VittlesVamp

Timing Is Everything?

According to yesterday's Wall Street Journal:

A loaf of bread has it. So does a carton of milk. But if you're looking for the expiration date on a bottle of beer, forget about it -- for many brewers, that information is a closely guarded secret.

There are now more bottles of beer on the store wall than ever -- more than 2,000 domestic brands alone -- making it harder for both stores and consumers to steer clear of the stale stuff. Age is critical: Nearly all beer begins to deteriorate before it even leaves the plant, partly due to oxygen in the bottle, and many experts say most brews are well past their prime after six months.

To identify when bottles and cans need to be yanked from the shelves, many brewers imprint them with cryptic letters and numbers that distributors can translate. The trouble is they look more like hieroglyphics to beer drinkers, and most makers don't decipher them for consumers.

So, the editors embarked upon a beer aging odyssey, to reveal the meaning behing the hieroglyphics. Check out their "Cracking the Beer Codes" cheat sheet.

This is all well and good, but I do have to raise my hand about the whole investigation. Why the heck did they choose beers like Pabst Blue Ribbon, Miller Genuine Draft, Molson, Labatt Blue, etc? Does the "old" factor really apply to these bottom of the barrel brews? Let's face facts, if you drink PBR on a regular basis, you're not looking for a flavorful experience - just a drunk one.

Magic Tea

It's been one of those coughing, achy, sniffling, stuffy head, fever, so I can't function properly types of weeks. Throw in a new job and air travel and you can see how the last few days would royally suck.

But royalty, as it happens, came to the rescue.

No, not Prince Charming. Prince Vladimir.

My pal Kristin had introduced me to Kusmi Teas a while ago - made in Paris by a legendary, family-run business that started in St. Petersburg well before the Russian Revolution. Considering her knowledge of my palate, she recommended I pick up a box of the Prince Vladimir blend. The robin's egg blue box was beautiful. (Pictured above.) The tea bags within were made of muslin. The tea itself was tempered with orange, lemon, vanilla, grapefruit and spices.

It was a bit more pricey than Tetley, but I bought a box.

Over the last few months I've enjoyed a cup now and then. And, admittedly, it is a cut above other teas I've had over the years. But, it wasn't until last night, congested and feeling like hell, that I discovered the tea's magical medicinal powers. I'd been downing plenty of tea over the last coupla days - from English Breakfast to Chai - to no avail. But, one cup of soothing hot Prince Vlad and suddenly I was feeling worlds better. Really. Worlds better.

And, as luck would have it, that was my last bag of Prince Vlad.

Of course, the magic could only last so long - as with all fairy tale romances with Princes. I've turned back into a frog - or at the very least I'm croaking. (True. I'm sounding very throaty at the moment - which could be construed as sexy, if it wasn't accompanied by hacking and wheezing). That said, I think a box of Kusmi's Prince Vladimir blend will be on tomorrow's shopping list....Ha-choo! (And, ribbit!)

Culinary Construction

Who knew that the connection between chow and construction work could transcend this iconic lunchtime image and/or outstrip Lucky Vanous in all his glory? Today's New York Times City section reveals a new, out-of-the-way Brooklyn lunch counter bringing grade-A fare to hard-working guys decked out in tool belts and hard hats:

At a casual glance, the dusty byways of eastern Greenpoint in Brooklyn do not suggest that the neighborhood is a culinary destination. The main traffic arrives not by foot but by truck, and the area is mostly residential. The Newtown Creek Water Pollution Control Plant, a growing collection of bulbous storage tanks, is the largest landmark.

Directly opposite the plant, however, a new house of chow is in operation. The building, a low-slung blue structure at Greenpoint Avenue and Monitor Street, has concrete floors and two neon signs. One bears its name, Uncle Paulie's Restaurant, and the other declares, "Open."

"It's one-one-two-two-two," the owner, Paul Pedro Jr., said into the phone the other day, reminding a delivery agency of his restaurant's ZIP code. Open just over six months, Uncle Paulie's is the only restaurant in a neighborhood full of hard-labor businesses. Yet Mr. Pedro's location choice makes sense once one sees hungry workers filing in for his hearty Italian dishes...

...The fare at Uncle Paulie's is a cut above most lunch-counter fodder, much of it cooked fresh by Mr. Pedro himself, who is, in fact, an uncle. He prepares his own veal Marsala, lemon chicken and grilled, roasted pork chops. A full plate costs $6.

