Food Montage

This is the Food Flash a la my reference in the Coq au Vin story. I'm sure a similar vision would appear before my eyes just before death--and what a yummy one, too. I should warn that if you are on a diet, a current contestant on the Biggest Loser or happen to be extremely full from a particularly heavy meal, the following video may be disturbing. If you do not find yourself in one of the above categories, then, by all means, indulge yourself in a little youtube fun. Giggling may ensue. If you haven't already figured out that the above "Food Flash" is a link to the video, click here.

Coq au Vin : Cafe Cluny

Sunday, February 15th / Cafe Cluny 12th and W 4th St. / 9:00pm

I've never given much thought to what I would have as--given I could choose--my last meal in life. I probably haven't thought about it, because if I did, my brain would most likely implode on itself, extinguishing me in an ironic twist of fate, hungry and madder than a 'coon in daylight that I had been robbed of my last meal whilst, and as a result of, contemplating it. As I would lay gripping my head in a pathetic and whimpering last ditch attempt to save myself from, well, myself, it would not necessarily be my life that would flash before me; rather, it would be food. Glorious, satisfying, life-sustaining, mind-altering, soul-awakening food. If I were in a movie, the shot would go from me on the ground, sobbing, pleading for one last meal to a photo montage of food while a perky song played in the background, perhaps from ole' Sinatra's era reminding me and--more importantly--the audience that my life hasn't been half bad, since--shoot--I've tasted some mighty fine flavors in my lifetime: shells and cheese, cinnamon rolls from Calico County, Mimi's rolls, mashed potatoes, peanut butter and jelly, HOT DOGS, brownies from a box, Mom's chocolate chip cookies, anything with cheese, anything with sugar... Yep, looking back on life in terms of meals can make even your last seconds on Earth sort of tolerable (unless you are on fire, trapped underwater, in a crashing plane, underneath a falling building or in immediate danger of a tragic death). Aaaaand CUT.

Back to the last meal thing. I DO have a point. If I had to choose a last meal from the smorgasborg of food I've had in the last week, it would be an easier decision than the Academy had to make for best movie this year (Slumdog, duh) : the Coq au Vin from Cafe Cluny.

First off, I had been here once before (Pumpkin Ravioli) months ago and loved, LOVED it, so I had an inkling I would be, once again, utterly pleased. The cafe is so French with its tucked away location in the West Village, its white aproned, white tee shirted staff, and its incredible menu of no-fuss French eats that I really, really wanted to waltz in speaking la langue. Both Seth and I were squirming in our seats to order un verre de rouge instead of a glass of red (Lord, English sounds so dirty and barbaric next to the musical harmony of French dictation) but we decided to restrain ourselves so as not to embarrass our friends (and probably ourselves, too). Also, tiny setback: the waiter (pretty sure none of them) didn't speak French. He was probably from Jersey, but he was cute nonetheless and when I pretended real hard, he looked French and sounded it too... okay maybe that's stretching it too far, but, hey, when you wish upon a star your dreams come true, don't they? Don't they, Jiminy?

We four had a tough time deciding seeing as though every single meal epitomized the perfection of French food. Steak frites, coq au vin, poulet provencal, roast lamb--it was a merry-go-round of the most fun dishes ever. I finally--after an in depth discussion with our Franco-Jersey waiter--heard the beckoning calls of the Coq au Vin and gave in to pleasure pressure. You know that feeling, when your mouth starts to salivate despite your brain telling you that the salade mixte would be healthier (it IS fashion week after all, muffin-tops) but you can't, you just can't, deny yourself what could be the best Coq au Vin in the city? I gave in, the food-a-luffagus I am. Just in case it was my last meal, I wasn't going to chance it with a limp salad.

I won't put it in the comment box because I know they probably want to stay as French as possible, but in my head and in this post, I am going to unofficially re-name the Coq au Vin the Coq au Yumminess. No arguments. I know this compromises the French-ness of it and I LOVE the French--I hope I get reborn as one--but I feel as though my title does it more justice. There are tons of Coq au Vins out there. I wouldn't be surprised if TGI Friday's had one, so I must, for the love of chicken, distinguish this fine meal at least in writing.

