VittlesVamp

A Peasant's Riches

Business dinners are rarely enjoyable affairs. So, meandering through Nolita towards Peasant the other night with colleagues Craig and Harrison, in route to supper with vendors, I was all prepared to hunker down for an uncomfortable evening of middling Italian food and stilted conversation. The restaurant's forboding, industrial entranceway (pictured above) didn't quell my fears.

And, then it hit us - the aroma of fire-licked wood - a warming, heart-lifting scent that Craig was particularly smitten by, declaring it to be the official smell of Vermont. Lord only knows what the official scent of New York is. Harrison and I didn't even venture a guess. But, now that we were transported to New England via the restaurant's gorgeous open, wood-burning hearth, our dispostions changed considerably.

Peasant might be pleasant after all.

Laying in wait for our hosts, we bellied up to the bar and ordered a round of cocktails. My sparkling, bitter Americano put me in a relaxed mood and prepared my palate for what I hoped would be a flavorful meal - laced with the potent smoke.

Our two hosts, John and Penny arrived just as we were midway through our cocktails and we quickly migrated over to a large table, where we were presented with dark brown, leather-bound menus. Sitting aside the brick-walled, open kitchen, even closer to the powerful scent and pull of the burning wood, one thing was certain - the eats were gonna be tasty.

The entire party quickly agreed to let me take helm of the menu.

A wise party indeed.

After exchanging entertaining banter and gaining a few translations from our waiter, it was clear that spanning the breadth of the menu was going to be a must-do.

We started quite well, sharing small plates of Boccocini (small balls of creamy mozzarella, wrapped in proscuitto and baked till melty), Polpi en Purgatorio (directly translated to "Baby Octopus in Purgatory," a toothsome dish of small tentacled creatures bathed in prickly spice) and Panzanella (Tuscan bread salad, spotlighting ripe tomatoes, salty olives, crisp thin slices of red onion, flat leaf parsely and a dousing of good olive oil).

What came next added the "ahhhs" to our initial "ooohs" over the appetizers. Our waiter had informed us that the chef's special of Strozzapretti (Italian for "Priest stranglers," a long twisty-shaped pasta) with a robust, meaty Goat Ragu was miraculous. He was right. Miracles can happen. And, frankly the other shared pasta of feather-light Gnocchi with a gossamer morel mushroom sauce was an ethereal compliment to the intense, rustic Strozzapretti.

The entrees would have made a Tuscan mama proud, each served up in hearty portions and vivid flavors. (Okay, it's not like I actually tried everybody else's dishes. It was a business dinner, after all. But, knowing glances and contented sighs from the rest of the party, assured me that they were just as delighted in their dishes, as I was with mine.) Heck, the Spiedini alla Quaglia, a small spit-roasted hen stuffed with sausage and surrounded with a few dribbles of demi-glace and a mixture of roasted veggies, was just like my Italian mama would've made, if she wasn't actually a Jewish momma from Connecticut. Molto bueno!

Our amiable waiter returned and didn't even think of bringing the dessert menus. Instead, after a quick consultation with Craig, he brought us, as he put it, "the smack-daddy of desserts" - Peasant's creamy, dense Panna Cotta. And, just to keep our smiles on our faces - as if the rich, vanilla custard and my Moscato d'Asti wasn't enough - he also brought a plate of ambrosial bread pudding, hot from the oven, edged with crisp carmelized sugar.

At this point, I think each and every one of us at the table had forgotten all about business. The food and drink had seen to that. Peasant may not be too rich for my blood, but it is too rich an experience to simply inspire shop talk. But then again, perhaps that's what a good business dinner should really be - a chance to warm to people you work with day in day out and share in the joys of the table.

Breaking bread while making bread. All in a day's work - if you're lucky.

What Gwyneth Wrought

As any red-blooded, People-reading, ET-watching American knows, Gwyneth Paltrow named her little girl Apple.

Why does this concern me? What can I say? I worry for children who's parents, in the wake of the star's fruit-naming ways, will be inspired to seek baby names in the produce aisles. The playground can be tough enough without sporting a name like Pear or Banana.

And, with the Wall Street Journal reporting that exotic fruits are gaining mainstream appeal, can names like Cherimoya Sender, Durian Bryant and Lychee Horowitz be far off?

