VittlesVamp

Sin, Gin & Kin

It is only since I attended Gary Regan's "Cocktails in the Country" class that I've begun to discover the beauty and majesty that is gin.

Many a Southern and WASP friend has extolled its virtues. In fact, my pal Celeste can't imagine holding her wedding without an ample supply, so her Carolina kin can have their ritual Gin & Tonics. WASPs, on the other hand, seem partial to their traditional Martinis. No Vodka Martinis in the Connecticut crowd.

Growing up a Jew on Long Island (yes, I'm admitting to my Giland upbringing!), I didn't see much gin popping up at my household, my grandparent's seder table or the plethora of "themed" bar mitzvahs we were forced to attend.

It's been a good long time since I left the Giland and even longer since I've attended a bar mitzvah, so I guess it was high time that I learned about the wonders of gin. And, wonders they are in the hand of skilled bartender - especially when the gin is top shelf. At the moment my fave is Plymouth, andaccording to a recent company press release:

In recent consumer taste tests of premium gins, Plymouth Gin's smoothness was preferred when tested against Bombay Sapphire. Plymouth Gin, first distilled in Plymouth, England in 1793, was also at parity in taste with Bombay Sapphire and, in a separate test, at parity in taste with Tanqueray.

"Plymouth's great taste and smoothness is a result of superior craftsmanship and true attention to detail in blending its seven unique botanicals," said Sean Harrison, Head Distiller for Plymouth Gin, who is personally responsible for overseeing the spirit's production. "We have distilling and production standards dating back 200 years, which has helped us perfect the nuances of the botanicals to create just the right smooth taste and long, dry finish."

According to the study, which had a margin of error plus or minus 5.6 percent, when consumers were asked, "Which gin is smoother?" 55 percent preferred the "smoothness" of Plymouth Gin over Bombay Sapphire (41 percent). In the test against Tanqueray, Plymouth Gin was at parity (50 percent) with Tanqueray (46 percent).

Regarding taste, when asked "Which gin tastes better?", in both tests, consumers ranked Plymouth Gin at parity to both Bombay Sapphire and Tanqueray -- Plymouth 49 percent to Bombay 47 percent; Plymouth 48 percent to Tanqueray 48 percent.

Right now, my favorite cocktail made with this heavenly stuff is the Juniper Breeze at Flatiron Lounge. It's no longer on the cocktail menu, but they have no problem shaking one up, if you're inclined to give it a whirl. (I strongly suggest that you whirl.) It's a lilting concoction: Plymouth gin, pink grapefruit juice and a dash of elderflower syrup on the rocks.

Last night, I had the bartender at One make a facsimile, since neither Plymouth or elderflower syrup was on hand: Tanqueray ten, pink grapefruit juice and a dash of Rose's Lime syrup on the rocks. Not quite as spectacular, but the effect was still delightful.

At this point you may be scratching your head about the title of this posting. I've covered gin and kin - but where's the sin? Here it goes: I indulged in two Gin & Tonics at the notorious Langan's with a client - after only having two chocolate dipped strawberries for lunch.

Now, I know that you're probably disappointed that my sin wasn't more titillating. But, heck, I know if my mother reads this posting that she'll admonish me to no end. Didn't she raise me better than that?!?

Then again, perhaps if I had been properly introduced to gin earlier in life, I might not be the sinner I am today. And, she can forget about repentment. The cause is lost. Looks like I'll be a gin sinner/sipper to the grave.

If You Can Make It There...

Was shocked and delighted to learn - without the aid of a PR campaign - that the Akron Beacon Journal ran an entire article devoted to VittlesVamp last Wednesday.

Among other things, it says:

It's time to ramp up your food voyeurism and go on a romp with a food columnist in slavery to Restaurant Week.

Her musings on the good life appear under the pen name Vittles Vamp, but she offers no further identification. She roams the streets of New York City, tongue flapping in the wind.

Flapping indeed.

P.S. Tune-in tomorrow when the regularly scheduled Thursday posting will be online. The topic (just to whet your appetite) will be sin, gin and kin.

I'm Back!

Not referring to my disappearing act yesterday. (I was working from home to accept my new couch delivery and didn't have hi-speed Internet access.)

What I'm actually referring to is that I'm now free to dine as I please - My two weeks + of no-starch eating is over. (Kinda like the irony of stopping on Ash Wednesday, don't you?)

Now, you may be asking: Why the +? I added two extra days to the diet, to make up for the fact that I would probably cheat a wee bit. (And I did - but not a great deal.)

You may also be asking: Did it work? I have to say yes. My pants are actually looser then before I started in with two weeks of Restaurant Week craziness.

But, I must admit that I'm delighted to welcome back bread, rice, potatoes, beans and pasta.

Now, I must be clear that my problem with them isn't the same as Atkins. I don't think carbs are evil. In fact, I didn't cut out carbs from my diet - just starch. I did it simply because I have very little self-control when it comes to those foods. That's the long and the short of it.

Frankly, I think this low-carb mania is out of control. And, according to USA Today, producers of starchy foods are fighting back big-time:

One Brooklyn Bash

I've finally "arrived!" My "Sex and the City" party last night was covered by the San Jose Mercury News.