My first taste of the Coq au Yumminess was of course, the juice: the defining foundation of all Coq au Vins. I ravenously tore off a bit of fresh bread from the basket and delicately soaked up just the right amount of Coq au Yumminess bathing juice. The smell reached my nose before the dripping bread touched my lips. The fragrance was a sweet, summery prelude to the orchestra of flavor that erupted in my mouth. The odor of wine, roast chicken, butter and French country side piqued my olfactory senses as if the smell was the secret passage word to opening my mouth. In came crusty bread softened under the spell of warm liquid ambrosia. The juice tasted just as it smelled but with a more powerful punch, though not as rich as the main event: the chicken. The chicken was roasted to perfection--was Jacques Pepin in the kitchen tonight?--and every bite of chicken, juice and mushroom brought me one bite closer to absolute paradise. I think if this had been my last meal--if I had been mauled by a Yorkie or flattened by a yellow cab later that night--I wouldn't have felt a thing thanks to the enlightening wonder of that Coq au Yumminess. That chicken wrapped it's juicy roasted wings--well, breast--around me and gave me more love than could one hundred arrows from Cupid's bow, a club full of male models and a couple shots of Tequila.

What can possibly follow the Coq au Yumminess? Can anything surpass the glory of perfectly roasted poultry bathing lavishly in a warm bath of bubbling flavor, tradition and national confidence? The answer is yes, my friends. There is one such dish that could and almost must follow such divine savory pleasure : divine sugary pleasure.

My rule of thumb for dessert is that if the meal was fantastic, the dessert probably is, too. If you still aren't sure, a quick look at the dessert menu should help. If the choices are something like Mega-Boxed Brownie Sundae topped with Shortening or Big Ass Piece of Chocolate Cake with a Side of Freezer Burned Ice Cream, then your judgement should steer you clear of a post-dinner dish. If, however, the choices have all the delicate grace of a creamy torte au chocolate, then by all means, indulge. Remeber, fresh ingredients + hobbit sized portions = less trouble in the adipose tissue department. I completely threw the whole "dessert leads to weight gain" thing out the window once our desserts--yes, we all four ordered our own--arrived. I also don't remember anyone's dessert save Seth's which I will now rename as the Brown Sugar Pecan Sensation Station. It was like pecan pie, but where there is normally gooey pecan pie goo there was melt in your mouth brown sugary magnificence spiked with artisinal butter from Switzerland's prettiest cows. The tart, too, was so graham crackery good, it was like the graham crackers had been grown tenderly on a graham cracker tree with all the freshness of a juicy fruit at its peak. Together, crust and brown sugar-pecan mixture created an effortless crunch in the mouth, the sort of crunch where you don't have to try too hard because after the first bite everything crumbles happily into miniscule brown sugary morsels, probably shaped like hearts or stars or unicorns. Yum yum yum. That's about all I can say in retrospect (in addition to the novella I've written above).

In conclusion, I cannot find words to give appropriate justice to the Coq au Yumminess or the Brown Sugar Pecan Sensation Staion except to say that I think, for the time being, I've found the joie de vivre, which is why I would find it a fitting end to my life. As the buttery brown sugariness of the dessert would crumble under my last bite of life, I think I could die peacefully knowing that I had found paradise long before it had found me.

Craving Satisfaction

Cravings stem from a variety of categories: one can crave sleep attention, warm weather, a significant other or space from a significant other, etc.  However, food takes the cake (no pun intended) when it comes to that feeling of ultimate bliss when the craving is fulfilled, as if, for those precious few moments of complete satisfaction, all is right with the world.  True food-craving fulfillment cannot be forced and can even occur as a surprise (the best kind).  This segment will call attention to these precious moments of epicurean ecstasy.

Chocolate.  Oh, chocolate.  I do not think anything else evokes the craving sensation like chocolate.  Fortunately, and especially for dark chocolate aficionados, chocolate cravings are fairly easy to satisfy with simply yet amazing brands such as Green and Blacks and Neuhaus.   Even plain M&Ms can hit the spot!  That being said, it is the rare "surprise" craving satisfaction that takes the fulfillment to the next level.

And, this is what happened upon my first visit to the afore-appraised Butter Lane.  Normally, it takes me a bit of time and careful contemplation (and questioning, as relayed in the wine selecting process at Jimmy's No. 43).  However, I saw the special icing of the day: chocolate-raspberry on a vanilla cupcake.  My decision was automatic and immediate; chocolate and raspberry happens to be my favorite combination (very closely followed by chocolate and orange, but that is for another post).