Do you want to be named after the fruit you see above? If so, consider yourself Kiwano Reeves.

Haute Couture In The Kitchen

According to the Houston Chronicle, Isaac Mizrahi, once the darling of the fashion world, present-day Oxygen talk show host and Target style guru is caught up in a new project.

He may be planning his first runway show in six years, but it seems that Pillsbury was able to lure him into the kitchen. No worries. Mizrahi won't be trying his hand at couture cookies (although it's not a bad idea), but instead has crafted the first-ever designer apron (pictured above) for the Pillsbury Bake-Off Contest.

Don't you dig that all-American blue and white gingham? Not! Talk about unflattering to the hips!

But, if you feel inexplicably inclined to outfit yourself like a haute couture kitchen contestant, starting in June they'll be for sale at www.pillsbury.com.

Upper Heights in Lower Haight

This past week's trip to San Francisco definitely took me to some foodie heights, but none was quite as soaring as my evening in the Lower Haight district.

The restaurant in question: RNM.

A hip, happening spot recommended by a fellow gourmet geek, I wasn't quite sure what to expect. She had promised scrumptious "Small Plates" and desserts that were moan-worthy, but hadn't given much more detail. A perfunctory look-see at the SF Chronicle's Web site, let me know that RNM's chef, Justine Miller, was definitely a hot property, spotlighting Miner as one of the Bay Area's "Rising Young Chefs":

Some chefs are born with a knife in one hand and a saute pan in the other. But not Justine Miner.

She could have done anything, what with her Pacific Heights upbringing, her Hamlin School and University High education and a degree in French and economics from UC Davis.

But a love of cooking and strong culinary instincts were steeped in her bones - thanks to a European mother who whipped up her favorite French and Italian dishes every night for dinner and a father who took the family to France, Italy and Germany for three summers, checking out markets and restaurants along the way.

So it's natural that Miner, at 29, is chef-owner of her own restaurant, the hip and stylish RNM in the Haight. Her intuitive riffs on classics and on seasonal dishes have drawn raves since RNM opened in August.

That was enough for me. One step into the restaurant's sophisticated, energized dining room (pictured above) and an exuberant greeting from its host, Robert, and Mo and I were off to a good start. A bracing Negroni and sweet, bubbly Kir Royale later and we were off to a very good start.

The menu was enticing. It was hard to narrow the field, but somehow we did. We figured we'd start off simply - with a basic salad. But, biting into Miller's Grilled Hearts of Romaine with Anjou Pears, Saint Agur, Toasted Hazelnuts and a Champagne Vinaigrette we realized that we missed basic by a mile. The warmth and softness that the grill imparted the greens was counterpointed beautifully by the crispness of the pears. The textural play between the crunch of the nuts and the soft, butter of the Saint Agur blue cheese intensified the dish.

We had to pause before the next course. Luckily, we'd ordered a robust bottle of Miner 2001 Zinfandel to sip and ponder - the pause that refreshes.

Next came a lusty Soft-Shell Crab that was heavenly. Don't ask me to describe the flavors that it married. I was enjoying the honeymoon too much to take notes.

Heaving a sigh of satisfaction, the "Large Plate" arrived: Pan Roasted Ribeye Steak with Pancetta Wrapped Red Irish Potatoes, Wild Nettles, Oakville Ranch Cabernet Butter & Shaved Black Himalayan Truffles. Now, those of you who read this Web site, are well-aware of my love for truffles, but that Cabernet Butter was to-die. I don't have a recipe for it yet - but trust me that I'll find one. It was amazingly rich and elegant. Just perfect with the ruby centered steak.

At this point the words "moan-worthy" and "desserts" were echoing in my head.

The dessert menu was perused as we polished off the last of the Zin. And, no sooner did we make "all gone," when a plate of nirvana arrived. RNM's Bread Pudding with Dried Apricots, Toasted Pecans & Brandy Caramel sauce was a revelation. Sweet bliss. It put New Orleans to shame. Need I say more?

It took all of our will-power to leave the restaurant, but our gracious waitress Lori along with Robert insisted that we pay call to Alberta Straub - the goddess/bartender who holds court at the nearby Orbit Room.

