VittlesVamp

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...

The Gelatin Conversation

Some discussions can only be had with a good friend. Preferably, a good friend from the Deep South.

Such was the conversation I had with my Arkansas born-and-bred pal Elisabeth, who graciously offered expert insights into the culinary delights of gelatin molds -- both savory and sweet. I wasn't going for Bill Cosby's Jell-o advice, but bona fide Dixieland wiggly, jiggly aspic intelligence.

The reason: A request for a Tomato Aspic at an upcoming Cajun-theme soiree.

The whole notion of it sounded daunting and nauseating at once.

Elisabeth concurred that the usual jellied specimen was a ketchup flavored mess. But, after a half-hour of discussing the merits and pitfalls of a series of Ambrosia and Cranberry gelatin ring mold recipes, among others, I now feel confident about forging ahead with a spicy Vamp-ified version of the classic Tomato Aspic.

I'll let you know how it turns out in a few weeks when I throw my Bayou bash. And, if it's as tasty as I hope, I may even share the recipe, wiggles, jiggles and all.

All Fired Up

And no where to grill.

This time of year can be so frustrating for a gal who would love nothing better than to fire up a barbecue and get cooking.

Instead, I simply get bombarded by article after article about grilling, grilling, grilling, grilling, grilling and grilling.

So, it looks like the only way I'm going to be able to harness the power of fire this season will be through the culinary art of flambé.

Stay tuned and keep your fire extinguishers at the ready...

Is Frank Bruni On Crack Cocaine?

I was going to be quiet about the whole ordeal.

No - not agitation over the Times' announcement that Bruni is leaving his food critic post in August. Quite the opposite.

You may have noticed that I didn't write about my final dinner in Napa. I did so on purpose. It was a dismal experience. Unexpected to say the least. Especially because Frank Bruni had declared the restaurant of choice -- Ubuntu -- to be the second best new restaurant in the U.S. outside of New York City.

I would have remained silent, if this Sunday's New York Times Magazine hadn't suddenly regaled it once again, this time in a Spaghetti Primavera Recipe Redux.

So, I am silent no longer and here is the tale that must be told...

We were on a gal's getaway weekend in Napa. We were excited. NYT Food Critic Frank Bruni had extolled this gourmet restaurant-slash-yoga studio. It sounded all sorts of California crunchy-granola in a glorious straight-from-the-farm haute cuisine kind of way, and we'd nabbed a coveted 8 o'clock Saturday table for two.

But, after a pitiful repast at Ubuntu with my pal Karen -- a professional food writer at that -- our dream of a fabulous foodie weekend finale was dashed. Moreover, it was clear that something was terribly wrong with Bruni. Either his taste-buds had died somewhere between the tarmac at JFK and California wine country or he had a crack cocaine habit that he desperately needed kick.

Any which way, our meal was a disaster.

I should have know. The menu offered a salad composed of leaves, flowers, roots and hazelnut “soil.”

C'mon! HAZELNUT "SOIL?" The air quotes and biodynamic, downward-facing-dog pretension jumped off the page and onto the plate.

Luckily for us, not on our plate, but that of a neighboring couple. The waitress arrived with a dish containing what looked like a slice of suburban lawn and laid it down on the table with a flourish. The couple stared at the greenery dotted with nasturtium, then worked up the nerve to brave a taste -- after which they promptly plopped their forks down, never to lift them again.

The Artichoke Salad that Karen and I ordered seemed more appealing, but the app's flavorless and mushy main ingredient had us plopping down our forks as well.

The rest of the meal was equally regrettable. Even the restaurant's most famous dish, Cauliflower in Cast Iron Pot, was a textural mish-mash. And, although seasoned with a variety of Indian-influenced spices, we couldn't find a high-note among them.

It was sad. Very sad.

What made it sadder was the table to the other side of us, with ooh-ing and aah-ing patrons totally captivated by the restaurant's ethos, enraptured simply by the idea that a dish on the menu contained BOTH mint and coriander.