I am not even a huge icing person, but with the perfect ration of icing to cake at BL, and this glorious flavor combination, I knew even before tasting it that this icing would be amazingly satisfying.  Oh my.  Oh my my.  HOw it exceeded my craving satisfaction expectations!  It was a blissful marriage of rich, not-overly-sweet chocolate with pure extract of raspberry.  I could taste both flavors separately and together at the same time.  Neither overpowered the other, which is often where other attempts at this combination fall short.  Both were the true essence of the highest quality of their respective kinds.  That success along with the fluffy perfection of the icing atop the "most moist [...] spongy blanket" of a cupcake, made this craving satisfaction the best kind: a surprise craving satisfaction!

Apparently, this was a special icing for Valentine's Day...which made me appreciate the holiday more for its proclaimed purpose of celebrating love rather than just an excuse to eat too many sweet, drink too much champagne and get all dressed up to go out.  That icing filled me with yummy love-goodness!

I wonder if Pam, Maria and Linda got the chocolate-raspberry ratio right the first time, akin to their first venture into opening a cupcakery, or if it was a labor of love to provide that ultimate fulfillment to their clientele of seasoned choco-rasp lovers?  Either way, bless them for blessing me with the wonderfully surprising experience.  As most of you fellow chocoholics can attest, these exceptionally amazing interactions with cocoa are few and far between.

Order Up! : Stuffed Peppers

Four peppers of green
Sit empty and clean,
Ready to be stuffed for dinner.
Add some meat sauteed nice
With nutmeg for spice
And-Presto-a surefire winner!

I threw this together last week. I was craving moussaka but had more ingredients for stuffed peppers, so I injected my favorite part of the moussaka--the sweet spices--into the meat for the stuffed peppers. Side effects include: unconditional attraction to whoever cooks this, cancer-fighting abilities, and complete satisfaction. Y'all may thank me when you see me or send me chocolates and gift certificates to Barney's.

Ingredients:
4 large bell peppers
1 onion
1lb ground beef
1/4 tsp nutmeg
some cinnamon
1 can diced tomatoes
rice of your choice
crumbled Feta
grated Parmesan, say, 1/4 to 1/2 a cup

Set oven to 350 degrees


Boil (or microwave) the rice--may want to do that first since the boiling process can be time-consuming.

Also get some water boiling for the peppers--you'll need a fairly large pot for them.

Cut off the tops of the peppers. Keep the tops for dicing but pop off the stem and chuck those. Remove seeds and veins and give those guys a quick wash. If you want to be really fancy, you can sear the bottom and sides of the peppers--more for looks than anything, but it also starts the skin breaking down, thus releasing that signature sweet bell pepper juice. Put the green goblins in the boiling water and let them hang for 10 minutes or so until they get soft but not mushy--they'll need to hold up for the stuffing. Lay the hollowed peppers upright in a pyrex baking dish.

Meanwhile, chop up the onion and get those translucent in a large skillet with some oil (and butter for those of you who want to add a little more flavor) over medium-high heat so that they are smelling up the room with that classic here-comes-dinner smell. Add the extra bit of pepper, diced, that was leftover from the tops. Once everything is cooking nicely, add the ground beef and get that browned to perfection. While it's browning, add the nutmeg and some good dashes of cinnamon--trust me, these spices add magic to the meat. Add the diced tomatoes, cooked rice and shredded parmesan to that mixture, combine well and let that simmer in the skillet until all the flavors have gotten to know eachother like old friends and it starts to smell like the best dinner you've ever made.

Once the meat-veggie-rice mixture o' joy is ready, drain the fat (or keep it if you're into that--fatty) and scoop liberal amounts into each awaiting pepper. Top with feta crumbles and whatever remaining Parmesan you may have. Warning, spillage may occur. Unless your peppers are abnormally giant, there will probably be excess stuffing which I like to enfold between chunks of fresh French bread.

Pop into the oven for about 20-ish minutes or until the cheese has melted.

These make incredible leftovers, too, in case you are single, or the only red meat eater in the apartment or a brown bagger.

Enjoy! You WILL NOT be disappointed or else I will fully reimburse you for the cost of the ingredients.