The ebulliant Straub, gussied up in funky glasses and bright-red pouty lipstick just recieved SF Weekly's "Best Bartender" award and the staff at RNM promised that the accolades were more than well deserved. According to the Weekly:

As Alice Waters is to a bushel of organic produce, the Orbit Room's quirky Alberta Straub is to a shelf of top-notch booze. Part of being a great bartender -- next to a Sam Malone-ish sympathetic ear and some seen-it-all, commonsensical advice -- is, well, knowing your way around a cocktail. "I just like to make people happy," says Straub. And she does. Not only does she use her very own homemade brandied cherries, tarragon- and lemongrass-infused vodkas, old-fashioned glass seltzer bottles, and specially sifted salts (to rim one of the finest Bloody Marys in town), but she also employs her improvisational skills to help her devise astounding concoctions.

I have never in my life met a bartender more enthralled with the art of the cocktail - and what makes her truly unique is that she is self-taught. With a historian's passion and lush's lust, she acquired her cocktail know-how by reading a series of tomes focusing on the development of the luxury class.

All I can say is this: Straub should be the spokeswoman for RIF: Reading Is Fundemental.

I gave her my card, hoping that she calls if she ever makes it to NYC. I feel like someone should set her free with her own kind at the Flatiron Lounge or Bemelman's.

Needless to say, after a round at the Orbit, Mo and I had our heads in the clouds. (Or, was it the fog?) It was impossible for the Bay area to top this evening. San Francisco couldn't do better. What to do? Where to go next, that wouldn't be a let-down in comparison?

Thank goodness, we had return tickets to New York...

A Beautiful Bay Area Blur

It's bizarre to think that yesterday morning, I was sitting in La Boulange de Polk, a charming cafe/bakery in San Francisco's Russian Hill, and that now I'm sitting in a moderately grimy NYC Midtown office with the smells of frying McNuggets wafting up the airshaft.

What a difference a day makes.

But, I wouldn't trade New York for San Francisco. By this evening I will be in historic Brooklyn Heights, surrounded by stunning townhouses and an incomparable view of the East River, the Brooklyn Bridge, Downtown Manhattan and Lady Liberty. Home - pure and simple.

My affection for NYC aside, I will say that the Bay Area most certainly has it all over the Big Apple in the nature category. So, although I enjoyed my fair share of gustatory pleasures this trip in between meetings n' such, I also took in my fair share of magnificent vistas, hiking trails and honest-to-goodness clean air. My lungs are still in shock.

With my lungs readjusting to chunkier oxygen, I think it's best if I push off the major foodie fare for tomorrow. But, in its stead, here's a brief rundown of some of my most memorable moments on the Left Coast - nibbles and nature included:

*A breakfast of champions at Swan Oyster Depot: 9 freshly shucked Pacific oysters - sweet, rich and brimming with ocean goodness - accompanied by a wee draft of local Anchor Steam Lager.

*Getting car sick, post-breakfast of champions, as my friend Mo and I zoomed up a perilous, twisty road in our rented convertible, heading to the Panoramic Highway which leads to Muir Woods.

*Feeling much less queasy, as Mo and I hiked through the breathtaking trails of Muir Woods (pictured above), awestruck by the beauty of its majestic redwoods, the radiant shafts of sunlight streaming through the trees, the sounds of the gurgling creek that ran alongside our path, and - most of all - the HUGE banana slug we saw as we exited the woods.

*Mocking Mo mercilessly, when she misidentified a bevy of birds as SEALS during our hike to Land's End. "How the heck did those seals get all the way up on that huge jutting rock in the middle of the Bay?" Clearly, Mo needs to watch more "Call of the Wild" when she gets back to NYC.

*Trying to bone up on our nature knowledge, tuning into "Marc Marrone's Petkeeping" during an early morning respite at our hotel. This show is hysterical. Marc Marrone is never without a finely plumed parrot on his shoulder and is usually surrounded by dozens of furry creatures all vying for his attention - or more likely his cell phone, so they can call their various agents to get them out of this crazy gig. Most amazing creature: a rabbit that was the size of a small child. We're talking fricasee for the whole family and then some!