One negative: They didn't include my name.

But, when they wrote...

Before the episode began, partygoers at one Brooklyn bash served up pitchers of melon-pink cosmopolitans and placed their bets: How would their favorite show end? Popular opinion was that Carrie would end up alone -- but happy.

...I knew they meant MY bash.

So Long, Farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu

Tears and Cosmos will be spilling all over my apartment on Sunday night, when I'll be hosting a "Sex and the City" finale party. Apparently, women across the five boroughs - not to mention the 50 states - are getting together for similar soirees. In fact, according to today's NY Daily News:

Devotees of the wildly popular series are throwing extravagant finale parties that would do Carrie and her glitzy gal pals proud.

They'll nosh on decadent hors d'oeuvres and cry in their Cosmos to mark the end of a series that has symbolized Manhattan single life ever since the days when Moomba was hot.

"Guys have the Super Bowl, we have this," said Melissa Goldstein, 34, who will play host to about 20 single women at her upper West Side brownstone for Sunday night's finale on HBO.

Women will be glued to their TVs to see whether heroine Carrie Bradshaw chooses to live in Paris with her lover or in New York with her friends. Goldstein is offering her guests their own choice: baguettes and wine or bagels and New York pizza.

My gameplan: Pitchers of Cosmos at the ready. I'm also going to offer up a serious cheese platter with fig jam and crackers, as well as olives and slices of Lyonnaise sausage. For those minding their figures - if not their carbs - I'll also have a crudite platter with baba ganoush on hand. And, for something sweet, I'll be whipping up Maida Heatter's "Top Secret" dessert dipping sauce with fresh fruit.

My one requirement: That all the ladies invited wear their most special shoes, in honor of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda.

Needless to say, in addition to the food and cocktails, a box of tissues will take centerstage at the table. But, with each tear, we'll know that this might not be the end at all. In fact, there are rumors circulating that the fab four might be kicking up their Manolos again - on the big screen. I feel a premiere party coming on...Think the Ziegfeld will let us bring cocktails into the theater?

Pickle It, Just A Little Bit...

Paid a visit last night to Smith Street's newest gourmet haunt, Chestnut, and was pleasantly surprised on several accounts. The room was warm, the staff accomodating and their bartender made a killer Negroni using a Dutch gin that I wasn't familiar with.

But, what really caught my attention was the bowl of homemade pickles that was brought to the table before dinner. Pickles? Yes, pickles. Not Guss', but bonafide homemade gherkin delights.

I quickly gobbled the small bowl full of sweet-salty slices and requested another. My dining partner Amy mentioned that I should try my hand at making pickles. I scrunched my face in protest. It's just too much work.

Amy assured me that I was being ridiculous - and that the finished product would be worth the labors. And, sure enough, scouring the Internet for recipes, I came across this one on Saveur. Sounds simple enough. But, here's the thing - Do I think I have enough pickle passion to chow down TWO QUARTS of the stuff?

I'll give it some thought...maybe over a bowl of pickles and a Negroni.

Marooned on Valentine's Day

I should know better. Valentine's Day, along with New Year's Eve and Mother's Day, is one of the biggest restaurant rip-off days of the year. But, considering that I'm without a boyfriend at present, the idea of girl's night featuring fattening fare and several cocktails sounded like a wonderful anti-hearts and flowers plan.

Boy was I wrong.

The set-up sounded okay. I was joining my friends Stacy and Maureen along with several of Maureen's friends for dinner at Maroons in Chelsea. What was especially appealing - beyond the fact that Maroons had won acclaim for its Fried Chicken and other calorie-laden Southern specialties - was the notion that the table would be half straight/half lesbian, so we could share dating war stories from both sides of the fence. Figured that our bubbly, wise-cracking, sexy table would eventually lure other diners - from either sides of the fence - and you can take the "Sex and the City" storyline from there.

Well, there was one SATC moment: I thought I was going through something akin to Samantha's chemo-induced hot flashes the second I walked in the door. It was sweltering at Maroons bar - with no hope of the air conditioner being turned on, according to the proprietress.

Thankfully, she moved us to a cooler room for dinner. Unfortunately, she placed our party at what I'm sure was really meant as a table for four. It made for an extremely tight squeeze for our seven.

Then, to make matters worse, contrary to expectations that this highly-unromantic, laid-back, noisy, neighborhood spot would be filled with singletons such as we, the place seemed to be swarming with quiet couples. And, none of them looked too happy to see a gaggle of gals in the corner. Even the waitstaff seemed distressed - when we actually saw a member of the waitstaff.

I could go into graphic detail about the wholly mediocre food: the overly garlicky and annoyingly spicy Caesar salad; the bland Fried Green Tomatoes; the crackling, yet uninspired Fried Chicken; the wimpy, flavor-challenged Stuffed and Smothered Pork Chop. The taste of bread pudding I allowed myself wasn't even worth the calories. It was mushy and literally drowning in a harsh, unpleasant rum. (And, how often have you heard me criticize the use of alcohol in cooking or baking?) Even the coffee was lousy - grey, cold and lousy.