WOW!

I smirked. Karen's eyes rolled. Then the giggling began.

Clearly our time at Ubuntu had come to a close. We beckoned for the check and hit the streets -- unsurprisingly, in search of a late night burger.

Lost Lager

The Tea-ki Punch I whipped up last night for my annual Lost season finale soiree was definitely a big boozy hit. However, it was the six-pack of Dharma Lager -- compliments of Mr. P -- that received the most heartfelt compliments.

Admittedly, it was absolutely in keeping with the evening's entertainment.

Still, I've gotta say that when it comes to Lost-themed brews, Dharma IPA and Dharma "Others" Porter are my real faves. The Dharma Smoked Monster Beer ain't bad either. And you know it's gonna be a bash to remember, if I break out the Dharma "Dude" Hurley Hefeweizen.

All things to look forward to in 2010, when Lost returns...

Chelsea Market: Friedmans

Friedmans Lunch seems so earnest. They REALLY want to be a Lower East Side Deli. Instead, they are a decidedly non-Kosher, cosmopolitan, West Chelsea riff on a Lower East Side Deli.

In other words: They may sell Matzoh Ball Soup and Dr. Brown's Black Cherry soda, but the menu also includes a Caribbean Grilled Chicken Salad and a BLT with the A-list additions of Avocado and Aioli.

It was all very perplexing when I stepped up to the counter to order some lunch.

Do I go Jew or urban hipster American?

Tough call.

I finally decided to land somewhere in-between, requesting Friedman's Roast Turkey and Pastrami Sandwich with Coleslaw, house made Potato Chips and Russian Dressing on Rye. It was a variation on the standard Turkey or Pastrami "Special" Sandwich, but the inclusion of crunched up Potato Chips was a 21st century crisp twist.

Seen above in all its glory, I hafta say that this sandwich is a derivative that is plain delicious. It is so wrong, but it is SO right. Indisputably a decadent, deep fried snack food-endorsing mutation of a classic, but a newfound classic in its own right too. This is one lip-smacking, crunchy, juicy, meaty meal jammed smack-dab between two slices of bread.

I may never want to attempt Friedman's Brown Rice Bowl with Tofu or Quinoa Salad with Dried Cherries, Pine Nuts and Fennel, but I'll definitely be back for seconds on its Roast Turkey and Pastrami Sandwich -- after a few trips to the gym.

Foul Fowl (aka Putrid Poultry)

Clearly, Sweet Sue is a ghastly beast of a woman who should never go near a kitchen on pain of death.

How else can you explain the gut-wrenching, stomach-churning concoction called "Sweet Sue's Canned Whole Chicken?"

If these photos aren't enough to leave you nauseated, then by all means, purchase a can via Amazon and try this horrifying hen yourself -- or get it gift-wrapped and send one to Mommie Dearest for Mother's Day.

Through Rose Colored Glasses

The box finally arrived. A box full of wine. Not "boxed wine," mind you. A Fedex box holding precious cargo: six pink-hued bottles of Stag's Leap Napa Valley Amparo Rosé 2007, ordered during my recent visit to the vineyard.

Once the Fedex delivery man exited, I ripped the package open with gleeful abandon. I adored this wine, letting it play on my palate during a carefree afternoon of California winery-hopping. But would the Amparo be as luxuriously bright, sunny and ambrosial on a rainy day in Brooklyn? I couldn't wait to find out.

But, wait I did.

I put the bottles in the fridge and anxiously marked time until the bottles were cool and still after their long journey -- ready for the pleasant "pop" of the cork and gentle sipping.

I invited oenophile friend Mr. L to join in the wine's soft rosy delights. The Amparo's bouquet of strawberry and peonies, followed by the honey sweet flavors of watermelon and crisp citrus finish were just as enchanting as in Napa -- if not more so in drizzly, gray, urban surroundings.

Suffice to say, a rainy day in Brooklyn can be utterly delightful when seen through rose colored glasses. Wine glasses, that is.