume. But she does consistently gravitate toward real, whole foods with an emphasis on produce, and that’s a legacy I am proud to have left behind.

It’s silly, when you really think about it, that eating full fat ice cream or pancakes with syrup that isn’t sugar-free can be seen as a strange way to eat. It’s silly that proclaiming a craving for a salad or a bowl of fresh fruit can bring about a quizzical glance. All of that is food – unadulterated, simple, real.

Food starts in the ground, not in the supermarket aisle. I eat the way I do because that makes sense to me. After two and a half years as my roommate and countless forkfuls of the dinners I’ve made, it’s nice to know my sister gets it too.

The soup above was quintessential Leslie style. No recipe going in. The summer bounty as inspiration. Basic ingredients to work with: oil and butter, fennel and peas, salt and pepper. It’s creamy, sweet, and a wonderful union of warm weather flavors. Real food, and really delicious.

Ally, I’ll have to make it for you sometime.

♦♦♦

spring pea and fennel soup [serves four as an appetizer]

1 T evoo
1 T organic butter
1 spring onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 fennel bulb, coarsely chopped
4 c fresh peas
1 c vegetable broth
2 c water
1/4 t sea salt
dash pepper
2-3 T fresh basil leaves
1/4 c plain whole milk yogurt

1) Heat oil and butter in medium pot over medium heat. When butter is melted, add onion and fennel; sauté about 10 minutes, until soft.

2) Add garlic and sauté another minute. Add peas and broth; cook 5 minutes until peas are tender. Season with salt and pepper and allow to cool.

3) Purée in blender or food processor. Serve chilled, garnished with a scoop of yogurt.

marching to my own yoga drum.

leslie — Thu, 21 Jul 2011 17:04:05 +0000

This is a long blog post. I will show you what I am calling pre-ice cream fuel to whet your appetite:

fennel gazpacho: jersey tomatoes, sautéed fennel and onion, yellow bell pepper, zucchini, lemon, lime, olive oil, fresh parsley, sea salt, hot sauce and pepper to garnish

cod sautéed in butter with garlic, thyme, parsley, and cherry tomatoes; ciabatta bread

When I was a senior in high school, I became part of a very special group of friends. Throughout middle and high school, I had always had a few close friends, but it wasn’t until this group of 13 of us came together early in our final year that I truly felt a part of a whole.

We were all good kids. We took honors classes. We got along with our parents. We made it home by our curfews [most of the time]. We baked cookies instead of doing shots. We related to each other, and for the first time, I felt the power of belonging.

Since then, I’ve experienced many communities: film production students, American expats abroad, musical theater nerds, overdressed NYU kids, health-minded foodies, to name a few. I think the knowledge that there are people out there who “get” you is one of the most comforting realizations you can have.

A few years ago, when I got into running, I remember how excited I felt to be part of a new community. I could run faster, I could run farther, I could set goals and I could achieve them, and there were others working towards the same thing. Then I got sidelined by the knee injury that wouldn’t go away, and this community I identified with was ripped from underneath me. For a while, I still read running blogs and magazines and articles; for a while I still thought about what I would do when I could get back on the pavement.

But when my injury persisted, I realized that pining for something I couldn’t have would never get me anywhere. So I stopped. I got into yoga. It felt sort of solitary, as yoga wasn’t embraced as strongly by the young, active, healthy living community, but I reminded myself that solitary was ok. Eventually, I was able to start running again once a week, and I made peace with that. I still loved exercising. I still loved sweating. It still made me feel awesome. I was just doing it in my own way.

As nice as I know it feels to belong to a community, I pride myself on my independence, and so I slowly became comfortable marching to my own exercise drum. I was Leslie who loved yoga, the same way I was Leslie who designed her own college major, who went abroad when everyone was getting full-time jobs after college, who sometimes purposely mismatched her clothes or showed up in dresses on occasions that never called for them.

When I talked about yoga with other active women, they would often say to me, “Oh, you’re so good. Oh, I should do that more.” Somehow, I always struggled to communicate that while I adore yoga, it was something that my body chose. I wasn’t sure my body could handle another form of movement.

Around April of this year, I began to test that theory by trying out new forms of exercise. I went hiking. I ran a little more and did it a little faster. I took barre classes. I took other fitness classes. I still did yoga, of course, but not as much. Suddenly, I re-discovered the fitness community as I tried out new-to-me workouts in which I could sweat and challenge myself just as much as I had when running. I was having fun, seeking out reviews of new studios and instructors, becoming familiar with women who were into the same thing, feeling that sense of being “hard core” the way I had back when I only ran. I started to feel that sense of belonging again, and I found that I had missed it.

Here and there, as I switched things up, I felt occasional twinges in my knees. I didn’t think much of them; that had always happened from time to time.

Then, 4 weeks ago, my knees started to severely ache, and the ache didn’t go away. I’m pretty sure I can trace it back to a class I took called 30/60/90, which wiped the walls with me in the best way. However, it also involved a lot of jumping. Jumping is not good for people with knee problems.