Cupcakes: Butter Lane

All the Time / Butter Lane (7th and A) / Whenever

Why hasn't anyone yet invented an application for a cupcake place finder? Don't pretend like you wouldn't love it. You know you've been in the situation when --BAM!-- all of the sudden you want, no, MUST HAVE a cupcake or the world as you know it will surely end. The craving gnaws at your soul from the inside cutting off your ability to feel, to think, to breathe. You struggle to contain yourself thinking: New...York..loads...of..cupcakes..if..only..there..was..cupcake finder..for..iphones...
Just before you go insane and crumple lifeless down to the cold, dead concrete under the sheer force of sugary desire, you see it, a mirage at first, a yellow blur materializing on the horizon. Is it the sun? Ha! There's no sun in New York. Darn, must be Heaven. No! Unless the sun flutters in the wind, thine eyes doth not deceive for you see a flag of purest gold on which is written the sweetest words that touch your parched lips with a faint kiss of the delight to come, "Butter Lane." The words bring hope and new life to your soul as you stride into what you now believe to be Heaven's foyer.

Unlike those other cupcake places in New York (Crumbs and Magnolia have now slutted themselves out to Midtown and the Financial District boosting sales to wide-eyed tourists and angry bankers), Butter Lane presents a picket-fence sort of charm that has transformative powers even in the heart of a sometimes dingy but nevertheless thriving East Village. Pleasant Surprise # 1: The chalk board easel resting outside of an open door sings, "Cupcakes make you smile." Well, actually, chalkboards with pretty pink cursive letters that read "Cupcakes make you smile" makes you smile first, as I surely did. It reminded me of a what a little kid's lemonade stand would have looked like in medieval times--the two pronged flag proclaiming their imaginary business as busy merchants pass by with Oriental rugs and pungent spices.


Across the threshold, Butter Lane's cupboard-sized space greets you with such tantalizing smells that you can almost see the scents, pastel pinks and purples and yellows and greens hovering over you, beckoning with their ethereal fingers to come, taste, indulge. Three steps bring you face to--er--face with Pleasant Surprise #2: free samples (weee!) of icing because they offer Pleasant Surprise # 3: two different styles of icing. The American style is made with confectioner's sugar while the French style is made with regular sugar. This may seem like one of life's most bestest things ever until you realize they both taste like magic. Conveniently, BL has a box for two cupcakes since indecision is a common side effect of the free samples. And even though you can get a Big Mac for the price of one cupcake at BL, rest assured that that one (or two) cupcake packs more antioxidants, vitamins and cancer fighting voodoo than McD's could hope to squeeze into a so-called premium salad. Cough..okay so maybe that's what I tell myself, but BL does use all organic ingredients from local farms (NJ is the Garden State for a reason, you know.)

My first visit to BL was on a lazy Saturday with Seth and Elizabeth. Elizabeth demurely ordered one while Seth and I sweated profusely in an effort to narrown down our choices. One cupcake, quickly turned into "I'll get one, you get one and we'll spilt one" which quickly became "oh there is a convenient box for four? okay, you get two, I'll get two and we'll split them all". Fat.

Oh, but to have one sweet taste of Butter Lane's cupcakes is to know life! The term "cupcake" almost seems an insult to the perfection that Butter Lane sells, but then again, my human knowledge of the English language is too limiting to create a worthy term. Seth and I decided to start at the very beginning, a very nice place to start: chocolate french on vanilla, chocolate american on vanilla, vanilla american on vanilla, vanilla french on vanilla. Pleasant Surprise # 4: manageable cupcake sizes meant that having two entire cupcakes is not completely overwhelming (especially for me, who could and has easily downed four or five in one 24 hour period). We accompained our cupcake cornucopia with frothy cappucinos at the nearest cafe we could find with plush seating and dark corners, perfect for stuffing oneself. I wish I could say that we savored each bite with all the sophistication of an art lover adirming his or her first glimpse of Dejeuner Sur L'Herbe at the D'Orsay; but, we acted more like kids who don't know any better than to gulp down pure perfection in one swallow. Nevertheless, I can recall each bite with an all-too-vivid play-by-play, or shall I say bite-by-bite? (giggle--cupcakes DO make you laugh!) The cake was the most moist, most buttery cupcake base to ever tiptoe across my taste buds. Each time I bit into a perfect ratio of cake to icing, a spongy blanket of butter embraced my tongue before a silky cloud of light but rich icing came to rest on top. Together, the flavors danced a slow, passionate tango in tribute to sugar, and maybe, God Himself. Close eyes, open mouth, insert cupcake, satisfy craving, repeat.

