Fair Weather Vegan

Garlic and Sapphires

I've been re-reading Ruth Reichl's tale of her years as the Times restaurant critic.  It primarily makes me wish I had more money, although she frames it as a tale of a former Berkeley hippie losing her soul around all those three-figure meals.  The politics of the book are among the best things about it: her famous two reviews of Le Cirque, one as an average person and one as someone in her powerful job; taking on the persona of a poorly-dressed, lonely woman she sees on the bus to attend other fancy spots and seeing how clothes and cache change the experience.  Reichl is also partly responsible for ethnic food being taken seriously as a subject of review.  I had forgotten that there is an entire chapter dedicated to touring Brooklyn with Ed Levine, herald of the current hole-in-the-wall craze.  There are also sensual descriptions of meals at many name restaurants you and I will probably never see the inside of (and there's a wonderful scene in which Reichl pays the bill of a couple at The Box Tree because they're having their One Special Meal and it's terrible).  The office politics of the Times are also fascinating, even if Reichl claims she did make some of the more unpleasant figures up, or at the very least create composites.  In a second reading, the lengthy bits about choosing wigs and getting into various personas can be tedious.  Some of the experiences she describes, like her her time at Windows on the World with the most obnoxious charity winner ever, are excruciating (also a feature of her first memoir about her bipolar mother).  Reichl is a bit of an over-writer in my opinion, and sometimes it all gets a little too precious.  Still, a look behind the scenes of a major paper's restaurant reviewing can only be a page-turner, even a second or third time around. 

Let Them Drink Bottled Water (Or, Screw You, Mayor Bloomberg)

Unsuccessful in his attempt to tax soda because New Yorkers are just not that stupid, Mayor Michael "this whole gig would be so much easier if I could just rule as king" Bloomberg* has gone after a more vulnerable population, proposing that it be made illegal to purchase soda with food stamps.  Yes, it's not enough that you're so poor you have to go through the process of applying for and using public assistance to feed your family, and it's not enough that the public assistance is a literal pittance which barely allows you to scrape by.  You are now also considered too incompetent to make your own decisions about what non-alcoholic beverage you drink.  You must have no idea that OMG SODA MAKES YOU FAT, or not be able to balance the understanding that it tastes good with the understanding that perhaps it shouldn't be drunk at every meal. Only rich people can reason like that, and lord knows we can't have the peons enjoying themselves while spending our money.  Because what might be making you fat (or unhealthy, we seem to be confused about which we mean) is not the neighborhood you live in that has no real grocery store and no safe spaces in which to play outside, or the air pollution which a new study found contributes to diabetes, or god forbid your genes.  No, it's your own poor choices.  So we will take those choices away, because you are dependent upon us and we can. 

*When Bloomberg's patrician attitudes about governance affect all New Yorkers equally, they're sometimes a good thing.  He's pushed through a lot of environmental policy that wouldn't otherwise have been successful and he has been great about Cordoba House.  Unfortunately he has this bugbear about the food/obesity/health triad that seems oblivious to more subtle and ultimately more truthful explanations of the way these things might interact.

Oh My Sweet God

A dear friend had a birthday yesterday, and co-workers brought her treats from this place.  Why did no one tell me this place existed?  As it is, I will have to add it to my mythical New York fall trip that includes tickets to the Cherry Jones revival of Mrs. Warren's Profession, and the new production of Arcadia, and....

Reimagining Some Everyday Dishes

While my trip to the East Coast did not contain as many novel food adventures as a I might have wished (I just typed 'might of wished' first.  Clearly ten days in Indiana was too many), it did include some lovely moments in which restaurants re-interpreted dishes I took for granted. 

There is a small eatery in Montclair, New Jersey, which seems to be patronized entirely by women, and if you hit it at the right time, only women over sixty-five.  It is called Sweet Basil, the staff is pure Jersey, and it doesn't seem the likeliest place to encounter, say, a fabulous Ahi sandwich or a menu that carefully notes when things are vegan.  But to leave aside the more surprising aspects, someone in the kitchen had the idea that home fries, aka hash browns' mundane cousins, ought to taste good.  Specifically that they ought to taste like steak fries, those chunky and potato-intensive versions of French fries that show up at lunch with your veggie burger if you are lucky.  Consequently you will be fighting over your lightly crisp, delicious breakfast sides for the first time in your life, rather than attempting to foist them off on your neighbors. 

Slightly less surprising given its place in the New York food pantheon, The Cookshop in Chelsea does more than just a great brunch.  After having joined the thousands who have been unceremoniously tossed from Shopsins for transgressing one of its many arcane rules (we were a party of more than four, and we didn't pretend with sufficient guile to be parties of three and two that just happened to be there at the same time), our family and The Nicest People In The World-East Coast Division landed at the Cookshop just as lunch service started.  Now, as a Californian who doesn't eat meat I have developed something of a connoisseurship of the fish taco.  Without fail, whether at five star restaurants or taco trucks, these arrive as a chunk of fish at the bottom of the taco covered with an inappropriately large amount of cabbage.  Someone in the kitchen, it is to be hoped not the same person who chose the outfits for the waitstaff, decided that perhaps they might try slicing the fish and tossing it with the toppings instead.  This creates a balanced taco that is actually enjoyable to eat throughout, rather than an acrobatic feat. 

