Gems in the snow

Today New York City is digging its way out of 27 inches of snow. Not just any snow, mind you, but snow of the whipping, blinding Inner Mongolian variety, which I was dumb enough to be out witnessing at its zenith two nights ago. Luckily, a friend in the north Brooklyn neighborhood of Greenpoint took me in and nursed me back to a solid 98.6 degree body temperature.

And that's how I was able to spend the worst snowstorm in six decades in one of New York's sparsest, least-plowed and most charming neighborhoods.

We awoke on Monday morning to find the city buried, the trains paralyzed and most businesses shut down. (My place of employment - known fondly by those who traverse its echoey halls as the Death Star - was no exception; international peace and security be damned!) This led the more curious residents of our fair borough to lace up their boots and head out into the bright sunlight of the Snowpocalypse. Coffee was our first mission, but the venerable Cafe Grumpy, among others, was shuttered closed. Instead we stumbled into an amazing gem of a cafe, Cookie Road, nestled on Franklin between Noble and Oak Streets. Normally, I'm not a sweets girl, but these artful cookies are something truly special, and the cafe's grasshopper bars have been listed among New York's top cookies (no easy feat). The chatty hipster cafe girl also made me a lovely, warming Americano - I was sold.

Cookies from Cookie Road!

Fighting residual gusts and stepping carefully among the deep snowbanks, we rounded out the afternoon at the wonderful Word bookstore, a Greenpoint staple, and then at le Gamin for soup, wine and moules a la mariniere - a warming, only-kinda-decadent dinner.

Checking in with friends across the city confirmed that, to the last person, we were snuggled against the elements, munching hot food and watching movies in our skivvies. Following a pretty crappy holiday, what a beautiful, unexpected New York moment!

Moules, comme je vous aime.

Cocktails

Merry (early) Christmas!

The arrival of the holiday season always leaves me musing about (and occasionally regretting the overconsumption of) beautiful, unique cocktails. In the interest of full disclosure, I'll admit that I don't have the greatest stomach for liquor. But long hours spent with family, and general holiday merriment, certainly drives me to drink as much as the next gal.

Certain drinks, and the bars that serve them, are truly specific to New York. A quick tour of local favorites yields: the old-timey punch at Death & Co. in the East Village, the famously quirky Hawaiian punch at Chinatown karaoke standard Winnie's, and happy hour beers at the historic Old Town Bar. My blogger friend over at Things Just Because raves about the "French Maid" at Please Don't Tell, a kitschy-cool speakeasy on St. Marks, while my discerning French manfriend likes their heavy hand with bitters.

Winnie's (in)famous Hawaiian punch

P.D.T.'s Jim Meehan mixes a specialty cocktail

In my home borough of Brooklyn, an eclectic bar scene is still blossoming despite the current economic crisis. Local favorites include "liquid brunch" at the Clover Club and a wonderful selection of juleps at Williamsburg's gorgeous Hotel Delmano. Meanwhile, folks are also chatting up The Drink, a new collaboration between Dram owner Frank Cisneros and the dude responsible for the 3rd Ward's amazing "Drink and Draw" sessions.

Hotel Delmano

This year, homemade drinks have been the focus of some attention (call it recession penny-pinching?). The Times had this festive post on holiday cocktails, while The Interwebs tell us that this year, Americana-style bourbon drinks, rye whiskey punches and rustic herbs are contributing to a deeply retro feel. Is this prohibition era nostalgia, sparked by our financial woes? Just food for thought.

Cantonese Baked Chicken - Part II

Behold the results of many a honey bath.

While I don't think I nailed the spices, I do have a new reverence for the ability of simple cold air to crisp a chicken skin to perfection. (And for those of you who have expressed concern at the microbacterial implications of leaving an uncovered bird in the fridge for several days, please fear not! High quality aged beef is traditionally dried this way, as is some of the best chicken in the world - see Thomas Keller's famous roast chicken at the French Laundry, for example.) Just keep it away from other food, preferably in a separate compartment.

Here's your recipe:

1. Rinse your birdie and pat it dry. Then pour a solution of baking soda and water over the top.

2. Roughly chop slices of orange peel, chunks of fresh ginger, and cubes of onion and garlic. Mix all together with about 3 tbsp of Chinese Five Spice powder and moisten with soy sauce. Stuff this mix into the cavity and tie the bird with cooking twine to close.

3. Place the chicken in the refrigerator on a wire rack, uncovered, with a dripping pan below it. Air circulation over the entire bird is important.

4. Dry for up to 72 hours, basting twice daily with a mix of honey diluted in white vinegar (I used rice vinegar).

5. Bake about 1 1/2 -2 hours, depending on the chicken's size, and baste with honey once or twice.

6. Cool and serve the meat, but not the stuffing (which just imparts flavor).

Cantonese Baked Chicken - Part I

Thanks to some friends, I made a brilliant discovery last weekend in Brooklyn's very own Chinatown: Lucky Eight Seafood Restaurant. (Admit it, you didn't even know that Brooklyn had a Chinatown.) This place has all the trappings of, well, China: red walls, gold accessories, and huge glass lazy susans spinning your food at dangerous speeds.