So, if you find yourself in the East Village, like, ever, you don't need a Google Cupcakes to find Butter Lane. Just look for a quaint yellow flag and emanating pastel rays of sunshine, happiness and joy... and if that doesn't work, just look for me. There is a 99% chance that I will be there, at Heaven's foyer, with a box of New York's finest cupcakes in one hand and a cupcake for the road in the other, all the while thanking God--who must be somewhere nearby--for life's yummiest pleasures.

Order Up

So begins what we hope to become a series of on-the-fly recipes whose conception began the second we stepped into the grocery store or our pantry. No planning. No preparation. Just foodstuffs at our fingertips and our improvisation that led us to a great meal.

I'd finally made my way to the grocery story after months -- yes, MONTHS -- of having hardly a cracker at my culinary disposal. But, the economy being what it is, I figured it was the perfect time to not only save a little money, but also resharpen by impromptu cooking skills.

My shopping trip wasn't guided by any means -- just me simply grabbing stuff I love and know how to work with: chicken breasts, basmati rice, an assortment of vegetables, cheeses, and -- of course -- chocolate. The latter doesn't come into play in the following recipe, but bet your pork butt it will.

Back home I assessed what I had against the varying melange of spices and oils I have. And this is what I came up with. Order up, kids:

You'll need:

1 whole chicken breast, cleaned
1 cup of basmati rice
1 whole red bell pepper
10-12 spears of asparagus
3 pinches of salt
2 pinches of pepper
3 pinches of curry
2 pinches of paprika
1 pinch of chili powder
A gloop or two of sesame oil
A slice of butter

To start, get your rice going. You can boil it in a pan if you want, but I prefer a rice cooker. So load your cup of rice into the rice cooker and get that bad boy going. Also, start a pot of boiling water to blanch your asparagus.

While the rice cooks you can rub down your chicken. Mix all the dry ingredients in a small bowl and give it a toss, then coat your chicken in the mixture, cut the meat into strips or cubes or whatever you want and let it sit. Heat your pan with the butter and sesame oil mixture, letting the butter brown and the oil boil a little to get those earthy flavors out. Oh, the delight! Once the butter/oil mixture has nestled in your nostrils, throw the chicken on, reduce to low/medium heat and watch magic happen.

Now throw your asparagus into the boiling water for about 3-4 minutes just to give them a little color and soften them up a bit. Keep and eye on them -- you don't want soggy asparagus in your dish. Feel free to cut up your red bell pepper now into medium sized strips. Then half those strips. Keep them fresh, as their crispness is key to the ultimate texture of the dish. Don't forget to turn your chicken throughout the prepping, so it doesn't burn.

Once your chicken looks just about done, toss in the asparagus and red peppers and let it all get nice and coated in the sauce. Your rice should be done by now, so begin to fold it in with the chicken, asparagus and peppers until it's all become a delicious potpourri if pleasure in front of you. Divvy up and serve.

Shrimp and Grits and Grenache: Jimmy's No. 43

Wednesday, February 11 / Jimmy's No. 43 (7th and 2nd) / 10:15pm

Wednesday night is quickly becoming my favorite since it means a mid-week escape to Professor Thom's to drink cheap beer and watch the meaning of life that is LOST. Last night the upstairs bar-cum-giant-living-room was so tightly packed that I had to perform gymnast-like moves just to reach the bathroom 10 feet away from my highly-coveted couch spot (Blythe and I arrived at 6:15pm to wait in line for prime real estate upstairs for the 9pm show... true fans we are.) Methinks, the best part about this evening is discussing the intricate philosophies deeply hidden within the twists and turns of the beloved show with the type of stranger that instantly becomes a friend for whom you would die in battle...LOST has powers that permeate far beyond the television screen, dudes.

