Falling Down and Other Old Person Behaviors

Yesterday, I left the apartment to take out the trash and realized as soon as the door slammed shut behind me that I forgot to turn the bolt. I, of course, had no keys. This is not the first time that I have done the exact same thing, which got me thinking about myself much like one of those mindless old people who continues to make the same mistake over and over, no matter how many times the same unfortunate consequences come about. I was not just locked out of the apartment though, I was locked out without a cell phone or the knowledge of neither of my roommates' phone numbers, and I was dressed in shorts, a t-shirt and I was wearing no shoes. Long story short, I wasted quite a bit of time watching the elevator go up and down, praying that the doors would open on the fourth floor, and I eventually got in about two and a half hours later.

While teaching my first period class this morning, I realized that this episode of elderly behavior wouldn't be the only one I would experience this week.

Really, there isn't much of a set-up to the story. The last thing I remember doing was walking around the room, checking up on how students were doing with an activity. Next thing I know, I am lying on the floor after having slipped and fallen on a kid's backpack, pathetically staring up at the students, who of course, we're seated in stools and thus even higher above me than they would have been in a normal classroom. If you would like to feel powerless in life, you should try this.

You are probably thinking, "That's nothing! I've tripped on the sidewalk a bunch of times!" There is quite a difference, however, between tripping on the sidewalk in front of a few strangers and having an entire classroom of seventh graders witness your entire body crash to the floor. I tried to play it cool, and get up as quickly as possible, but really, at that point, there is no playing it cool. To console myself, I tried to think of a time that something similar had happened to any teacher of mine. I quickly realized that no, in seventeen years of schooling, I have never seen a teacher fall on her ass in the classroom.

As soon as I got up, the kids were waiting for any sign that indicated it was okay for them to laugh; and I told them frankly, "It's fine, you can laugh...It was funny." They, of course, wasted no time taking my suggestion.

My only consolation was when the kids told me afterward, "It would have been funnier if it happened to another teacher." I took this as a compliment to my nimble recovery.

Restaurant Review: I Sodi

I wasn't supposed to have eaten at I Sodi. In fact, I had been looking very much forward to trying out West Village's The New French with Andrew this past Sunday. One of the biggest reasons I wanted to bring him to The New French was for their moules frites; because for Andrew, mussels and french fries just about encompassed all that is good in this world. When we finally arrived around 2:30, ravenous, I came to an awful realization: the brunch menu (which is nowhere to be found online, by the way) was crushingly devoid of moules frites. There was no way we were going to The New French and missing out on moules frites.

So I then began racking my brain for other West Village options. I am not one who likes to stumble into just any place- the success rate of doing so hasn't turned out to be too favorable for me. After some huffing and puffing and drawing a complete blank on the entire area for a few minutes, I remembered I Sodi. I had never seen it and didn't know it's address, but a quick text message to Google straightened that out: the restaurant was on Christopher Street, just a little more than a block from our current location on Hudson. Turns out we had actually walked right by the place on our way to The New French.

It was quite understandable why we hadn't seen it. The restaurant's facade just missed being covered by scaffolding and had a rough appearance, almost like it was under construction or closed, even. There is a screen that blocks any view into the restaurant through the glass window, and there is no menu posted outside. I was almost sure that when I went to try the knob, I would encounter a locked door. Fortunately, the lock, and our luck, turned. We entered an attractive but small room, outfitted with a long bar. The row of tables along the opposite wall featured banquettes outfitted in buttery-soft caramel leather. The lighting was gentle and the ceiling was outfitted in a handsome deep brown wood.

Rita Sodi, the restaurant's proprietress, was sipping wine at the bar with a friend. There was one young man in charge of the front of the house, who, in fact, managed to tend to all of the diners in the restaurant with enviable ease.

I was happy to find that I Sodi's menu didn't fall victim to the typical Sunday brunch trap, as I wasn't interested in the same huevos rancheros being served at every other restaurant around town. Traditional brunch foods were in fact disregarded completely; instead the menu was comprised of appetizers, pastas, meat and fish.

The bread basket was not only plentiful and varied, but it also featured first-rate breads: a perfect primer for our carbohydrate-excessive meal. The rate at which those slices disappeared was almost shameful.

At the server's recommendation, we ordered two pastas to share: a half-portion of the seafood risotto as well as the artichoke lasagna (not available in half-portions).

