VittlesVamp

Impromptu

There's nothing like revisiting dorm life, if you don't have to live in a dorm.

That lesson was reinforced yesterday afternoon, when I returned home from errands to find several of my favorite neighbors plunked down in the hall, treating the long corridor much like a communal living room.

I had only one question: Where was the hacky-sack?

(In actuality, who needs a hacky-sack when you have a cooing 6-month old girl and frisky Maletese pup to entertain?)

I quickly decided to plunk down with them. As we chatted about a breadth of topics - from high-priced Israeli real estate to low-stakes Brooklyn poker games - I wondered how long we could keep this convivial hallway salon going. I didn't quite want it to end.

And so it didn't. It just moved into my apartment.

There, only a couple of hours later, I dished up Chilled Asparagus in Shallot Vinaigrette (the bright green bundles at my local bodega were too beautiful to resist), Spicy Penne with Cauliflower, Mint and Pecorino (simple, rustic and yet a wee bit special), and my Yemenite Coffee Gelato with Warm Sticky-Chewy Date Toffee Compote (the latter spiked with aged rum).

Sometimes life is better when you let serendipity take hold - and your neighbors bring over a bottle of good Ros

The Perfect Manhattan - in Brooklyn

It was a year in the making. And it's not even open in the larger sense. But indeed, Jack the Horse Tavern has opened its bar with vinegary potato chips and nut mix to stave off hunger until the kitchen opens in another week.

Was it worth the wait?

If the bartender's expert rendition of the classic Manhattan cocktail was any indication - fortified with not one, but two different bitters and a sliver of lemon peel instead of the traditional maraschino cherry - Jack the Horse is just the thing the neighborhood needs.

Or frankly, screw the neighborhood.

Jack the Horse Tavern and its meticulously well-balanced Manhattans are just what I need.

It really is all about me and my needs. Isn't it?

Bella Dona?

I hadn't seen my archaeologically-inclined pal Kristin for some time. There's a good excuse. She's been on a dig in Yemen uncovering ancient relics - no small feat when you're under local tribesman sniper fire.

And to think, she even took time out to pick me up a few foodie trinkets: a jar of deep, dark brown summer honey, a stash of Iranian saffron, and authentic Yemen coffee laced with cardamom. One whiff of the coffee and I was hooked. Caffeinated crack. Later today I'll purchase a proper ibrik to whip up some Yemenite brew. I may also be forced to use a portion for truly nefarious purposes: coffee gelato.

Evil. Pure evil.

With my foodie gifts surrounding me, I knew the pressure was "on" for our restaurant pick that evening, Dona (pictured above). It had garnered glowing reviews, so we were hopeful as we headed to our table. And, between the friendly, professional service we encountered, the gorgeous bottle of Rioja we began to sip, and the irresistable dinner menu we began to scan, we were becoming very hopeful.

And so, we ordered...me the regular tasting menu and Kristin the lobster tasting...

My Kumomoto Oyster Crudo with pink grapefruit and salty ginger was a briny, sweet-sour revelation. That dish was followed by Grilled Sardines served with a confetti of blistered red and yellow peppers, drizzled with a warm anchovy vinaigrette. It was like the Mediterranean was giving me a salty, sea kiss - with tongue.

Kristin was equally dazzled by her parade of courses - including an oversized Lobster Ravioli stuffed with tail meat and an oozing, rich egg yolk, topped with glorious black pearls of caviar.

My pasta selecion of Chiattara tossed in a Pastichio-inspired "bolognese" of rich lamb, eggplant, tomatoes and hints of cinnamon with a shower of shaved white Mezithra cheese, was rustic and luscious all at once.

Only my entree of Grilled Loin of Pork "Portafogli" with shaved fennel and salty orange rind preserve topped with pork belly and saffron couscous was a bit of a disappointment. Kristin on the other hand thought it was a brilliant combination, clearly lusting after my plate. But she wasn't about to make a switch with a mound of sweet Lobster Tails cooked in a lemony Avgolemono set in front of her.

As we nibbled on a White Chocolage Semifreddo and sipped heady Macchiatos we realized that Dona was a culinary winner. It was service winner.

Yet, we had no urge to return.

What? Why?

Quite simply, it wasn't a fit. Between its decidedly Midtown East address, over-dressed and overly-botoxed clientele and its overly-pimped decor complete with wall-to-wall zebra carpeting - reminiscent of Carmela Soprano's version of "classy" - we just couldn't take pleasure in Dona's ambience. I'll say it again - It wasn't a fit.

It seems that both Kristin and I like our palates to take Mr. Toad's Wild Ride - but we want the rest of us to enjoy the ride too.

So, later today my ibrik will be purchased - and I'll aim for a wild ride once again - but with the rest of me along for good measure.

And You Thought The Gowanus Smelled Bad

Looks like there's gonna be a new stink in town - on Smith Street to be exact. Already adore the new cheese shop's sign. Looking forward to the onslaught of Humboldt Fog, Robiola La Rossa and Cashel Blue once it opens its doors.

Admittedly though, I can do without the eau de ripe Epoisses. Reminds me a bit too much of the Gowanus.

Blood, Carnage and Dumplings

Earlier this week I went the theater with my amiable sommelier sidekick Katie. Guessing Sweeney Todd from the title of the posting? Nope. Took in a diabolically hysterical farce called The Lieutenant of Inishmore. Frankly, the bloodshed in this play puts Sweeney Todd and its cannibal-pie-eating ways to shame.