*Enjoying late night cocktails and a warm cookie plate, ensconced in the luxurious French deco decor of the Hayes Valley's Absinthe Brasserie.

*After a day of winery-hopping, resting our weary selves on the spectular deck of the Relais & Chateaux inn, Auberge Du Soleil, sipping champagne and munching on addictive frites, captivated by an unparalled view of a sun-drenched olive tree grove and the lush vineyards of the Napa Valley below.

And, to think: I'm leaving the really great foodie stuff for tomorrow...

What the Heck Did You Do To Copyboy?

Now that I've returned from my travels, I am surprised to see that Copyboy didn't post while I was away.

What did you people do to him? Did you scare him off? Did you decide to check out the wonderful world of cannibal cuisine and polish him off with some fava beans and a lovely bottle of Chianti?

Well, any which way, I guess I'll just have to take the reigns today and offer up something for y'all to chew on - besides Copyboy's tasty hock. Expect a posting about San Francisco later today...

The Return of Copyboy!

Once again heading out to San Francisco. Will return next week with more tales of dining, drinkin' and general mayhem. Until then, the illustrious "Copyboy" has agreed to return to the fold.

Hope you enjoy his musings while I'm gone. And, remember - Be nice! Or, I'll never be able to get another babysitter - I mean guest-blogger for you guys again.

From Russia With Love - and a Little Heartburn, Pt. 2

When last we left our two brave and spunky lasses, they were hightailing it out of a Soviet cafe in Brighton Beach, in search of the holy grail of Brooklyn Russian grocers - M & I International. And so, they marched down a couple blocks to 249 Brighton Beach Ave., between 1st and 2nd Sts, and lo - there it was, M& I (pictured above), in all its overstuffed, foodie glory.

Walking into this mammoth emporium we veered right - right into the meat department. (Dr. Biggle's would've felt right at home.) All I could see before me was a kaleidoscope of sausages in a myriad of shapes, textures, in shades ranging from light gray to deep crimson, a plethora of pickled meats, and a dizzying array of sliced cold cuts. The counterhelp was quick to approach, but trying to decode the specifics of the different deli fare on-hand was too much to master. I just pointed to three sundry items and hoped for the best.

Next, Kristin and I approached the much more manageable dairy case, where she picked up some tvorog (farmers cheese), a favorite from her days in Kiev, where she'd slather the stuff with sour cherry preserves.

We continued roaming through the aisles, passing cases of tarragon soda and kvas, jars upon jars of preserved vegetables and fruits, a bakery case of unfortunate brown-colored desserts, a more fortunate bread selection, a prepared food section offering a myriad of pierogies, stews and several types of borscht. The smoked fish counters were plentiful, featuring smoked sable, smoked salmon, mackeral, trout and a hefty supply of caviar.

I had to tear myself away before I lost control. So, Kristin and I tore upstairs.

Upstairs is where Kristin lost control.

There it was: Willy Wonka's Soviet outpost - a floor devoted to gourmet Russian chocolates. Kristin's eyes grew wide. There was no fighting it. She immediately flew into action and ordered two pounds of individually-wrapped chocolates, each carefully enclosed in a beautiful, colorful piece of paper, just waiting to be opened, like a gift on Christmas morning.

Why did I suddenly think that Christmas might just be coming in May this year?

Before we had time to sing a few caroles, I convinced Kristin that we oughta head out and get a proper dinner before we ripped into the chocolates. She agreed and we ran out of M & I, before we could lose all self-control and actually sit down at their ice cream parlor.

Free from the tyranny/blessing that is M & I, we walked over to the corner of Brighton Beach and Coney Island Avenues, where we ducked into a restaurant that specialized in Russian and Turkish fare (can't recall the name - but it's next to Mrs. Stahl's Knishes). I left the ordering to Kristin and order she did.

We started with standard issue Russian salad (lettuce, cukes and tomatoes slathered in sour cream and dill), and then moved on to a platter of manti (big central asian dumplings that are traditionally stuffed with spiced lamb and topped with garlic yogurt; these seemed to be stuffed with beef and had no yogurt, but tasty all the same. We capped it off with lamb shashlik (tender lamb kebob) with garlicky fries. To wash it all down, we indulged in a couple of Obolon lager from Ukraine.

