VittlesVamp

A Sign In Brooklyn

This beauty caught my eye the other day, as I strolled down Smith Street. I hoped it was a sign of good things to come. Good juicy, tender, barbecued meat in particular.

Regrettably though, the early reviews of the sign's owner - the oddly named BBQ spot Since 1963 - have been lackluster to say the least.

Still, anyplace with the fine sense to put a sign such as this at their front door can't be all bad. I might just need to taste the place's Pulled Pork Sandwich or St. Louis-Style Pork Ribs to see for myself.

Red, White & Yellow

Not very patriotic of me, I know.

A Tomato, Nectarine and Double-Cream Goat Cheese Salad, christened with a drizzle of olive oil, squirt of fresh lemon juice and a sprinkling of sea salt and freshly cracked pepper, as well as a scattering of cilantro leaves. Add some slivers of red onion if you like.

Not necessarily typical 4th of July fare, but it makes for a very VittlesVamp kind of Independence Day treat.

The Definitive Tuna Melt On Rye

After Anthony Bourdain kvelled about Eisenberg's Sandwich Shop on a "Disappearing New York" episode of his Travel Channel series, I wasn't too impressed. This old-time sandwich counter shop was definitely the real deal -- happily vintage and grungy -- but the bill of fare was antique as well.

What can I say? I have tremendous respect for Egg Creams, Lime Rickeys and alike, but I didn't know what to think of a menu that offered options like a Can of Sardines and Hebrew National Knockwurst with Beans.

I decided to just think better of it when I finally found myself crossing Eisenberg's threshold and made the decision to stick to the name of the game -- sandwiches.

Ultimately, it was a very good call, as evidenced by the childhood classic seen above served with the obligatory slices of pickle. This wasn't just any old Tuna Melt on Rye. This was the quintessential Tuna Melt on Rye. One bite into this simple, straightforward sandwich featuring a kid-friendly "no celery or herbs here" creamy tuna salad with rich melty American Cheese and I was transported to Mama Vamp's kitchen on a school snow day. All I needed was some Tomato Soup to make the picture complete.

Guess next time I hit Eisenberg's a bowl of their Tomato Soup will have to be ordered. I can only hope it's as good as my Mom's -- straight out of the Campbell's can.

Brooklyn 'Za

I have no patience. When I pass by the lines snaking out of DUMBO's famous Grimaldi's Pizzeria, I just keep on walking.

Their 'za is wonderful -- but my time is worth more than a slice or even a whole pie.

So, I was hopeful when Ignazio's opened its doors to offer a bit of brick-oven competition. And, as it happens, I wandered in one day with a friend and her two-year old daughter, famished and in need of a respite.

At that moment Iganzio's was perfect.

There were seats available. It had air conditioning. And, most importantly, the little girl -- mesmerized by the live jazz band -- ceased whining.

By the time the pizza arrived, we attacked. It seemed to be one of the most glorious pizzas I'd ever devoured. I promised that I would be back. Back soon.

Plus, besides the lack of lines, they had a serious advantage over Grimaldi's: delivery.

I kept thinking about that pie. I finally succumbed to its memory one evening with a pal in from out of town. Sitting in my apartment with a salad and the requisite bottle of vino, I called and placed an order.

Above is a snapshot of the pretty pie we received 20 minutes later, scattered with fresh basil and bubbly cheese.

It looked good. It tasted good. But just good. Not great. Clearly the mind has a way of playing tricks on you. Even on your tastebuds.

Nonetheless, I live in Brooklyn. I demand great when it comes to my pizza, beer, bagels and much, much more.

Suddenly that line at Grimaldi's isn't looking so long after all.

Tomato Aspic With Pickled Stringbeans & Other Adventures

Did you think I was all talk and no action? If so, you're gravely mistaken.

No matter how vile the notion of Tomato Aspic sounded to my fragile Yankee ears, I was bound and determined to whip up a version for my recent Bayou boys supper. A particularly fine Bayou boy had made the request and I hate to disappoint anyone with a Southern accent.

And, there it is above, in all it's Creole-seasoned glory, accompanied by Pickled Stringbeans, Chilled Baby Shrimp and a dipping sauce of mayo and creme fraiche. I also provided guests with a cold shot of vodka to go with. Sorta like a deconstructed, wiggly, jiggly Bloody Mary.

Will I brave the concept of aspic and gelatin molds again? Probably not.

