Minestrone and Baked Apples

From winter 2006 in New York
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Renee is a college friend of mine, a rare one I have kept in touch with even through my more recent tumultuous and less proud moments. We are also the only two people I know in our age group and ambition proudly supporting 718 as the area code of choice for our cellular phones, representing our adopted home boroughs of Brooklyn (her; she is cooler) and Queens (me). We meet up maybe once a month in irregular intervals to catch up and for me to tell her things I don’t care to share with anyone else.

I don't have many female friends. Truth be told, I don't have many friends to start with. Since my job more than fulfills the casual socialization requirement part of a standard social life, I have a few people very close to me to whom I go, infrequently but consistently, for the most serious things in life. Then again, maybe this is just an excuse; maybe I just don't have many friends. Period. Whatever the reason for my loner status, Renee is one of such few friends I have who happens to be female, making her an even rarer breed.

One of my fondest memories of Renee is when she got hit by a truck. Let me rephrase this, since the sentence invites a horrible misunderstanding. Or rather, let me recount the story of a freezer in Brooklyn packed full of minestrone in winter of 2006 and very drunken apples that nearly killed my friend who survived a car accident.

Accidents involving pedestrians getting hurt by automobiles is a scary and every-day occurrence in New York City. Everyone here knows someone who has gotten into a serious car-related accident while walking in the City. Renee was able to avoid the worst. Diving into the sidewalk as a semi blindly trudged on was a smart move on her part; she escaped with a broken foot after this traumatizing experience. I nearly wrote "only with a broken foot" and decided not to, because having a broken foot, as I learned from her, is not an insignificant inconvenience, especially when it comes to one's love life.

Renee was house-bound in her Carroll Gardens first floor apartment for a good month. As her cast became smaller and lighter, we ventured out again. I remember fully using her handicap as a persuasive prop to snatch a table at the ever-so-full Spotted Pig in the Village. I also think that the mini skirt she had to wear to best accommodate her cast in the middle of winter helped with the gentleman at the host station. But months before this, she was literally house-bound. And I cannot imagine how lonely and miserable that might be in a gloomy New York winter, away from the Christmas lights and decorated show windows. And so I decided to ride the F train from Queens, through Manhattan and all the way to Brooklyn to cook for her.

Cooking with and for Renee has always been fun. She enjoys food without pretension and with style. For her it's not just about the food, but also the occasion and how it is presented. My goal that day was to bring some sign of comfort and safety in the form of a meal. I decided to cook minestrone.

And I cooked a lot of it.

Literally, it was a stock pot full of minestrone. This yields to about two gallons. I like my soups with a lot of things in them (in such way that canned soup companies might use the term "chunky"), a trait I have inherited from my mother.[1] Two gallons of soup filled with vegetables, beans, pasta and pancetta for flavor is a lot of food for a single woman. I packed the rest of the soup in Tupperware and into the freezer they went.

To picture how I stacked these containers in the freezer, one might imagine a game of Tetris. As I tucked away the Tupperware figuring out how to best fit the pieces together, I thought, if there was a nuclear disaster right now and became unsafe to get out for 50 days, we would survive on this soup alone.

The soup that did not get saved for such misfortune was served for dinner that evening. It was accompanied with bread from Alain Ducasse New York, carefully picked up the night before by yours truly and a lovely salad that Renee somehow composed, chopping seated at the dining room table with one leg propped up. For dessert we had baked apples.

You see, there was this wonderful apple dessert at ADNY that season, which had little balls of apples simmered in Calvados. One of my favorite late-night bites at work were those apple balls accompanied by crème Chantilly for the famous Baba au Rum as we snuck in the kitchen and waited for the last guests to finish their lavish dinners. My delinquent restaurant snack was the inspiration for the delinquent home-cooked dessert.

I cored tart apples, stuffed them with raisins and a mixture of brown sugar and cinnamon, topped them with a pat of butter each and drenched them in apple liqueur. It was really more like a bain-marie of apple liqueur; place the stuffed apples in a baking pan and pour a pool of alcohol until the pan is 3/4 full. Baking in the oven for 40 minutes does evaporate some of the alcohol.

But not all alcohol evaporates and these apples were very drunk. After I cleaned up and left the Carroll Gardens apartment, I prayed that the amount of alcohol in the dessert would not mix badly with the pain killers Renee was taking. Throughout the dinner as I drank champagne found in her refrigerator, my friend on drugs was disappointed that she could not join me. By disappointed, I mean, really unhappy. Renee enjoys her alcohol and buys wines by the case (mix-and-match) from wine stores.