And, what did Katie and I do after witnessing over two hours of great theater avec copious amounts of gore? Ate Chinese food!

Ollie's Noodle Shop proved to be the perfect spot for real NYC comfort fare. My fave: the pan fried dumplings. The reason? Katie had never before tried Chinese dumplings.

In fact, she's pretty much a dumpling novice across the board.

Oh, Katie - What a world awaits you...Pierogi. Shu Mai. Gyoza. Pelmeni. Mandu.

Just avoid any dumplings for sale at Mrs. Lovett's Fleet Street bake shop and you'll be fine.

Hot Date on Saturday Night

Actually it was dates in the plural. Plump, honey-sweet dates that I stuffed with Greek yogurt and marscapone, drizzling olive oil atop and adding a sprinkle of sea salt before I placed them in my oven to bake.

Mmmm...Idea stolen from my recent dinner at Komi. Pure thievery. Decidedly worthy of jail time.

The dates kicked my Saturday night dinner party into full gear. Mind you, my frozen "Fruit Cocktails" didn't hurt either. Frozen fruit - from strawberries to pineapple to grapes - tossed in the blender with aged rum, triple sec, fruit juices and a few precious dashes of Peychaud Bitters.

Mmmm...Didn't steal that idea. Completely my own. Feel free to be a thief.

I don't think the rest of the meal was too shabby either. I finally got to that fennel yen I'd been whining about with an appetizer of Fennel Salad with Poached Shrimp. Then I put my recent meatball therapy session into good use with Meatballs in Tomato Basil Sauce served over Marscapone Polenta. The side of farmers market Asparagus with Butter and Parmesan rounded things out nicely.

Dessert was lovely as well - Saffron-Cardamom Ice Cream with Pistachios.

Still, nothing ever rose to the same dizzying heights as those hot, stuffed dates.

I guess Saturday is called "date night" for a good reason.

Snack Shack Momma

It's Mother's Day. It's a day to celebrate the maternal love that leads a grown woman with a thriving career to spend her Saturday volunteering behind the counter at her son's high school football team snack shack.

It's a day to applaud the sub-par bagels she serves in the a.m.

It's a day to salute the dirty-water dogs and greasy chips she serves in the p.m.

It's a day of serious all-American stadium indigestion.

Motherhood. If only it came with a side of truffled risotto. I can't quite picture that on the menu at the snack shack, but with a true-blue Mom behind the counter you never know what next Saturday might bring...

Forget the Couch

Who needs a shrink when you've got meatball therapy?

Molecular Mixology

I most definitely could be labeled a cocktail geek. That said, I've never been known to take a syringe to my Negronis. Apparently that's the "new big thing" in mixology. (Who knew?) And, according to the New York Times, there are mad scientists taking up residence in swank bars and restaurant lounges across this great land of ours:

At David Burke's Primehouse, a weeks-old steakhouse in Chicago, the house vodka martini is garnished with a lollipop

Komi in the Capitol

Never expected to be "wowed" in Washington. In the state perhaps, but not the district. And, yet last Thursday night I found myself in awe in our nation's capitol. Culinary awe. Where? At a little spot called Komi.

I joined colleagues at the restaurant's sole window table for a dinner that verged on orgasmic. Thankfully, all four ladies at the table - myself included - were in need of a dinner that satisfied on a multitude of levels. When we were presented with the dinner menu, none of us flinched at the idea of a $64 prix fixe multi-course tasting dinner. Same went for a bottle of H.u.M. Hofer Gruner Veltliner.

I liked these colleagues. We gabbed and cackled as we sipped the white wine, waiting for the "show" to begin. The parade of food began innocently enough with cured green olives, soft and sweet with only a slight hint of salt. Then warm thick dates stuffed with Greek yogurt and marscapone topped with rich olive oil and brackish fleur de sel followed.

The dates rendered the table silent. I was tempted to lead the table in prayer. And, yet I realized that the deafening silence at the table spoke volumes.

We were in for a night. A very good night.

The smiles on our faces never wained. Not through the burrata cheese with housecured anchovies and breadcrumbs. Not through the thin slices of mortadella with grilled bread and mostarda. Not through the toasted bruschetta slathered with salty tarmosalata and truffle-spiked tzatziki. Not through the warm testa with pickled celery. Not through the platter of crispy, tempura fried soft shell crab and codfish-stuffed zucchini flowers served alongside a refreshingly chilled salad of cuttlefish rings with black and white chickpeas.

I was concerned that we might get indelible smile lines. Botox might be a required dessert course.

Laughter served as an intermezzo as we awaited our pastas. The best of the bunch: homemade tagliatelle with smoky guanicale, bright green fava beans and sliced radishes. A bottle of deep carmine, jammy Cantine Sant'Agata Ruche 2004 was ordered. Our meat courses quickly followed. My wood grilled lamb sliced ruby red atop cardamom infused lentils was simply gorgeous. Scanning the grins across the table, it seemed that the rest of the entrees were equally luscious.

Damn! I was wondering if I could somehow convince the restaurant's chef to make the move to New York. Then again, I probably couldn't afford this meal in New York!

Cheese was next.

We were already spoiled. Swooning didn't occur.

We saved that for dessert.

The Greek donuts with chocolate and marscapone puddings, and a sundae that involved almond granita, strawberry sorbet and sauteed rhubarb did the trick.

The table was silenced once again.

What a beautiful sound.