The sole challenge of watching Lost at a bar with a sea of fellow followers is the ensuing problem of dinner. Let's go back to elementary school, here: if I have to get to the bar at 6pm to be first in line for the 7pm opening of the upstairs for the 9pm showing of a one hour show, when--WHEN--do I eat dinner? Remember, I'm the kind that plans my days around my meals, hence, my dilemma on Wednesdays. Sure, I could eat at the bar, but soggy nachos and a couple of waffle fries will not compliment the glory, the power--no--the magic of LOST. It's is like a fine wine. One must pair it with an equally stimulating dish so that the tongue may be just as satisfied as the soul.

Blythe and I decided to test out this theory last night after the show, although we snacked a bit on the dozen cupcakes I bought at Butter Lane prior to the bar (I thought our group would fill the entire couch room like last week, but somehow only Seth showed and I'm guessing his presence was strongly a result of my bringing cupcakes, the best in NYC, but that's another blog...)

We strolled through the spring-like night down to 7th where, nestled below ground level, rests the most charming of spaces for a late night snack and nightcap. Walking into Jimmy's No. 43 is like time traveling (Definitely a LOST side-effect) to a pre-war English seaside pub where townsfolk couldn't be kinder and the food couldn't be more homey. I wanted to order my drink with a cockney accent "Oy, I'll 'ave a 'alf a orda o' chips an leave tha dingy bits on tha side, yea? An don' be skimpin' on tha ale neither! I likes a niyce froffy top on eet." Instead, I ordered a scrumptious Grenache/Syrah while Blythe perked up to her usual questioning (observing her in the zone is one of life's cheap thrills) : "Umm, what is this Argentian wine like? A cab? Oh, it's spicey? Hmmm... well how about this Montepulciano d'Abruzzo? Is it more like a--a what?--oh it's more like a South American cab. Okay....well.... hmmm.. so what would you think about.. hmmm I'm just not sure, um I guess I'll go with the Argentinian one then--oh wait that's the spicey one, right? Okay no, no, I'll go with the Montepulciano d'Abruzzo. Yes, that's the one I want. Thanks you! (high pitch and sing songy)."

After that cheerful process (no lie, the waitress stuck around and discussed with us the different point of the wines like it was her only job in the world), we decided to split the Shrimp and Grits (darn Southern girls) with Smoked Bacon and Parsley. While we waited, mouths salivating, for our grits, we time traveled to a bygone era of film noir, Model T's and handsome fellas like Jimmy Stuart and Bing Crosby. When we arrived, I was wearing bright red lipstick and a petticoat. Blythe had her hair curled, Judy Garland style. We crooned sugar sweet melodies with our guys and sipped, ever-so-delicately, smooth martinis after de-gloving our porcelin perfect hands. Only when we caught a wiff of buttery grits, did we bid our dream goodbye and haul butt back to the future. Our eyes caught up with the smell and we were immediately and completley consumed by the beauty and the simple grace of shrimp and grits. And then we consumed it.

With no resemblance of our 1940s selves--most likely because we weren't really around then; fooled you didn't I? (Evil laugh) Haha, I knew it!--we dove into our bowl and promptly devoured every last morsel. The grits represented the perfect ratio of creamy to chunky with the slightest but yummiest interruption of saltiness from the bacon; the shrimp were like miniature fiestas that piqued the simple flavors of the grits to a higher level of being. Never before have I tasted shrimp and grits that were simultaneously so delicate and so full of flavor.

Icing on the cake: our amazing waitress drew a heart around our total and when we handed her two cards she asked, "Halfsies"? We think she might have thought us a couple, but whatever, we went with it. We subsequently drew hearts around our signed tips as if to say, "Those grits were bloody brilliant an' we coold live off 'em if we 'ad to. Cheers, yea."

Suffice it to say that I was one happy camper following a night of visual, intellectual and culinary delights. My good friend, indulgence, showed up for a fantastic Wednesday night.

This is one theory I intend to test, taste and time travel back to for many Wednesdays to come.

Eggs and ArtiCHOKEs: Norma's

Sunday, January 25 / Norma's (Le Parker Meridien) / 2:00pm

Don't let the punchy decor fool you.

I should have seen the warning signs when I stepped into that hotel lobby. I just should have known. But would I have turned my back on sweet possibility--the possibility only brunch can bring to an empty stomach and hopeful eyes? No, dear readers, I think not. I stayed in that foreboding lobby as we..
Warning #1: waited for our table since Seth decided to be incredibly tardy--and it does, really, make so much sense to punish the on-timers by making them wait despite their throbbing thirst due to a long night of strong gin and tonics.
Warning #2: watched little screaming, syruppy-handed munchkins parade around the perpetually echoing lobby as if it were a Holiday Inn. Pa-leeze.