At $14, the seafood risotto was a real steal. Filled with plump, tender pieces of shrimp, octopus and calamari that had been chopped into bite-sized chunks, the risotto rendered a minimum of one piece of seafood to every creamy bite. And to me, our entree seemed less a half-portion and closer to a portion and a half.

The artichoke lasagna (also available in a meat version), $17, contained the wonderful flavor of artichoke without the tough leaves you sometimes encounter. Between sheets of pasta, onions, cheese and a bechamel sauce with a distinct nutmeg flavor complemented the artichokes. If there was a dish like this for every day, I might even consider becoming a vegetarian.

Despite my satiety at this point, not having dessert was not an option. We shared the fig marmalade crostata. It was beautifully-assembled, but I wished the filling had been more like a fig and less a marmalade. The texture was too much gooeyness for me.

Overall I was very pleased with my lunch at I Sodi. And even though there were no moules frites, we did get our shellfish and carbohydrates after all.

Restaurant Review: The Redhead

It's a rare occasion when you can walk away from a restaurant without anything to quip about. Shortcomings can range from food-related offenses ("That pork was more fat than meat!"), to service-related ones ("It's been an hour and we still haven't gotten our drinks"), to attitude-related ones ("That server clearly doesn't think we are spending enough money").

The Redhead, a bar-cum-restaurant in the East Village, left me with nothing to quip about. The restaurant manages to leave pretension aside and deliver a comfortable meal at reasonable prices.

The Redhead is just as much bar as it is restaurant, which lends a comfortable, low-key vibe to the entire space. The front half is devoted to the bar and a few tables, while the back space is outfitted in deep-red banquettes and a few tightly-spaced wooden tables. Despite the atmosphere, I decided I was just going to stick with water to drink, and the waiter never made the slightest indication that he was unsatisfied with my doing so (which seems like a simple courtesy, but is actually much less common than one may think).

We were each provided with a roll to start, a tasty piece of bread with a biscuit-like texture. We then ordered the bacon peanut-brittle, which convinced me that even dessert has room for pork. Bacon peanut-brittle, in fact, might be the perfect bar snack. Our order arrived to the table in a small Mason jar, and there was just enough bacon amongst the candied peanuts to add a salty bite, without overpowering them.

The menu is divided into four sections: snacks, appetizers, entrees and desserts. Despite the appeal of the entire menu, Andrew and I avoided the entrees category for this particular visit and ordered two appetizers each. I started out with a beet salad. The salad was beautifully assembled with both red and yellow beets and baby onions, and topped with cheese, pistachios and mini grapes, which lent a sweet taste to the dish. My second appetizer was a crab and leek tart, made with a pecan crust and topped with a wild mushroom sauce.

Andrew decided on a shrimp theme for his meal, first ordering a corn soup adorned with mushrooms and shrimp. The soup was thick, silky and buttery and topped with plump seafood. His second appetizer incorporated low country shrimp with slices of andouille sausage on top of a rich and creamy, slightly spicy bed of grits. Despite the portion being appetizer-sized, Andrew was stuffed after it was finished. And after helping him out, so was I.

But I had made up my mind at the start of the meal that I wasn't leaving without sampling The Redhead's version of a Ho-Ho. Thankfully, the dessert didn't let me down. Resembling two thick slices of a jumbo-sized Ho-Ho, the dessert's base of chocolate cake was, as dictated by the original, accompanied by a creamy white swirl in the middle and a crunchy chocolate ganache around the outside of the treat. Unlike the original, the Redhead's Ho-Ho was accented by slightly-salty caramel sauce. In this case, altering the original was to good effect.

By the time we left, the entire space was bustling. Apparently I wasn't the only one who appreciated this cozy, charming gem of a restaurant.

Restaurant Review: Momofuku Noodle Bar

My brother and his girlfriend came into town this weekend and we needed a cheap place to grab dinner before a lacrosse game at the Garden. With all the buzz around Ko, I thought one of the Momofuku's would be a good choice, and Noodle Bar's hours were perfect for an early dinner before the game. Even more importantly, I couldn't go on living any longer having not tasted David Chang's pork buns. It's true, I had never tried them. An awful disgrace!

We started with two orders of pork buns, which were a unanimous hit. My brother described them as "little pockets of heaven," and this is perhaps the most appropriate description. The mini sandwiches, nearly as visually appealing as they were tasty, reminded us of Asian arepas as soon as they arrived to the table. The textures of the tender pork belly, crunchy pickles and soft, doughy bun worked perfectly together, complemented by the flavor of the hoisin sauce. We also tried the fried veal sweetbreads, nicely crisp and served with pickles and a sweet chili sauce, and the chicken wings, which were coated with a spicy, garlicky, pickled chili sauce, but could have been a bit more meaty.