I was too embarrassed to confess my fear that I may have killed my dear friend with the amount of liqueur in the dessert. When we spoke again a few weeks later and casually made plans to meet and eat together, I hid my relief behind a cool tone of voice, secretly letting out a big sigh in comfort that I did not accidentally kill the woman who survived a semi-truck running over her.



[1] My brother and I used to complain as kids that her udon noodle soups were 60% noodles, 35% vegetables and 5% soup. Somehow I've adapted her taste as I grew up.

Queens

I wrote this about seven years ago when I still lived in Queens, New York. It makes me nostalgic. Nostalgia mixes with a bit of embarrassment as I note my academic tone in this particular writing. But more than making me feel nostalgic or embarrassed, for that matter, it makes me hungry for the favorite places I used to go to.

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Queens

I have proudly lived in Kew Gardens, Queens for four years while working in Manhattan.[1] I initially chose to live in Kew Gardens for practical reasons. I was going to graduate school on Long Island[2] while my then-boyfriend went to music school in Manhattan. Queens, naturally, was the best option to accommodate both of our commutes: one hour to the Upper-West Side, one hour to Stony Brook. I ended up bartending in Midtown to pay my bills that the scholarship failed to cover and got sucked into the ever-so-exciting restaurant world of New York City of the glorious early-2000’s. And here I am. But that’s another story. Let’s talk Queens.

I need to put out a disclaimer first. I am happy that more people are finding out about ethnic eateries all over Queens and other outer boroughs that used to only cater to their immediate immigrant communities. More customers make good business no matter what they are. I am, however, not thrilled that “foodie” internet boards like chowhound.com and mouthfulsoffood.com [eater.com and Twitter/InstaGram feeds today] make such locales “destinations” for untamed and authentic flavors of far-away countries, viewing them to be exotic and “Oriental” in its academic sense per Edward Said: Oriental as “the Other,” the inferior but mystically attractive. I have served a number of people who post on these boards, all well-educated, sophisticated and indeed knowledgeable about food and service; they fit into and behave perfectly at the restaurants I have served them in. On the other hand, or, really, because of this, I am uncomfortable imagining them at Spicy and Tasty in Flushing, at Pho Bang in Elmhurst, at Mexican carts in Astoria and at the Red Hook Ball Fields. I cannot help imagining them as culinary ethnographers in a foreign land, observing the local food scene as “different” and “fascinating.” I hope they do not showcase their well-researched knowledge of menu items to the arepas lady as I have seen them do in my restaurants; I hope they do not grab hold of the amazingly fast order-takers, trained to meet the demand from clients who can afford less than half hour of lunch break and less than five dollars for a meal, to ask what “exactly” is in pho A.25. I’m sure that these connoisseurs of New York restaurants genuinely enjoy food and are truly excited about discovering new flavors they have not encountered yet, but looking at the sheer number of postings and the contents of the comments, it is difficult not to imagine that there may be a sense of distance and unconscious looking down as these gourmet observers venture out of Manhattan[/Brooklyn].

That being said, for those of us who simply live here, or consider its culinary offerings as an everyday part of life, Queens is an oasis. Well, most of the time, when the E and F lines aren’t flooded and we can get to our desired destinations without using the LIRR. I spend my days in a fancy restaurant in Manhattan conversing with clients on new openings of big-name chefs as well as word-of-the-mouth-only places. There are times I go into the City on Sundays to try out a restaurant or to get together with friends, but because such outings make me feel tired as though I’m working on my precious day off, I prefer to stay in Queens as much as possible.

My laziest day would start by waking up at 9, running in Forest Park, buying the Sunday Times and a plain croissant at Baker’s Dozen in Kew Gardens on my way back with the $5 bill I stuffed in my running shorts, making a pot of coffee and having a relaxing breakfast after a shower. I would then venture into Forest Hills, get my nails done by the chatty Korean ladies at Elite Nails, catch a movie at one of the town’s two theaters, stop by Cheese of the World purchasing three different cheeses and a few rolls, make my way to Austin Naturals to for a packaged salad mix and head back home. It would be about six o’clock by this time and I would wonder if I still had any wine at home. If I realize I didn’t, I would stop by a wine store, poke around for twenty minutes and end up buying a $24.99 bottle of wine that I have not tried before.[3] If it happens to be a hot summer day, I would sneak in an Italian ice or a Tastee Delite, always eaten outside as I lick the sweet syrup dripping on my fingers. Then I would be home to have my favorite Sunday supper of salad, cheese, bread and wine. I would finish with some chocolate, take a bath and go to bed early.[4]