And, finally full, our two heroines, decided to pay their check, grab their gourmet goodies and head back to the Q train. Would they share a few of the chocolates on the way back to civilization? Of course! Would the Vamp like all of the meats she purchased? Heck, no! (The veal was incredibly salty!) Will Kristin, use her spicy, dried adzhike powder to cook up a heck of a BBQ in the coming weeks? I sure hope so!

And, you can be sure, that if Kristin comes through with that day trip to explore the Korean depths of Flushing, the Vamp will be by her side - palate at the ready...

From Russian With Love - and a Little Heartburn, Pt. 1

Braved my allergies (ha-choo!) to forge ahead on the Q-train towards distant lands unknown, with my trusty, archaeologically-inclined friend Kristin at my side.

Our quest? Foodstuffs from Mother Russia - the Georgian region to be specific.

Our destination? Brighton Beach, Brooklyn.

Kristin had actually spent a good deal of time in Georgia a few years back, and was dying to get her hands on jarred tkemali (sour plum sauce) and adzhike (hot sauce) in particular. Stopping at a miniscule shop called simply Georgian Bread at 265 Neptune, Kristin found plenty - including a powdered version of adzhike that she plans to use as a dry meat rub. (Will it put Memphis Dry Rub to shame? I'm game to find out!) Well-equipped, with a small cooler, Kristin also purchased a half-pound of tasty-looking eggplant salad with walnuts and pomegranate seeds (badridzhani) and a wheel of sulguni (kind of like mozzarella).

Unable to leave with out taking something for myself, I grabbed a jar of gorgeously stewed, deep ruby sour cherries. They seemed a perfect topping for a bowl of ice cream or a simple slice of pound cake. It might not have been an experimental pick, but I was sure I'd be pleased. Besides there was plenty of time to be adventurous.

Unfortunately, our first appetizer adventure, the khachapuri (cheese bread) we ordered "for the road," was more like a greasy, gummy cheese croissant, than the "heavenly" leavened version that Kristin fondly remembered. Heaven or hell, we were hungry and even a lousy cheese croissant was looking pretty good to us. We washed the gooey stuff down with a chilled bottle of Jell-O green tarragon soda (tasted like Dr. Brown's Cream Soda) and set off to see what Brighton Beach Avenue had to offer.

Now, temporarily sated, we could stroll around and make a better choice for our next stop. After a few blocks we happened upon a little spot on the avenue called Shish Kebob Cafe, which seemed like a good bet. Air-conditioned, sporting a large-screen TV displaying glitzy Russian disco dancers, and already filled with a few tables of Russian men three-sheets-to-the-wind, we were pretty sure that the experience would be authentic.

As soon as Kristin spotted a beverage called kvas (pictured above) on the menu, she squealed with delight. This place had to be the real deal. Kvas is a fermented brown-bread beverage, and apparently it used to be the only thing you could get ice-cold in the former USSR, served in big tanks by officious-looking ladies in lab coats who dutifully wiped the glass you drank out of before serving it up to the next customer. It apparently saved Kristin's life during the blistering summer of '97 in Kiev. (Who can forget the blistering summer of '97 in Kiev?)

And, now, it looks like Coca-Cola is catching the kvas fever, distributing this bubbly brown concoction, while stirring up a bit of Slavic controversy:

During the communist era, people in the Soviet republics lined up at sidewalk kiosks to quench their thirst with kvas, a cloudy brown concoction with a similar texture and taste of dark beer, minus the alcohol...The drink used to be made from locally grown rye, beet sugar, yeast and stale bread. It had a short shelf life, so it couldn't be bottled and street vendors sold it by the glass.... Many fans of the drink say they preferred Soviet-era kvas because it tasted fresher and was more authentic. While quality may be open to debate, what isn't is the impact kvas has had on the regional drink market in recent years.

After the Soviet Union dissolved at the end of 1991, Latvia's new health laws banned its sale on the street and post-Soviet economic disruptions forced kvas factories to close. For most of the 1990s, kvas virtually disappeared in this Baltic state of 2.4 million people.

Coke moved in and quickly dominated the market with its popular carbonated soft drinks.