For our main courses, both Andrew and I and my brother and Alissa opted to share the Momofuku ramen, a steaming, flavorful broth loaded with a hearty serving of thick, al dente noodles, pork shoulder and pork belly, a poached egg and scallions. We finished off our meal with a sugar cone of soft-serve ice cream: a twist of cannoli cream and pistachio, creamy and topped with chocolate chips. But the ultimate sweet treat arrived after the dessert: a bill of just $84 for the four of us.

Restaurant Review: Merkato 55

When it comes to African cuisine, I am quite the amateur . I have never been to an African restaurant and I have only visited Morocco, which is hardly representative of the entire continent's cuisine. I think my only experience with African food was the time my college roommate made us some kind of African bread product, a recipe she had brought home after spending a summer in Kenya. I don't have particularly fond memories of this item, and my opposition could be attributed to any number of sources; one being that after getting bored with the mini-breads on their own, my roommates and I decided to add various toppings, like peanut butter and jelly, etc. This particular occasion qualified as one of those times when what you are eating is not necessarily tasty, yet you continue searching for a topping that will "make all the difference" for an otherwise unappetizing item nonetheless: in this case, a bland little carb nugget. The magical addition, inevitably, never arrives. Because my roommate decided to make this treat in bulk, our feeding spree continued until I felt I wanted to throw up; at which point, it was time to leave to go play a soccer game. Secondly, it is also important to note that my college dorm that particular year was infested with large roaches, and I have a distinct memory of opening the box of cornmeal used to make these African delights and finding quite a few little creatures, both dead and alive, hanging around in the package.

So, although my experience with African food has certainly been memorable, it has not exactly been pleasurable. Needless to say, I was pretty excited when Merkato 55 opened in the Meatpacking District; this was my chance to venture into an unfamiliar cuisine. New York is a city lacking many African restaurant options, and Merkato 55 approaches the continent's cuisine with the intention of elevating African food and making it accessible at the same time.

The bi-level space is a interesting combination of traditional elements: breezy, cloth curtain panels screened with portraits along the windows, clay pots and sculptures displayed in cubby holes on another wall; and the more contemporary: a sleek brown leather wrap-around booth, a giant photograph of vibrant red fish adorning one wall.

The menu echoes this sentiment, ranging from the traditional Spicy Chicken Doro Wat to the currently obligatory pork belly dish. There were only two of us dining, so what we were able to sample was a bit limited; but we tried to take the server's suggestions into consideration in order to seek out the best of what Merkato 55 had to offer.

We started with the spicy shrimp chili sambal, a flavorful spread served with pita triangles and another bread comparable to a thin-crust pizza dough. The sambal was spicy and smoky and a nice prelude to the sweeter, honey-glazed duck served with banana and plantain salad that followed. The crispy coating of the duck gave way to tender meat, best consumed in the same bite with the plantain salad.

Next came the main dishes, which were most definitely the main attraction. The spicy chicken doro wat came served in a cast-iron pot: two tender, meaty chicken legs, covered in a thick, brown stew that melded with cottage cheese at the bottom of the dish, and came accompanied with injera, a sponge-like flat bread that reminded me of a thin pancake rolled into a tube. The other large plate we tried was the chickpea dumplings, a hearty dish consisting of the gnocchi-like dumplings, diced potatoes, edamame, and a leafy green vegetable that was especially delicious because of its capacity for soaking up the flavor of the curry-infused sauce.

From the dessert menu we chose the chocolate samosas, miniature chocolate-filled empanadas, accompanied by a berry jam and vanilla ice cream, and the malva pudding, not a pudding at all, but rather an apricot-flavored cake with rum raisin ice cream. Both were tasty and notable for their uniqueness, but not necessarily the most delicious or inventive dessert I've tried.

Merkato 55 is an ambitious endeavor in it's attempts to introduce pan-African cuisine to New York. Overall, I think the restaurant does a fine job of interpreting African dishes for the contemporary New Yorker, while at the same time preserving it's authenticity. And I definitely know where I'm taking my old roommate when she comes into town, interested in a trip back to Africa that's only a few subway stops away.