It's easy to feel overwhelmed by the extensive menu - which is daunting despite its many photos - but, luckily for us, we were dining with a veteran who handled all the ordering. Gorgeous dishes began to emerge from the kitchen, and we could barely keep pace.



One of the very first dishes was, in my humble opinion, the star of the evening. A crispy Cantonese-style baked chicken, sprawled across a massive plate, arrived with the aroma of Chinese five-spice and hit every salty note I craved. A light, sweet sauce lingered at the very bottom of the plate - it was something soy-like, but not as overwhelming, which had clearly dripped out of the bird itself. This was truly one for the mental notebook.

Other highlights of the meal included a delightful shredded abalone, whole-fried parts of lobster and giant crab bodies, and a surprisingly delicate jellyfish starter with pungent, Korean-inspired spices and pickled white radishes:


Another fascinating standout (though notably not a crowd-pleaser) was a soft white bamboo fungus, served over wilted greens. A round table discussion of this dish led to various interpretations of its texture, including variably "boiled fish stomach" and "a fried plastic bag." Interesting that anything as innocent as a mushroom - particularly one served to imperial royalty for good health over thousands of years - could be quite so offensive.







With the fun of eating over, now my challenge begins. I'm planning to attempt a close-to-accurate reproduction of my favorite dish of the evening, the crispy baked chicken, at home.

Some research has revealed that this dish is fairly common in Cantonese homes, and isn't quite as difficult as you'd think. Nonetheless, it calls for some unique combinations of flavors, especially if you're not totally at home with Asian spices - which I'm not. The skin is apparently crisped by a long refrigeration period, which essentially cold-air-dries the bird, as well as by regular bathing with a honey-vinegar solution and diluted baking soda. The recipe I'm using calls for 72 hours of this intensive TLC, but, having woken up groggy before work this morning to grudgingly prepare the cavity stuffing, it will only get around 36 hours. And it will like it, dammit.

A friend and I will be baking the bird tomorrow evening along with a salad of sharp greens and a sweet ginger chutney. Photos and evaluation to follow.

Bubble baths and other comforts

The delights of home are a sort of subtle sensory pleasure - the quiet, understated things that get you through each day. After discussing this at length with several friends, my compiled list of daily indulgences includes: morning coffee and a cigarette, long jogs, cheap tui na massages, wine, wine and more wine, and - my favorite - bubble baths.

To correctly execute a bubble bath as a sensory experience, not simply a glorified way to get clean, follow the following steps:

1. Drink alcohol. This is a must.

2. Run the hottest water you can stand. If your head's not buzzing from the booze, it should from the heat.

3. Go old school: pink Mr. Bubble works for me, but SpongeBob bubble bath or any Disney variation are just as good. We all took baths as little kids; re-create your childhood!

4. Sweat it out. There should be an element of discomfort and intermittent swearing as your body temperature rises. This is a good thing, trust me.

5. After your bath, rest in a cool room, preferably reading crap magazines or watching bad TV. Drink cold water, recover.


The idea here is stolen from les russes, who drink vodka and beat each other with tree branches in communal saunas before rolling around in snow (my grandfather was one such russe). But in practice it works just as well in the chilly environs of New York City. It's harsh out there, and temperature extremes bring an enlightened kind of release. Most importantly, baths take you out of the grind - and back into your body - for a few precious moments.

Now go play!

On my inability to garden

There's nothing more frustrating to a New York vegetable lover than the city's near-complete vacuum of personal ground space.

Some talented city green thumbs get around this conundrum with unusual indoor solutions or extreme diligence. I, however, am further handicapped by a crippling ineptitude with plants. I mean, I couldn't grow mold on bread. Unless someone wanted to present me with a fertile tract of Prospect Park for my personal use, complete with pre-sprouted seeds, I've got zero chance at growing my own fresh food.

That's not to say I haven't tried. Over spring and summer 2009 my then-partner and I lavished love on four shrimpy pepper plants and a tomato sapling that yielded some of the tastiest fruit I've had. But keeping them safe from the baking blacktop of our East Village rooftop was torture, and our diligence relaxed during the next season. In 2010 our cauliflower plant never sprouted, our flower seeds were stolen by birds, and the next generation of tomatoes yielded only one pathetic fruit. By August, the product of our affections looked like this:









To add insult to injury, that same summer my younger brother had tossed a couple of tomato seeds into the ground at our parents' suburban backyard, and voilà! Bushels of gorgeous fruit of several varieties, completely unattended:

















I think this goes to show that plants, much like people, were not designed to endure the grimy environs of urban life. We need air! Green space! Rich soil and shade! Like me, my tomatoes couldn't be coaxed into happiness - that is something that only comes from the roots.