On cold wintry days, especially when I would be under the weather, I would take the F or the E to Forest Hills, transfer to a local line and get off at Elmhurst. I would go to one of the Vietnamese places in the strip mall off of the subway stop, order pho with rare beef rounds and tripe, carefully choose my chopsticks from the cup on the table to make sure they are the same thickness and length, grab about twenty of the tiny napkins, throw in half the mint, all the bean sprouts and squeeze two limes, dunk a bit of chili sauce and slurp rice noodles with my nose running full throttle. After fifteen minutes of slurping, chewing and frequently blowing my nose with those tiny napkins (depending on the amount of chili paste I threw in, I would sometimes need to dab my eyes from the tears that have welled up, too) I would feel warm, satiated and de-congested.[5] I would take a peek at the knife sharpener doing fine business in front of the Asian supermarket in front of the subway station, always reminding myself to bring my knives next time to be sharpened by these guys (I never do; how do I sneak in a 16-inch Henckel in my purse?). Every couple months I would go to Flushing to get my hair cut at Top Style salon next to Joe’s Shanghai. Before I leave the house I would draw a picture of the desired haircut, since I don’t speak Cantonese, and my hairstylist doesn’t speak Japanese or English. I would be perfectly happy with my $25 cut and wonder what to eat. Sometimes I would just buy a skewer of grilled chicken from the street vendor on the corner, spicy please, and walk down the streets, peering into shops that don’t care if you have food. Sometimes I would go to bakeries and buy pastries in quantities I will never finish eating before it all goes bad. Some times I would meet up with friends and have a feast surrounding a round table filled with plates and bottles of Tsing Tao. Always I would go to Hong Kong Supermarket and buy things I want to cook but never get to. My next day off is in one week, and the water spinach I buy would be bad in two days. But I buy it anyway.

Such food ventures in “ethnic” quarters of Queens are neither romantic nor exotic in my opinion. It is a part of life for those of us who live here and not an anthropological quest for the wild and the untamed. I find it pretentious and quite rude for people to get so worked up over making the 7 train trek (or E, F, V, N, Q, R). Honestly, some, no, many of the foods found in immigrant neighborhoods are not terribly good. The reason I never finish the pastries bought in Flushing is because, although they are fun and exciting for first few bites, they are never so good that I would actually finish them off. Meat skewers taste good on the street because you get to eat meat on a stick on the street on your day off; it’s like having your own little street festival. Just the food itself is not that high of a quality. Although they are fun places to go with a group of friends, I have never been terribly impressed with the quality of the beef and kimchee at most Korean BBQ places on Northern Boulevard. The foods I mentioned in the previous paragraph feel and taste good to me because they are a part of my comfortable lifestyle, but are not “mind-blowing,” “amazing” and “unbelievable” as bloggers and gourmet board posters claim them to be.

I love Queens for all the reasons opposite to what online gourmands want Queens to be like; distant, exotic, unknown and strangely fascinating. My Queens is simple, laid-back, predictable and comforting.

[1] For many young professionals who work in Manhattan but cannot afford to pay the minimum $3K a month for rent, the obvious choice is to live in the outer boroughs or New Jersey. Brooklyn is the coolest pick, [way too cool now]followed by New Jersey, the Bronx and Queens.[2] Studying music theory and history. Yeah, I know. What happened? My parents would ask the same question.[3] $14.99 seems too cheap and $34.99 seems too expensive.  Somehow a $24.99 bottle would convince me of the value of the wine no matter how good or bad the wine might be.[4] On even lazier days, and I write this as a footnote because I am embarrassed to put it in 12-point font, I would buy a can of beer and kaki no tane (tiny rice crackers) with peanuts and consider the combination a perfect supper, especially when followed by a nice bowl of Haagen Daz strawberry ice cream. Bath and turning in early would follow the same way as in aforementioned situation.[5] This, my friends, is not a pretty scene. For this reason, this is always done alone. I don’t ask for company on my pho days.

Homecoming - New York Trip and New Bouley

I am tempted by New York - I always will be.

As with many New Yorkers and former inhabitants of the City, I am eternally drawn to the energy, the people, the pace of life and the strange sense of comfort only to be found in New York City. I have not been back in 8 months; I am dying to go home. I am also interested in seeing the City in the midst of its difficult time. I wonder about the restaurants I am familiar with. I want to know how businesses are doing - how "my guys" in the restaurant scene are holding up.

So I make arrangements - flight, hotel and restaurant reservations. Well, to be correct, plans with people who will arrange for restaurant reservations on my behalf.