Snapshots from a Run

Today's run was fairly mundane; but as usual there were a few things that caught my eye:

1. It was the pleated skirt-clad flock snapping pictures with their cell phones that tipped me off to this sighting: Gossip Girls' Blair and Sabrina filming a scene for the show on the steps of the Met.

2. A young, well-dressed Asian woman with no apparent affliction walking down the sidewalk leisurely--backwards.

3. And finally, today's highlight: the typical Upper East Side elderly woman--feeble-looking; long, heavy winter coat; silk scarf covering head; small white dog-- doing the impossible: bursting into a full-out run with her mini-pooch.

Running Shorts

I was out for a run today, jogging down the west side of Central Park when I was joined by a homeless man. Not that exciting on it's own; this is New York City after all and we've all had our fair share of folk who think it is funny to make some sort of motion at you while running, or jump out in front of you and try to block your path, or bounce along a few strides next to you, making exaggerated arm motions as you go. And each and every time, the perpetrator of this act is somehow under the impression that he (always he) is the the first and only person to think of doing such a thing, and that it is probably the funniest thing that he has ever done.

Now that, that doesn't alarm me. But today, a homeless man, arms full of cans and other junk, dressed in heavy boots and layer after layer of clothing, pockets full of random treasures, including an open, half-drunk can of beer, started running alongside me and did not stop after the normal five strides or so. He stayed with me for the first block, the second, the third and next thing I know, this man is still running with me three-quarters of a mile down the park. The entire time, he ran just a few steps ahead of me, continuously checked to make sure I was still there, and had a most joyful, carefree look on his face. He didn't make a single remark to me the entire time, nor did he tire. When I reached Central Park South, it was time for me to make the turn around the corner of the park, and he continued on southbound. I found this quite unusual, amusing and honestly, quite impressive. I am convinced that the stamina of bums is strongly underestimated and am now considering starting a running team strictly for them.

Restaurant Review: Dovetail

This past Sunday marked one year since Andrew and I started dating, so it was of course the perfect excuse to visit a restaurant I've been wanting to try for a while: Dovetail. Dovetail is especially interesting to me because it has not been slammed by a single major critic, which is almost unheard of; there is almost always that one guy who doesn't approve. I was eager to see whether this Upper West Side newcomer would live up to its reputation, or whether Platt, Freeman and the rest (Franktastic had not yet filed on Dovetail when we went) had been a little misleading with their overwhelmingly positive reviews.

I had a feeling when we first walked in that dining at Dovetail was going to be a special experience. And I must say, that feeling stayed with me from the first bite of homemade white cheddar cornbread all the way through to the final champagne chocolate truffle petit-four.

As soon as we slipped out of the rain into the somewhat inconspicuous glass door of the restaurant, I was impressed with the bi-level space. The hostess station is just up a few stairs, uniquely arranged with a large central counter space. You can see the bar area just behind, but otherwise nothing about the dining experience is revealed; the main dining room and the smaller, bright white space downstairs aren't visible until you are led there.

To start, I had the clam chowder and Andrew chose the Idaho potato gnocchi. I was a little nervous when my appetizer, a small pile of finely chopped veggies, plump clams, smoked potatoes and chorizo (where is the soup?!), arrived, but before I could think twice the waiter was pouring the creamy broth over the top. Accompanied by a delicate, buttery black pepper croissant, the chowder was was full of rich flavor, especially accented by the chorizo. Andrew's gnocchi, sitting atop a veal short ribs and foie gras butter, was a true lesson in decadence.

For main courses, I decided to diverge from my usual seafood and poultry selections, and went with the parsley-crusted lamb shank with polenta. The meat may have been the most tender piece of lamb I've tried yet, and the crust atop lent a spicy kick of Dijon. The cubes of polenta were deliciously reminiscent of the chickpea fries at Pamplona. Andrew chose the duck, another full-bodied dish replete with tender meat and pasta, topped off with a hen's egg.

There was no difficulty in choosing dessert, as Andrew went with the chocolate mousse, which I liked for it's tendency towards a cake-like consistency and caramel center. I had the carrot cake (sorry, still not better than Mom's) and was most impressed by it's tasty accompaniments: the airy frosting, crunchy slices atop the cake, the golden raisin and fennel puree.

Certainly as impressive as the food, if not more so, was the quality of service at the restaurant. Timing between courses was impeccable. A water glass was never less than half-empty. We never felt the slightest pressure to order anything more than tap water. Servers knew the second you were ready for your plate to be taken. When deciding between two entrees, our server actually recommended the less pricey of the two. And while these service standards really shouldn't be too hard to find, the truth is they are.