When Seth finally arrived, we were begrudgingly led through a circus of diaper bags, Italian hair gel and half eaten plates of goop to get to our table.

I can't even wait for the next reveal...
BIG Warning #3: out first server was indescribable--words cannot begin to give justice to this guy's (girl's?) appearance. He (she) was quite large in an Andre-the-Giant way. His (her) face was freakishly smooth--every last hair waxed off save for the strange, almost cartoony lines that served as eyebrows. The absolute scariest part of this man (woman) was the hair that seemed to rest timidly on top of a cold, bald expanse with no sense or means of security. Heebie jeebies!

So after the manwoman poured my Warning #4: $9 glass of orange juice that had probably come from a Tropicana carton, I turned my attention towards a whopping menu of meals that could easily salvage the experience with one tasty bite. But alas, fate was not so kind to me that tragic day.

After evaluating each and every menu item with all the focus of a mathematician calculating THE equation of his career, I narrowed down my choices to the Super Blueberry Pancakes, the Chocolate Decadence French Toast and, deplorably, the Artychoked Benedict. (It sounds like we were at Disney World, I know; and, in retrospect, I think I would have prefered Donald Duck as head chef to the half wit who made my breakfast that moring.) We all know what I picked--the Artychoked Benedict.

Let me-at least-defend my choice, dear reader, lest you begin to doubt my culinary cunning. I THOUGHT artichokes were an inventive spin on the traditional benedict repertoire. I THOUGHT the side of truffle sauce would be a decadent, lip smacking substitution to the tradition hollandaise sauce--one of the few culinary concoctions that truly frightens me (thanks, Anthony Bourdain). I THOUGHT I would choose a healthy alternative to sugar-loaded options, sweet tooth though I may be. I THOUGHT a combination of sweet artichokes, buttery eggs and earthy truffles would be one of greatness--a gastronomic explosion of untasted proportions in my mouth. How wrong I was...

The meals at Norma's come in portion sizes that resemble those in Texas, only twice as large. When our plates arrived, everyone received their plates of towering eggs, potatoes, cheese, what have you. Mine, however, was Warning #5: a runt compared to those of my fellow diners. No big deal, since mine would taste magnificent. Why overdo it when the flavor spectrum is--or should be--perfection? Turns out that someone in that kitchen really had it out for me-mafia style. Maybe it was my Blair Waldorf get up (it was, after all, Sunday Brunch uptown...), maybe it was my whole 'tude that began with Warning #1, but those are not excuses to butcher the greatness of what could have been a decent meal. My artichokes were NOT cooked well. Where they should have been soft and supple, they were two lifeless green rocks. The potato chunks were similarly unpleasant to chew due to an unlawful neglect during cooking. I also believed English muffins to play a supporting but nevertheless powerful role in this dish, which at that point, would have given some substance to an otherwise wimpy excuse for innovation--like Robert Taylor trying desperately to support a dying Greta Garbo in the closing scene of "Camille".

The English muffins were conveniently missing. No Robert Taylor. No desperate attempt for closure.

I do not recall many experiences where I had such a powerful revulsion to my dish of choice. I pride myself on my palate but it was neither my palate nor my hope for an adventurous flavor combo that failed me that day--it was Norma's. On top of my disgusting eggs and artichokes, the service was extremely poor (heshe mysteriously never returned after our first round of coffee) and the entire ambience was a bit off. There was no cohesion between customers: European fashion demons, non-plussed Middle Easterners who just kept eating without so much as an "mmm" passing between them, yucky sticky children who cried and tired parents wondering why the alcholic beverages were absent from the menu. To top it all off, my attitude absolutely plummeted once I realized that my meal was crap. I kid you not, tears welled up in my eyes when I looked at Seth and whispered with all the strength I could muster without becoming the human well, "I should have ordered the Super Blueberry Pancakes. Do you want to get drunk after this?" It was almost as horrid a feeling as if my lover had walked into Norma's, publicly declared his passion for another woman, poured my $9 orange juice down my Blair Waldorf outfit, slapped me with a white glove and stomped out to a cheering audience and "Disturbia" by Rihanna booming over the loudspeakers. Offended, pissed off and embarrassed.