Day after day, the pain persisted. Right then, I made the choice to stay off the pavement and out of the fitness studios, and I have gotten back onto my yoga mat. I’ve gone back to my solitary yogic path.

So I was in a yoga class on Monday night, and the instructor had us partner up with a neighbor to practice handstands at the wall. For a moment, I found myself caught up in the “fitness mentality,” thinking, “I just want to move! We only have 30 minutes left! Why is he spending so much time explaining this?” And then I was at the wall, and with a little push from my partner, I was in a handstand for the very first time.

My entire body was shaking, my arms were burning, and I felt like the strongest person in the universe. I came down, semi-gracefully. And then I did a handstand again.

This is why I love yoga. It has nothing to do with getting a good workout. It has everything to do with challenging myself to do things I never thought I could do.

As my friend Sofia reminded me while we cooked the dinner pictured above, injuries are not something with which you want to play around. There are far worse problems than not being able to exercise the way you want. Yes, there are times when I wish I could be like everybody else. It would be nice to be as active as I choose, and I am sure I would be motivated enough to achieve many fitness goals. As a young, active person devoted to living a healthy life, I would like to be able to share in the active side of that community.

But my body keeps telling me that I can’t. Since rededicating myself to my yoga practice four to five days a week, I have felt dramatic improvement in my knees. I’m due for a new pair of running shoes, and I will cautiously bring back that occasional run. Perhaps I’ll do other classes from time to time. But otherwise, for the foreseeable future, I’m a yoga girl.

Maybe that will always keep me on the edge of the fitness community. I’m ok with that. Diving into that handstand reminded me just how wonderful it can be to do my own thing.

defining routine.

leslie — Mon, 18 Jul 2011 19:52:50 +0000

Kicking off last week at Mundo in Astoria:

red sonja: red lentils, bulgur, fresh greens, oriental spices

causa: layers of mushrooms, beets, avocado, potato, dill, red onion, peppers

semolina halva cake surrounding vanilla ice cream

A few months back, a coworker told me about a new yoga studio in her neighborhood in Queens, where classes were a mere $5 and instruction was fast-paced but laid-back. Soon after, I passed the tip onto one of my good friends, and we’ve since met for several weeknight evening classes. Last Monday, Katie and I resurrected that tradition for a predictable evening in Astoria: yoga, dinner, wine.

As soon as I walked into the studio and spotted my friend on her mat, I began to feel the return of that other, old, familiar friend: routine.

It’s been a crazy few weeks since the weather started warming up in early May. Work went through a nutty period, I took three trips out of town, and I spent three weeks apartment hunting, followed by the drawn-out process of packing and moving and cleaning my new place. After all that, I was having a hard time remembering what stability felt like. I don’t ever want my life to feel monotonous, but it’s a lot more enjoyable when the variety in my schedule comes from social outings and artsy exploring, as opposed to life logistics that won’t settle down.

Back in my days abroad, I remember regarding routine with a strong sense of disdain. I never wanted to stop planning my next getaway, never wanted to succumb to any sort of predictable daily grind. I’ve since realized, however, that routine is only mundane if you allow it to be. My routine now may be grounded by a work schedule that doesn’t change, but otherwise, it means I do something different every day.

Last week, routine brought me the Monday evening pictured above. It took me to restaurant week on Tuesday with Megan and led me to cook a fennel gazpacho and buttery cod with Sofia the following night. It had me clinking glasses with Shayne on a sidewalk on Thursday and meandering from Lebanese cuisine to vegan ice cream to spicy cocktails on Friday. It had me picnicking with my family on Saturday, watching an old film in a Brooklyn theater that afternoon, and dining outdoors on Saturday night. It had me picnicking in Central Park late Sunday morning, discount shopping that afternoon, and licking ice cream cones as the weekend came to a close. Throughout the week, it also brought me to yoga classes, got me fresh produce from the farmers market, and included a lot of wine.

I guess it seems predictable. Food-yoga-drink-art-sun: that’s Leslie in a nutshell. The thing is, no day in this week was the same. I didn’t eat the same foods, see the same people, have the same conversations, drink the same drinks, or go to the same places. That’s my routine.

So last Monday, as Katie and I caught up on top of our yogitoes, before our instructor had us flutter our eyelids closed, before the slow and soreness-inducing class began, before I lifted my legs into a final headstand, before we shared girl talk and a bottle of Turkish white on a Queens sidewalk, I felt myself sliding back into my life. If my 22-year-old traveling self had known I’d call this routine, I don’t think she would have been so afraid of letting it in.

neighborhoods and niceties.

leslie — Mon, 11 Jul 2011 15:56:01 +0000

First meal after moving [every bit as delightful as it looks], shared three ways at ABC Kitchen:

sweet pea soup with carrots and mint; raw diver scallops with sea beans, serrano chiles and limes; roasted carrot and avocado salad with crunchy seeds, sour cream, and citrus

black sea bass with chiles and herbs, baby potatoes, and spinach; cavatelli with pickled ramps, guanciale, snap peas and parmesan; sugar snap pea salad with parmesan dressing and herbs

strawberry tart with almond cream; market strawberries and juice with mint, lime, meringue, and sour cream poppy seed sorbet; rhubarb almond crumble tart

I think Brooklyn is going to make me a nicer person.