Dovetail's inventive, rich cuisine is enough to stand on it's own. But when such culinary exceptionalism is coupled with humble service, the experience is that much more enjoyable. Andrew and I said it when we left the restaurant, and a few days later, the Bruni corroborated our assessment: "Definitely three stars."

Stolen Goods

I was walking home from the gym a few days ago when I noticed my bag felt a little light, so I reached in to make sure my waterbottle was in there. Of course, it wasn't. This then led me to questioning whether my iPod was absent from my bag too, and as it turned out, it was gone also. I had just left the gym about ten minutes earlier, so I called them right away and asked them to check the locker room for me; I had left both the nano and my Nalgene right on the sink. (I placed them there to use the scale and, so distressed by the results, I forgot about reclaiming them. What a sob story!) The employee on the phone had a female staff member run into the bathroom to check it out. She retrieved the waterbottle, but the iPod was, of course, no where to be found. 

How nice of that thief to leave my plastic waterbottle for me! What a thoughtful human being. But really, if you are going to take my pod, you might as well just take the waterbottle too. Claiming the waterbottle alone wasn't going to appease me much, so why deny yourself this bonus item? But apparently we have a selective thief here. Well I was intent on finding this selective thief!

Although nearly all my hope of having the iPod returned to me was gone, I still felt inclined be proactive in seeking the return of my item. I decided on some signage; maybe a personal note from the victim would stir up a little bit of guilt on the thief's part. So I posted a couple notes in the locker room that read:

"If you found a small black iPod in the locker room yesterday, please return it to the desk! I have had a bad day and would really appreciate it" (How emotional!)

When I returned the next day, nothing had been returned and my signs had long been removed. 

That bastard! Just know that you may have tricked me once but I suggest you give that iPod as a gift to one of your children because if I see anything that vaguely resembles it at the gym,  I will come after you! Taking advantage of a woman saddened after getting on the scale. How dare you!

'08 Has Arrived

New Year's Eve just would not be complete without drunken obnoxiousness. This year however, I must admit my evening was quite tame. Somehow, I managed to make it through the night without either a.) flashing anyone, b.) sexually assaulting a police officer or c.) laying down on the sidewalk and refusing to get up. I consider that a relative success. The closest I came to trouble last night only involved a verbal confrontation and some mild threatening.

After a few hours of dancing (it might be more appropriate to call it "tearing up the dance floor"), Andrew and I went to gather our coats from the stool where we had left them at the beginning of the night. The previously unoccupied chair had been taken up by a girl who was accompanied by a few friends. I went over and grabbed my scarf from the chair, but the drunken idiot grabbed the other end of my scarf, claiming it actually belonged to her and refusing to let go. Oh, no, no, no, I said. Perhaps if this was another scarf, I would have cared slightly less. But this particular cashmere scarf was not a cheap purchase and even being as drunk and tired as I was, I wasn't going to walk away without what was rightfully mine.

I repeatedly told the girl in a stern tone that this grey scarf was mine, and that she needed to let go immediately, while she barked back at me that she was the true owner of this "lime green" scarf. At this point, what appeared to be the girl's boyfriend stepped in to help, reasserting to the drunken mess of a girl that this item was not green nor hers, and she needed to let go. But his suggestion was of little help, as she remained unyielding, the tug-of-war continued and my anger intensified. At this point, I was getting very annoyed. In my slightly inebriated mind, I was clearly a brute force to be reckoned with, and felt completely justified in leaning in closely to the girl's face, staring her straight in the eyes and telling her multiple times that if she didn't let go of my scarf "right now", I was "going to punch her in the face." It never got to that point however, as Andrew, who also decided it was a good idea to throw in a few physical threats for good measure, was able to take the scarf from her grip. Victory, finally.

I asked Andrew to wait at the door for me while I found my coat, as I didn't want the klepto to jump up and grab my scarf again. I was relieved when I retrieved my coat from under the table without a struggle, pleasantly suprised that she didn't try and snatch that too. But this girl apparently still wasn't done quacking at me; now she had a different grey scarf in her hand that she claimed was, in fact, mine. It just so happened that this scarf did actually look a bit like mine, so I glanced outside at Andrew waiting by the door, and in his hand, clear as day in the light of the street lamp, was a neon green scarf.

Oops.