But, I will most certainly brave my evening's dessert again -- Bananas Foster. In fact, fire extinguisher at my side, I daringly set it aflame. I wasn't exactly a flambe goddess that night, but it did spark a nice blue flame for a moment. Plus, it was decadently delicious -- and didn't wiggle or jiggle even a teeny, tiny bit.

Pedlar Lust

I couldn't resist. The exotic and intoxicating aroma in the air grabbed my attention. I swiveled in my bar seat and while saying "Do you mind?" grabbed a fellow bar patron's bag. Not a purse or anything. A bag of beans. Coffee beans. Stumptown Coffee Beans.

One deep inhale and I knew I needed more than its perfume.

Although brewing a pot right there at my local watering hole was tempting, I opted for restraint. Instead, the next morning I journeyed to Cobble Hill's Cafe Pedlar for a taste of the java divine.

Divine it was. So divine that a single brilliant Latte -- as pictured above -- wasn't enough. I bought my own bag.

Coach and Kate Spade be damned. A bag of Stumptown Coffee Beans is where it's at.

Awry

So, I did a stupid thing. At the same time I decided to renovate my apartment, I decided to renovate the back-end of my blog.

It's taken a while for my apartment to get back in order -- and same goes for VittlesVamp.

Tasty morsels to follow...

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. I Love You Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is the big day. The day that the 50 Henry Wine Bar re-opens in Brooklyn Heights, under new leadership from the folks behind the Henry's End Restaurant and the neighborhood food market Cranberry's. Word on the street is that the wine list will be impressive and the menu tempting.

But, the real draw: They are planning to be open morning, noon and night.

Goodness knows, if they're serving wine throughout, they'll be extremely busy and I'll be a devoted regular.

A Stinky Thing To Do

Clearly, the person who committed this crime is a whey-ward soul who desperately needs help -- as well as the chance to spend some quality time alone with a hunk of Epoisses in a very small, tightly enclosed cell.

We All Scream For Torres 'Scream

Tomorrow is the big day. Tomorrow, legendary pastry chef and chocolate god Jacques Torres will finally be opening his first ice cream parlor.

Walking through the cobblestone streets of DUMBO, Brooklyn today, I couldn't help but notice his team hard at work putting the cherry on top of the sundae (so to speak) -- painting an ice cream cone mural on the wall and such.

I snapped a quick pic of them putting the finishing touches on the place. (See pic above.)

And for the record, how can you not LOVE an ice cream parlor with its own crystal chandelier???

The Big Easy Is Following Me

I thought I simply had N'awlins on the brain.

Apparently, not so. Instead, it seems that the Crescent City is actually tracking me down, no matter where I go.

This weekend, it was during an antiques row stroll on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn.

Today, it was at a business lunch at Balthazar in Soho. After glancing at the menu, I turned around to take a gander at the bigwigs in the dining room.

Suddenly my head stopped short. There he was. I was practically dizzy at the sight. The biggest Big Easy bigwig I know -- Emeril Lagasse.

BAM!

Needless to say, I'm half expecting to run into Harry Connick Jr. or Ann Rice at some point in the next couple of days. Then again, I'd be happy enough to simply find a jar of Tony Chachere's Creole Seasoning at my local Gristede's.

Po' Boy Rich

New Orleans has been on mind. Planning a Bayou-inspired fete has made me long for a Sazerac, a Dixieland Brass Band, Beignets and men in searsucker suits.

Walking along Brooklyn's Atlantic Avenue, I made do with a late lunch at Boerum Hill's Cajun/Creole cafe Stan's Place. It was the bar's lineup of Abita Brewery beauties that first caught my eye. I didn't resist their siren's call, ordering up a chocolatey brown Abita Turbodog as I perused the menu.

Within seconds, I knew what I wanted to complete the faux French Quarter fantasy: a Half-n-Half...

...a traditional Po'Boy sandwich on crisp, buttered French bread, graced side-by-side with lightly fried, succulent jumbo shrimp and equally fine fried oysters, slathered in a creamy kick of remoulade sauce. It also featured slices of ripe red tomato and shaved iceberg lettuce, in a whimsical attempt at providing one of the recommended daily servings of fruits and vegetables.

Fruits and vegetables be damned, this is a first-rate meal fit for a Mardi Gras King. Be-'wich-ing if I do say so myself. (Said magnificent sandwich, pictured above, if you don't believe me!)

Next time I hit Stan's Place though, I may be tempted to try the Chicken Etoufee or Shrimp Monica and check out the Dessert Menu too. After all, I never did take care of that craving for Beignets. All I'll need then is a Sazerac, Brass Band and those gents in searsucker...