The bill per person, including 4 bottles of wine: $100.

Like I said, a Valentine's Day dinner isn't really the true judge of a restaurant experience. But still, after forking over a cool Benjamin and going home with a nasty belly ache, I don't think I'll be looking to get Maroon-ed again on February 14th. Next year, I cook or order in.

But, then again if some handsome man wants to take me to an elegant spot like Per Se, per se, how could I refuse? But, you know, it might just be more fun on February 15th.

Dinner Party Snapshots

Yes, I know that I ought to be posting about my Valentine's Day restaurant experience, but I thought I would be a little more belated on that score, since I just got in some fabulous photos from my dinner party last week.

The menu? Vegetarian, in deference to and celebration of my friend Celeste's veggie-ways.

An assortment of olives, cave-aged gruyere and crisp melba crackers were on the coffee table, for those who couldn't wait for the second course. Next, came Steamed Asparagus with a Sauternes Vinaigrette, topped with chopped hard-boiled egg and crunchy pistachio nuts.

Unfortunately, photo-taking had not yet begun - But, trust me, it was divine. Took an ENTIRE bottle of Sauternes and reduced it to a honey-sweet third of a cup. Combined with Dijon mustard, grapeseed oil and a few other sundry ingredients, it made for a lovely sweet-n-sour companion to the bright green stalks.

Next, came the main course - an Artichoke and Mushroom Lasagna. (My first lasagna, in fact.) As for the recipe, I "fixed" a recipe I found on Bon Appetit's Web site, adding thyme to the veggies and layers of crushed San Marzano tomatoes with a sprinkling of oregano. The herbs and tomatoes added a much needed note of freshness and light to the Bechamel-heavy recipe.

As a side dish, I served Sauteed Greenbeans with an Almond-Basil Pesto. Crunchy and heady with basil, it was a beautiful compliment to the lasagna.

Needless, to say, not a bite was left of the lasagna and only a few of the beans remained.

Next, I tackled dessert. I attempted one of Nigella Lawson's recipes: Molten Chocolate Cakes. They sounded heavenly - if warm, oozing chocolate is your idea of heaven. Here they are looking pudding-like, before I slide them into the oven...

Unfortunately, these babies needed a bit more time in the oven, than Nigella had predicted. So, only one made it out of the souffle dish whole.

Still, once a dollop of Quark and a sprinkling of a few fresh raspberries were added, no one seemed to mind.

Oh yes, and then there was the wine. We started in with a bit of the bubbly, courtesy of Celeste and her paramour Tom. Then, we migrated to the red. First up was something special from Aaron - a bottle of his precious non-filtered wine from Tuscany (blue bottle on the left). It was a rich, deep ruby and filled my mouth with the flavor of dark cherries and a hint of licorice. After the bottle was downed, we quickly made "all gone" with two more bottles of red stuff, one brought by my neighbor Chris. Then, with the Molten Chocolate Cakes, we indulged in both a bottle of Braccheto d'Acqui, provided by yours truly, and an equally glorious Moscato d'Asti from my pal Maureen.

The evening's end? Let's just say that the rhythms of the Gipsy Kings and several pairs of dancing feet were involved. (OK - Swaying hips too - Just didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea.)

P.S. Apologies for the HUGE size of the JPEG images. Don't know how to get them to appear smaller. If anyone has any advice, please drop me a line or post instructions below.

P.S.S. Problem solved. Think these resized images look much better.

V-Day Vino

First off, let me say that I apologize for not posting yesterday. Ended up being a wild n' woolly one and let's just leave it at that.

Thank goodness for my plans with my friend Maureen last night to pay a visit to the amazingly civilized Bemelman's Bar. After a vista of Ludwig Bemelman drawings, a visit from an adorable 8-month old customer (single, male and a fab flirt - 'nuff said), and a couple of Earl Grey MarTEAnis - gin infused with Earl Grey tea, lemon juice, simple syrup and egg white sublimely shaken and served up in a martini glass - all was right with the world.

And now that things are right, (but not as right as that hyperlink might imply), I think it vital that I share a little advice about drinking and dating that I noticed in yesterday's WSJ:

In time for Valentine's Day, we'd really like to give some cogent advice about wine on dates. And we do have specific advice about what bottles of wine to open for Valentine's Day if you're beyond the early-dating stage: Champagne is always right, and ros

WSJ's "Eating Around" Hams It Up

"Eating Around" is back. And, it's kinda blown my pendulum theory out of the water - and straight into the treif.

This week the editors take a look at the wonders of Spanish ham:

Jamon serrano has long been a chef obsession, but few Americans tasted it until the late 1990s because the USDA forbade imports. Now, countless restaurants are serving this earthier-flavored Spanish take on prosciutto.

Gotta admit that I absolutely love the salty, rich stuff. My favorite place for it? Not Bar Jamon - although I like the place - but a Brooklyn tapas bar called Meson Flamenco. Not only will you recieve an incredibly generous portion of gloriously deep ruby pink slices, but their Sangria is kickin'. And, when they actually have Flamenco shows, kickin' doesn't even begin to describe it. Ole!