"It's good stuff," said Jose Garcia, a welder who works nearby, as he cut into his roast beef. "I come in every day. I try everything."

$6 dollars for veal Marsala? Maybe I should change careers! I would look rather hot in a toolbelt, if I do say so myself...

Can She Make A Cherry Pie, Charming Billy?

Mmm...Who doesn't love a Cherry Pie - The F.D.A. that's who. According to today's Wall Street Journal:

The bakery business wants U.S. regulators to stop picking on cherry pies.

Cherry pies are the only frozen fruit pies that must meet quality standards set by the Food and Drug Administration. Other fruit pies -- including apples, blueberries and peaches -- are exempt.

The FDA created the rule more than 30 years ago. At least 25% of the pie by weight must contain cherries, and no more than 15% of the cherries can be blemished. No one recalls why cherries were singled out. "We likely issued the one standard because we were petitioned to," FDA spokesman Michael Herndon says.

Sounds pretty shady to me. My theory: It harkens back to George Washington and the whole cherry tree scenario. It's a legal homage to that mythic Americana legend, and some obsessed Presidential folklore buff (aka "freak") in the F.D.A. isn't letting the governmental constraints die quietly.

My answer: No more pie for the freak! Who's with me?

Salmon and Sauvignon Blanc?

Just got back home from D.C. Didn't have a drop of liquor on my business trip, but read all about it this morning. According to the Washington Post, a D.C. metro gourmet supermarket has decided to display it's vino wares in an atypical fashion - not by region or varietal, but by pairing:

Shopping for wine can be intimidating. In many supermarkets,wines are organized by country or type, which doesn't always help the novice wine buyer. But at the sprawling Wegmans in Fairfax, wines in the first-floor wine department are organized by the type of food they complement.

Above a selection of reds, for example, the wines are divided into three groups: pizza and pasta wines, chicken and fish, and beef and lamb. A sign with colorful pictures of each type of food -- a plate of pasta, a fish, a cow -- is displayed over each group. Within the group, the types of wine are arranged by price.

It's an idea that the Wegmans chain first tried in Virginia -- initially at the Sterling store in 2004, then at the Fairfax store, which opened last year. It's proven so popular with customers, says wine buyer Mike Riley, that last summer three of the chain's New Jersey stores also started doing it.

"We got the idea because we always seemed to get the same question: 'I'm serving this, what do you suggest?' Organizing wine by food just made more sense," Riley says.

Hmm...Not sure it just doesn't dumb down the consumer so they never experiment with wine choices. The whole system doesn't really promote an individual palate. Or what about complimenting particular cuisine, like Chinese or Mexican fare? Would the folk at Wegmans have paired the robust ZInfandel I imbibed tonight with the spicy, flavorful Indian dinner I had at Tabla's Bread Bar? For the sake of their customers, I certainly hope so.

Wings, Brain Farts & Epiphanies

The gods of the World Wide Web were angry at me yesterday. Dunno what I did to them, but they clearly were unhappy with me in some way, shape, manner or form. Their displeasure was made clear when I tried to log on numerous times to try to purchase last minute theater, concert or movie tickets for myself and my similarly Internet-challenged friend Joy. We spent fifty frustrating minutes trying to connect to BroadwayBox.com, the schedule at Joe's Pub and the IFC Center sites. During that timeframe, I missed my window of opportunity to go to the gym and was growing more and more agitated by the second.

Joy broke our mutual exasperation with words of wisdom: Why fight it? Clearly, we were meant to simply enjoy each other's company that evening and make our own entertainment.

Joy is a sage women for her years.

I took to working out at home, she to folding laundry and we agreed to meet at 8:45pm at the bar at Blue Smoke, for booze, BBQ and gab. When I arrived at the jam-packed bar, Joy had already snagged a stool and shortly thereafter one right next to her miraculously opened up.

Considering the crowd, we took it as a "sign." Perhaps the gods of the World Wide Web had some non-Internet-arranged plans for us.

Well, if the gods wanted me at a bar, clearly they wanted me to drink. And, if the gods wanted me at a BBQ hot spot, clearly they wanted me to partake in smoky meat treats.

As you know, I am not one to argue with the fates.