For the past two and a half years, I have been living on Wall Street. Prior to that, I lived in a couple other large buildings nearby in the Financial District, so the “neighborhood” has been my home for more than half the time I’ve spent living in this city. I lived in several uniform structures – all converted banks – that had doormen and laundry rooms; they were all equipped with reasonably sized gyms and came with access to the roof. Typically, they provoked comments from out of town visitors along the lines, “Your apartment building reminds me of a hotel.” Carpeted hallways with benches and mirrors. The ding of elevators. The appearance of maintenance men.

For several years, I said I didn’t mind living down in such an impersonal neighborhood. I had access to every subway. I had laundry. I had air conditioning. Most importantly, I had space: for the same price 30 blocks north, I would have been living in an 8×8 box. I refused to live north of 14th Street, and I figured FiDi, as it has been named, was my best option.

And it was, for a while. But time goes on, and the greeting each morning of umbrella-led, camera-toting tour groups became more than a mere inconvenience. The sight of suited brokers and bankers shuffling towards their offices began to stir up an unfriendly bitterness. I longed for a commute that didn’t involve weaving between out-of-town crowds. I pined for a neighborhood with just one decent dining option within walking distance of my front door. Sure, my subway proximity put the entire city at my fingertips, but I found myself resenting the place I called home. It didn’t feel like me.

My new building is old. The paint is chipping. The doors squeak. It features no amenities. But it has character and charm, as does each brownstone on my block. I still have space, but I pay a heck of a lot less money for it.

Yesterday, I didn’t leave my new borough the whole day. I didn’t get on a subway. A friend and I visited the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, wandered past the Brooklyn Museum and through a corner of Prospect Park, eventually found ourselves at a delicious Park Slope sushi joint. I ran a few errands in the early evening and somehow found myself licking an ice cream cone from a local shop as the sun set.

Every day, the brownstones, the trees, the young people who are always out and about, the unique restaurants and boutiques, the little bars – they all put a smile on my face. I know I’m just another cliché – young artsy foodie with slight hipster tendencies moves to Brooklyn – but if being a cliché turns the corners of my mouth upward more often, then I’ll gladly own the title.

Good riddance, FiDi. I’ll be back to visit my sister, but otherwise, I can’t say I’ll miss you.

eleven madison park.

leslie — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 14:24:22 +0000

Last weekend, in celebration of Father’s Day, my family spent several hours at a particularly special dinner table. By the meal’s end, my mom, with many years of dining behind her, proclaimed this was her favorite meal, ever. That’s a pretty bold statement, considering some of the meals we’ve shared.

Eleven Madison Park, you treated us well.

spring pea velouté with mint and buttermilk “ice”

fluke on a rice cracker with basil aioli; scallop sashimi with yuzu jam

goat cheese lollipops encrusted with beets [every bit as amazing as my mom's face lets on]

goat cheese croquettes with watercress emulsion

We got all that before our first course even arrived. And that was when I realized: Eleven Madison Park is special.

It might have the feel of a typical Manhattan fine dining locale: white tablecloths, a sizeable quantity of staff members, a book of a wine list, a thoughtful and beautiful interior design. But this restaurant is much, much more.

I walked in expecting to have a unique four-course meal. The concept is simple: you are presented with a basic menu card, changing daily, which lists sixteen main ingredients. From there, you choose four and inform your server of dietary restrictions or allergies, food dislikes, or other general preferences.

Wine glasses full, you allow your meal to begin. And very quickly, you understand: this restaurant wants to you to fall in love with food.

octopus with chorizo puree and new potatoes

seared halibut with spring onions, shrimp, and black garlic

roasted baby eggplant with toasted wheatberries and bulgur and spring greens

Every plate was a surprise: I selected octopus to start, for instance, and our waiter described the dish to me only once it had been served. That anticipation colored the experience from beginning to end: what food would be next? What would it look like? What flavors would it contain?

The excitement at our table was palpable throughout the meal. Two bottles of wine, countless refills on the brioche bread basket, and beautifully crafted plates came and went. The portions were perfect – enough to taste and taste again without ever feeling overwhelmed.

We ate and drank, we talked and gushed. The whole evening was full of foodie and family joy.

egg cream, made with malted milk and a dash of olive oil

deconstructed chocolate tart with sea salt and caramel and chocolate and salted caramel ice creams

shortbread cookies with bergamot cream; toasted bread dipped in dark chocolate with olive oil gelees

complimentary cognac to finish off the meal

My parents have spoiled me, and I’ve been truly lucky to eat in the New York homes of many of the world’s most renowned chefs. This meal was a step above the rest. It was an opportunity to taste and try, to feel the surprise and the excitement of the endless flavors of the season.

We’re already planning a return trip this fall, and in the meantime, I’m grateful for the very special memory of our first experience. I left on a high, full of the reminder of every reason I adore tasting food.