Local drink makers struck back in 1998 by introducing a kvas that could be bottled and launching aggressive advertising campaigns. Kvas is also cheaper, at about 30 santims, or 48 cents, for a 1.5 liter bottle -- about half the price of Coke.

In just three years, kvas rebounded to account for more than 30 percent of Latvia's soft drink market, market researcher AC Nielsen Latvia says.

Coke watched its market share fall from 65 percent to 44 percent and had losses in Latvia of about $1 million in 1999 and 2000. Similar trends have occurred in the two other Baltic republics and in Russia.

"Some older consumers shifted from Coke to kvas, which they became accustomed to during Soviet times," said Aki Hirvonen, Coke's Baltic marketing manager.

Unable to beat the kvas makers, Coke joined the competition, or rather started buying it up. It purchased several kvas brands from the Baltics to Siberia, refitting some plants to produce kvas along with its standard soft drinks.

Last year, for instance, Coke bought the most popular kvas brand in neighboring Estonia, where the drink is known as kali. Linnus Kali made 60 percent of the 8 million liters (2 million gallons) of kvas sold in Estonia in 2000.

I must admit that I actually liked the stuff. It wasn't terribly sweet and had a rich, yeasty, brown bread note that was refreshing, served cold and fizzy.

It would have been a crying shame to drink our kvas without some sort of nibble to go along with. Our first appetizer adventure was a bust. Perhaps this place could do better. We settled on an order of samsa, a savory little pastry, chocked full of spiced lamb. It was delicious.

With a couple of Russkye appetizers and two exotic sodas under our belts, we were finally ready for the big time - Indiana Jones-worthy adventures. And, so, two intrepid gals, armed only with stylish sunglasses and a conspicuous lack of 80's-inspired hair and makeup, exited onto Brighton Beach Avenue and headed towards the Russian food pantheon of Brooklyn: M & I International.

In Kill Bill two-part fashion, to be continued...

Martinis & the Mall

Was all set for a swank "Sex and the City" type cocktail hour or two with a couple members of my "gal about town" posse last night. Nothing like chilling with good friends over fine drinks in a fabulous lounge, being one of the fabulous people. (Isn't it fabulous to be fabulous? - Wait, how would you know?)

The problem was this: Our fabulous evening had to begin by going through a mall. Okay, a high-class mall, perhaps. But, a mall nonetheless - The Shops at the Time-Warner Center (pictured above). Riding up the escalators to trendy bar impressario Rande Gerber's sleek Stone Rose, I couldn't help but notice that mall rats had already infiltrated the area, decked out in a collection of spray-paint tight jeans and mondo-baggie cut-offs.

Was bringing this bit of Long Island/New Jersey wasteland culture into Manhattan really necessary?

Luckily, the "crew" got off at the third floor to check out the Gap or some-such chain store. I journeyed upward on the escalator in hope that I would be rewarded with a posh scene and refined cocktail when I got to the fourth floor.

Meeting my friends and passing inspection as we entered Stone Rose we were greeted with just that. The views were magnificent, laying Central Park out below us, like a lush, green carpet, framed by a few skyscrapers and gilt buildings for a romantic - THIS is why I live in New York - effect.

And yet, right at the next table, there it was: Long Island (or possibly NJ) in all its teased, grating accent glory. And suddenly I noticed that several tables of similar sensibililty were scattered about the bar. How did these folks pass inspection?

Guess I'm a snob, right? Well, yes, I'm a snob. A snob who is originally from mall country - Long Island - so I know full-well what I chose to leave behind.

Yes, yes, certainly there were a handful of tasty men circulating at the bar, and a few flirty, urban gals hanging around too. Perhaps I was simply on "high-alert" after spotting the mall rats earlier. But, ultimately, there was no way around it.

Incredible view. Great drinks. Wonderful friends. Gorgeous surroundings. It didn't matter.

I was in a mall.

And, so I guess that about sums up my thoughts on the Time-Warner Center. I think I'll just have to skip the splendors of Per Se, Bar Masa and their other gourmet neighbors. You can't deny your surroundings, no matter how amazing the cuisine or the cocktail. Do it right or don't do it at all. So, if I'm gonna eat in a mall, it had better be at The Cheesecake Factory, or nothing. And, can we hit the Benetton afterwards?