Our quick-witted bartender sparred with me about rums, bourbons and gins, before he dared me to try one of his Mojitos, insisting that he'd make me something else if I didn't approve.

I approved. Crushed ice, carmel-tinged rum, mint pummeled within an inch of its life, lime juice and sweet simple syrup. Had a feeling I might be ordering another before the evening's end.

Joy had already ordered a fruity cocktail, but was already eyeing my Mojito. Hmmm...Perhaps two more might be ordered before the evening's end.

Now that the drinks situation was well under control, I turned my attention to the menu. Joy passed on it, as she'd feasted on Chinese delivery before heading out. But, I was famished. Our bartender had done so well with my drink, I decided to let him pick my dinner as well. He quickly settled on the Pulled Pork Platter.

One bite into the dish, which had a pablum-like, pre-chewed texture, and I had to beg off the choice. We turned the situation around right-quick, and only moments later I rejoiced when Blue Smoke's gorgeously spicy Chipotle WIngs with Blue Cheese Dressing were placed in front of me. They were luscious. Even Joy succumbed and nibbled on one while we enjoyed the next round of Mojitos.

By now the bartender was intrigued with us. (We were cute and all, but I don't think that was really the cause.) He liked the way we knew our way behind the World Wide span of spirits and soon we began riffing on cocktail recipes.

Cocktail chatter went on for a while. Names were exchanged and then more cocktail chatter ensued. About an hour later, we decided that we needed to come up with a special drink to commemorate the evening. I had the perfect name: "The Epiphany." We immediately set about devising the recipe for this magic elixir.

Gin, muddled with fresh orange, a splash of Pimms and a bit of simple syrup was the formula we concocted.

Guess the gods of the World Wide Web weren't the only gods angry at me. The gods of the World Wide span of spirits were also pretty ticked off. The drink sucked. Really. It was nasty. Clearly it wasn't worthy of the title "Epiphany," so instead it was christened "The Brain Fart."

But, even after Joy and I hailed cabs to go home in the miserable, blustery cold, I couldn't get "The Epiphany" out of my mind. There needs to be a cocktail with the name. A magnificent cocktail. A rockin' cocktail.

Reader recipe submissions will gladly be accepted. And, I will be trying to work up a recipe too.

Zin Sin

Gosh darn it, I wish I lived in San Francisco right now! Okay, not right now, but definitely January 25 - 28.

A foodie flack just sent me an invite to the 15th Annual Zinfandel Festival. It sounds mighty tasty - especially the Good Eats and Zin pairing dinner. I can practically taste Plumpjack Cafe's Warm Truffled Short Rib Tarts paired with Saddleback Vineyards vino just thinking about it...Mmm...

It is a crying shame that I can't attend this event! Any offers of a private jet to remedy the situation would be greatly appreciated.

Barring that, guess I'll just have to seek solace in my January 26 New York Restaurant Week dinner reservation at I Trulli. Harumph! (Then again, I Trulli is awfully yummy too. And, maybe short ribs and Zin will be on the menu.)

Gonzo With The Gals

I should be writing about my holiday in Arizona - about my amazing mountain vista suite at Sanctuary on Camelback, complete with a roaring fireplace, breathtaking views of Paradise Valley, a private patio on which to appreciate said view, and an oversized marble bathtub in which to also appreciate said view.

I should be regaling you with stories about Thai-inspired massage treatments that made me feel blissed out.

I should also be telling you about meeting gregarious local ladies at the resort bar who, over my Kir Royale and their glasses of red wine, recommended I visit a down-n-dirty blues club to listen to music - and meet their jazz aficionado friend (of the male variety), who's blue eyes and ability to quote Woody Allen's pre-Soon Yi, pre-Mia and pre-Diane stand-up act made me feel blissed out as well. (If he had known Thai massage too, I'd prolly still be in Arizona.)

In addition, I should be talking about a deep and meaningful discussion I had with the Sanctuary's bar manager about high-end rums imbued with hints of maple syrup and rich caramel.

But, no.

Instead I want to talk about Gonzo. Not of the Muppet variety. Of the restaurant variety. (Pictured above.) It was at this enchanting Greenwich Village Italian haunt that I joined two gal pals earlier tonight for laughter, joy and insightful advice - along with enough racy dialogue to take us through all six seasons of Sex and the City and straight on into The Golden Girls.