Thanks Norma, whoever/wherever you are. I thought we could be friends because you sounded elderly and I have a huge, melting heart for old people, but you must be really bitter just like your Artychoked Benedict because the all the old women I know (Mimi, included) make phenomenal food, or at least know how to cook artichokes and potatoes to a level of edibility.

All in all, Norma's ranks lower than McD's on my list. No offense, well maybe yes, but I'm sure some of the other dishes aren't that bad. It is, after all, Le Parker Meridien. I just would have rather soothed a hangover with a $3 Egg and Cheese McMuffin than artyCHOKED down the $3o pile of manure I had at Norma's.

At least the McD's option includes the English muffins...

Pancakes: Hundred Acres

Saturday, February 7th / 2:00pm / MacDougal and Prince St.

This past Saturday, I brunched with two gal pals at Hundred Acres, the hip younger sister to Five Points. I didn't think I was going to be able to make it since I had my training obligations for an upcoming marathon, but alas, when a New York brunch beckons, I hastily rearrange my schedule so as not to be rude. I got up WAY too early for a Saturday to fit in a three hour run just so I could make it to brunch, which to most city-dwellers is tantamount to heaven on earth.

I had never been to Hundred Acres, though I had brunched at Five Points on Great Jones--a quaint spot where one is likely to see celebs munching on homemade muffins and fresh berries prior to brunch rush hour. I arrived at the village spot a wee bit tardy. Afraid of rush-hour crankiness from hungover hostesses and baggy-eyed waitresses, I put on the best of my Southern charms thinking I would have to apologize for making my party wait on me...but Pleasantry #1: they sat the rest of the party without me (much to my relief)...and
Pleasantry #2: the employees at Hundred Acres seemed freshly alert and kind as if they were farming folk, bringing in their daily harvests for an equally down-home crowd.

Inside, Hundred Acres resembles a cute, country baby version of Five Points. It actually transported me to a time and place far far FAR away from the police sirens, steamy sewers and scary hobos of the city where life is slower, quieter and more organic. Our waitress--donning a long white apron and a laid-back tee--seemed as though she was our next door neighbor who just wanted to share (but pay for) her warm buttermilk biscuits with us. I wanted to call her Josie. Back to life, back to reality though.

I finally decided on pancakes with apple compote since I'm always in the mood for something sweet; and somehow, even though it was 3pm, I can only justify a sweet lunch on the weekend. Josie brought me my steaming flapjacks o' fluffiness graciously. I think Josie lives on a sprawling farm behind the restaurant where it is always sunny, humid and sing-songy. Back to my pancakes...
Pleasantry #3: Perfect amount of fluff balanced with just enough density so that they could hold the gallon of syrup in which I drowned them. (I am a syrup whore. My insincere apologies to pancake puritans.)
Pleasantry #4: Apple compote wasn't crazy soggy like it can be at inattentive kitchens. At the end of the day, the apples still resembled apples and most importantly, still tasted like them, too.
They were probably picked fresh from one of Josie's apple trees out back, come to think of it.

In addition to my syrup sluttiness, I also happen to be a nibble stealing weasel meaning that I cannot-by human means-control my desire to thieve bites from my fellow brunchers (that is not to say, that if I had superhero powers, I would be any more in control) if their plates are sending smells of splendor my way. I tasted my rommates "Acres Scramble" which was made up of peppers, gruyere and some other food of wonder plucked minutes ago from Josie's plot. The Acres Scramble is to brunch as Jesus is to Christianity. The flavors played joyously around in my mouth for what seemed like hours--it's the sort of bite I could relive at every single meal if I had the option--you know the one where you get the perfect ratio of ingredients?

Mmmm... stomach full. Mouth/Mind/Soul happy. Day successful.

Brunch is one of those meals where I don't really pay attention to the check because if I did, I might realize the superflousness of the meal (I always have pancake mix and eggs in my kitchen in case of dinner emergencies) and lessen such outings. I don't recall the price, but $5 or $500, the food was worth it. Two thumbs up for the farm fresh flavors at the aptly named Hundred Acres.

Coming Soon: What not to do with artichokes and eggs