Finally and most serendipitously was an instance in which the common New York custom of hanging a Zagat review in the window was enough to stop me in my tracks: a 29 for food at the Grandaisy Bakery on Sullivan Street.  Accounting for the sometimes maddening wisdom of crowds, I will try anywhere that's over 20, but places that rate 24 or above are so rare as to be must-visits.  I have never seen a 29.  After being momentarily distracted by the possibility of a beet and goat cheese panino, I recovered my poise and sweet tooth and purchased a cream cheese danish.  This thing doesn't even have a filling, how good could it be?  Like a previous experience with the baked goods from Batter Bakery, the bite began with 'well, eh' and ended with 'oh my God.'  The creamy perfection was baked into the dough itself.  29 indeed. 

Curly's Lunch

If Manhattan seems overwhelming, visit this little vegetarian oasis.  It's open to the street, providing a charming low-key feel, and you don't have to worry if you'll be confronting attitudinal staff, the kind about which someone in a Calvin Trillin book once remarked "This isn't a play about a restaurant; it's a restaurant."  Everyone is always extremely friendly and welcomes you to a neighborhood hangout.  It's the kind of place which has regulars.  I'm even sort of one, since it's the only restaurant I've been twice in my two most recent trips to New York.  That wasn't entirely intentional (the second time I was looking for Kate's Joint but didn't want to wander all the way to Avenue B and 4th), but I was happy to end up there, nevertheless. The extensive menu is all veggie-vegan and includes classics like meatloaf, diner-type sandwiches, and Tex-Mex items.  There's even something called 'crab fakes,' which is on my list for a future visit.  I can imagine crab cakes made with imitation crab like a California roll, but since this place is totally veggie there must also be non-animal-based crab, and that seems so wacky I should try it.  Eponymous curly fries are a must, and I enjoyed both the popular sloppy joe and the Philly cheesesteak.  Oddly, though, I thought the higher quality of the fake steak, which was thick and chewy unlike much faux meat, held back the cheesesteak from the greasy spoon glory that one finds at, say, Metro in San Francisco.  Prices are Manatthan-esque but many of the portions are fairly large.  Recommended as a kind of home-away-from-home in the midst of the city for vegetarians. 

Hurrah For Milkshakes

Yesterday was finally the day of eating I had anticipated since starting my trip, and the piece de resistance was a black and white milkshake at the Ronnybrook Farms Creamery in Chelsea Market.  Ronnybrook is something like the East Coast answer to Straus Dairy, selling its milk in glass bottles, but it also runs this little soda fountain-esque shop.  I've never had a milkshake that tasted so much like it was made of milk before, and the blend of chocolate and vanilla made it tantalizingly sweet.  Mama Louie prefers the ultra-thick versions in which the straw stands up without aid, but I thought it added a real air of authenticity to the whole 'milk-shake' concept to be so close to its roots.  Highly recommended. 

Don't worry vegans, there are some vegan treats to be discussed shortly!

Hooked on Fairway Milk Chocolate

Which is a shame, because the specialty supermarket is only located in New York and New Jersey, and the one the Louie parents visited was in Red Hook, Brooklyn.  Their almond-milk chocolate bark has a lot of depth and interest.  Also in Red Hook is Baked, the cupcake place that Serious Eats named among its twelve best in the city.  I did not try any of the flavors touted by the Serious Eats crew, whom I know to be rigorous and talented, but I must throw up a hearty WTF? based on the cupcakes I did eat (malted milk, pistachio, red velvet).  The icing was insubstantial as a cloud with unmemorable flavor, and the cake was dry and ditto to flavor.  I'm not just cranky because I got myself all the way down to Chinatown yesterday (a much shorter trip once I realized I needed to start from the east side this year) and The Doughnut Plant was closed.  Now, I understand that people have different needs from their cupcakes, and the pistachio one was at least interesting, plus the icing improves if it solidifies in the fridge for a few hours.  But I would not put this on a list of must-see New York attractions based on the cakes I tried. 

Blast

My goals for this trip were simple, and could be encapsulated in one sentence: finally make it to Shopsins.  Everything else is gravy.  At this point, however, that goal seems compromised, as does my ability to sample the fare at the new Mets park.  The last meal I had at Shea consisted of a pretty bad kosher hotdog, a decent knish, and some soft serve.  I recognize soft serve as a force of evil in the universe, but it was 90 degrees out.  My karma was instant anyway, since I missed a David Wright homer while waiting in line.  And yes, I do keep Dutch halakhah when it comes to the interval between meat and dairy meals ;)  However, my plans to sample Shake Shack and see if the kosher options have improved may not come to fruition.  Wish me luck. 

Glad Not To Be A New York Food Blogger

Travel and technical difficulties have meant a hitch in blogging, but I must briefly note that Jesus, this place is big.  A funny thing for me to say given I'd spent every summer of my life here before last year, but it's striking me much more after a lot of time in a much more compact city.  If I did this gig in New York I'd have to hone in only bakeries, or only on pizza, or something.  Because within one block on Bleecker there were five ice cream places alone. It's overwhelming. 

Sandra Lee? Really?

Well, my enthusiasm for Andrew Cuomo's candidacy has waned.  It's a good thing I don't live in New York and don't have to decide between my political convictions and my sneaking suspicion that anyone who could be a long-term relationship with that woman has something wrong with him.  I know Lee had a tough childhood, but she's turned out some combination of sad, tacky and slightly creepy, and rather than work that out through intensive therapy she's inflicted it on the nation in the form of bad food.