I jump to my conclusion already in this fourth paragraph (although these are not real paragraphs.) I have a wonderful trip: the perfect homecoming. My former coworkers take me out for steak frites at Les Halles (www.leshalles.net) - perhaps not the best steak in town, but great for us to have a fun rowdy time. More cocktails at a pub a few steps up the street, where we run into another former colleague. Only in this small town of NYC do you run into people at the most perfect timing. I do lunch with a good friend at Park Avenue Winter (www.parkavenyc.com), where we lounge for three hours in the dining room that is decorated all white, but exudes warmth. I have cocktails at the lounge at W Hotel Times Square (www.starwoodhotels.com), sipping my drink with a name too complicated to remember, enjoying the view of European tourists and servers in short black skirts and boots. I have dinner at Dovetail (www.dovetailnyc.com), where I feel welcomed back to the U.S. by dishes like "Grouper Ceviche, cilantro, lime, pears" and "Lambs Tongue, muffalatta presse, olives, capers" that scream New American cuisine. My favorite combination of Champagne and popcorn downtown is the best nightcap I can ask for.

But it is the dinner at Bouley (www.bouley.net) I want to write about; it was a truly splendid time on my final evening there.

David Bouley has been stirring up his downtown locations in the past year or so. Explaining the changes he made in his real estate (and is still working on) is too complicated in writing, especially to those who don't obsessively follow the New York restaurant scene. In short, he turned Danube into Secession and the original Bouley into Bouley Market, expanded Upstairs downstairs where the old Market was, and moved the original Bouley to a new locations a few blocks away.

The dinner I had on December 30th, 2008, at the newly relocated Bouley is something to be remembered in my personal dining notes. And I want to be sure to write about it here.

My dining companion and I arrive for our 9:30 reservation. We have already had two glasses of champagne each (one at Gramercy Park Hotel Bar and another at The Bubble Lounge) and are ready for dinner. We choose the shorter five-course tasting menu and then the wines: a glass of Viognier followed by a bottle of nice Bourgogne with balanced tannin, acidity and body.

For the first course we have a choice of two dishes. My dining companion and I decide to alternate, so that we can taste both. I receive a scallop dish strongly flavored with yuzu. I like my first course to have acid, as it opens up the palate for the rest of the meal. His is a warm flan of Dungeness crab and black truffles in a small cocotte. The flan is delicious. The dish reminds me of Japanese chawan-mushi and makes me think that it can very well work in a kaiseki menu. Maine lobster with pomegranate and red wine sauces, shimeji mushroom and heart of palm follows. I sense too many flavors and textures at play here. I'm not sure of the purpose of the heart of palm, since I think the mushroom plays out the textural contrast already. But the sauces are delicious and the lobster is perfectly cooked. A plate of organic farm egg, Serrano ham, Parmigiano Reggiano and black truffles is perfection itself. It's hard to not love the combination; I can easily eat it every day. The veal saddle is simple and delicious, allowing our Pinot Noir to hold through beautifully. A palate cleanser of Beaujolais sorbet tastes like something from childhood memories. I enjoy it, but my dining companion who doesn't prefer Beaujolais to begin with feels indifferent. The dessert is a rich custard, a solid rectangular creme caramel that seems to transform its - how do I put it - "state of matter" in the mouth as the sharp edged bite melts into a creamy sweet dream. We are also offered their signature chocolate souffle with chocolate sorbet and vanilla ice cream. An array of frandise and gourmandise arrive on the table. Although I'm only able eat half a raspberry macaroon, I like the presentation of the goodies at French restaurants like this. (I always love watching the servers cut the home-made marshmallow at Jean Georges, although I'm always too full to actually eat it.) I've dined at the old locations several times, and have sometimes experienced over-salting of foods. No such thing this time. I find the flavors just right and well-balanced.

What makes this such a special place is not only the food, but the service and the room. Yes, the room is gorgeous. I'd always liked the room at the old location with the arched ceiling and the fragrant rows of apples at the entrance. But this new room is better. As Ms. Florence Fabricant reports, "The vaulted ceiling in the main dining room ... has been brushed with golden leaf; the romantic room also features an ancient hearth brought from France... A small library with intricate parquet flooring assembled from century-old panels and a winter gardens abloom with painted geraniums ... complete the dining areas on the ground floor" (The New York Times 10/14/2008). It may be the most romantic dining room in New York City. Two-tops are arranged so that a couple sits next to each other with the view of the room in front of them. The service is elegant and gracious without being stuffy - the perfect New York style, in my opinion.

I've dined at the former location several times and have always enjoyed it. But this dinner at the new Bouley is something I'll keep in my memory for a long time. I love New York. I'll always miss it.

Bouley

163 Duane Street (Hudson Street)

(212)964-2525