Unlike Blanche, Dorothy, Sofia and Rose we bypassed the cheesecake.

That said however, I'm quite sure that Gonzo's waiters and busboys thoroughly enjoyed the snippets of ribald commentary they overheard as they served us a wafer-thin, crackling crisp pizza topped with cumin-scented eggplant caponata, and poured glasses of a soft, deep cherry red 2002 Barbera d'Alba from Piemonte. The moans of pleasure illicited by our side order of sinfully creamy, mashed white sweet potatoes, only added to the waitstaff's delight. (I know it added to ours.)

So, my vibrant vacation spirit lives on beyond Sanctuary - in the form of the comradery of good friends and the comforts of Italian cuisine. Grazie Gonzo! (But can I still claim air miles?)

Arizona Sanctuary

And, how was my vacation in Arizona's Paradise Valley?

'Nuff said.

Well, not really...More details to come...And, let me say that those details include tox, detox and vistas a plenty.

La-La Land

Well, I kinda misled you with my last posting. Yes indeed, I did visit Camelback Mountain, as indicated by the old-timey postcard of the desert landmark. But before venturing into the Arizona spa and resort zone, I paid call on my pal Cynthia in Los Angeles.

Alright. I'm misleading you again with the photo above of the Hollywood sign. I actually spent most of my time with Cynthia and her family in majestic San Fernando Valley. That's right, folks. I was right near the Galleria mall.

Oooh. Aaaah.

And yet, Vamp that I am, I did end up enjoying a mighty Machaca Burrito at a down-and-dirty Mexican joint called La Fogata, as well as a fine "ladies who lunch" lunch at Pinot Bistro in Studio City, featuring a tasty Nicoise Salad with perfectly seared Ahi tuna to compliment the gal chatter. Also took in a dreamy panorama of the City of Angels at nightfall, perched up high in the Hollywood Hills at Yamashiro for sugary-sweet Chocolate Martinis (I stuck to wine) and more girl chatter. (Dang it, if we can't talk up a storm!)

As for culture, I made sure to swing by the Getty, where the views and architecture were spectacular, the monorail almost made me feel at home, and the exhibits weren't as bad as I had expected. (The special collections of Weegee and historic Associated Press photographs were actually quite impressive, so let's drop that New York art scene snobbery, okay? Alright. Never mind. A couple of those high-falutin Big Apple artsy fartsy types are close friends. Viva la NYC art snob!)

My one major complaint about Los Angeles - besides the smog and traffic - was the abysmal cocktail scene. In fact, that was only underscored by the even more abysmal liquor selection in the city. For goodness sake, most Los Angelenos end up buying their spirits at Ralph's or some other major supermarket, so liquor stores themselves are sad little shops stocking a modicum of spirits alongside convenience mart offerings. Toothpaste and scotch. Yick!

How can I make that sweeping generalization? Folks, I tried to find Maraschino liquor and Chartreuse in LA for an entire afternoon. Almost came up empty, but I finally was able to procure a bottle of Chartreuse along with a few other sundry items and eventually introduced a few Valley die-hards to honest-to-goodness pre-Prohibition era cocktails on New Year's Eve. And, here is the recipe that kept me successfully shaking and pouring that evening, my variation on the classic Cloister:

Cloister in the Valley

2 oz gin
1/2 oz Green Chartreuse
2 oz ruby red grapefruit juice
1 tsp lemon juice
1 tsp simple syrup

Pour all ingredients into a cocktail shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Shake well, strain into a cocktail glass, and serve.

They were strong and smooth. Just the way I like them. And, they were just the way to close 2005 - avec a Rosemary-Dijon Rack of Lamb, Potatoes Boucher, Greek-style Stewed Green Beans with Oregano, and BIttersweet Chocolate Pots de Creme.

Yes. That's right. I cooked too. Couldn't help myself. Besides, who wants to fork over all that crazy moolah necessary to eat out on NYE? I had better things to do with my moolah - like invest it in sun-drenched spa treatments. For tomorrow was New Year's Day - and in the a.m. I would be off to an Arizona resort, where I hoped to start 2006 off with rest, relaxation and mmm-mmm-good massage.

Mmmmm... I could almost feel those soothing hands on me already... Mmmmm... Midnight already?... Mmmmm... Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...